Teachers

I know there has been a lot of talk about the horrible shooting at the Sandy Hook Elementary School. I don’t want to bring up another discussion on gun control, school safety, our nation’s mental health issues, or even comment once again on the overwhelming tragedy. Instead I would like to say something that will, hopefully, uplift us in a time of mourning.

I was deeply touched by the story of first grade teacher, Victoria Soto. The story is, upon hearing gunshots she moved quickly to save her students by hiding them in the cabinets and closets of her classroom. When the gunman entered she claimed all her students were in the gym. He shot her and then moved on. It is amazing to know all of her students survived, while she died. She lieterally took the bullet for them. I feel awe at her sacrifice.

I think teachers are an amazing breed. Unfortunately, not every teacher has the emotional and mental stamina to qualify for their position, but we have all had one teacher who has saved us in some way.

I had a very rough patch in Jr. High. Two of my grandparents died, my mom was diagnosed with cancer and was very sick with chemo, things got really weird between my friends and I, (this may sound dumb, but it was a big deal to me then) and my boyfriend and I broke up. I felt like my entire life had been pulled out from underneath me and I was suddenly trying to survive in a deep hole.

I hated going to school. To me it became a mere survival strategy to get through the long day. Being at home and feeling the all-encompassing sadness of my mother’s illness was not much better. And since Church consisted of all the same crowd as school, that did not help much either.

There were three major influences in my life that kept me from being buried alive. Ironically enough, one was my principal, another my art teacher, and another my all-in-one teacher. The principal was also my mother, so she was not at school very often, but when she was in her office desperately trying to take care of her school’s needs I felt better pushing through the day. The art teacher was my older sister Marissa. She was the definition of awesomeness all my growing-up years and even if I felt like all the kids in my class thought I was weird, I knew they had to think I was awesome for being related to the art teacher.

The last teacher, Ms. Trudeau, taught us every other subject and even braved a Tale of Two Cities with us. (It has become one of my all time favorites.) She assigned us to memorize the first paragraph of that book, and while everyone else in the class hated it, I proudly felt like a genius. I still quote it at the dinner table to this day. She also assigned us to learn how to knit, just in case we would need to make any burial shrouds en masse.

But it wasn’t because of her unconventional assignments that she pulled me through this difficult time. It was because I could tell she cared about me. That she knew her role went beyond merely teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Her role was to help me know someone cared, who didn’t even have the obligation through blood. She invited me to her small studio apartment for sleep-overs, she took me out for pizza with all her cool older friends, she brought me to her boyfriend’s glass blowing studio, and when we rode in the car together we would each stick an arm out the window and flap together in rhythm to make the car fly. I still remember the small Snoopy valentine she gave me at our class party, it said “You’re fun to hang out with.”

I realize now that a young, single, and hip twenty-something-year-old probably didn’t desperately wait until Monday morning so she could see one of her struggling students again. But that is what I did. School became more about the teacher than it did the friends. And I loved having lunch at her desk with her instead of going to the lunch room with all the other kids. She sacrificed a lot for me, and I am amazed she could handle hanging out with one hormonal and frequently crying thirteen-year-old girl as much as she did.

I will be honest, I do not have the infinite patience and limitless love it takes to be a teacher. But I am grateful for the wonderful people in this world who do. I am grateful for the April Trudeaus and the Victoria Sotos who save their students one way or another. It is a job no amount of money could ever pay off. (And we all know teachers don’t get paid near enough already).

It takes a savior’s heart to be a teacher. And in the wake of this horrible tragedy I would like to thank Victoria Soto for paying the ultimate price to save her students, I would like to thank April Trudeau for saving me, and I would like to thank every teacher who loves and gives in a way that has a life-long impact on those they teach.

In many ways you are the unsung heroes of our country. But I hope today you will accept my little song of praise. And know that you give your students another reason to sing as they walk home from school.

My New Vacation Destination: The Surgical Ward

I have been struggling with some health issues lately, and recently had a short stay in the hospital. I felt frustrated and nervous the few days leading up to my small procedure, but that is only because I hadn’t realized how AWESOME a hospital stay can be.

I’m a little obsessed with cleanliness. Having a messy house sends me into hyper-stress mode and I stomp about breathing heavily, throwing things away, and randomly shouting expletives like, “Do I have to do everything around here?” and “Believe it or not! I don’t want to spend the rest of my life picking up your crap!” In the hospital, everyone picks up after you! It is the perfect place for someone like me, who thrives on organization and shiny floors.

Not only is everything sparkling white, but people where face masks, too. Finally! After spending the week with two kids so clogged with snot they regularly shot goobers all over my face and food, I was excited to be surrounded by others who couldn’t so much as breathe the same air. A glorious gift indeed.

If you are a stay at home mom, you have probably realized by now that no one is going to stop, kindly turn in your direction, and softly say, “Can I do anything for you?” You can imagine my shock when this simple phrase drifted forth from my nurse’s mouth like a hymn born on the wings of angels. She even said it with a smile. I stopped, letting the moment engulf me, and stole my opportunity to be served. “Could I have some water?” Within a few minutes a giant Styrofoam cup sat at my bedside table. She had even put in the straw for me!

Later on I happily lay in bed, looking up at a ceiling absent of dusty fan blades, happily listening to the absence of children screaming, when my nurse looked up from her notes. “It’s a little chilly in here. I’ll get you a nice warm blanket.” I smiled, thinking she would get me a nice blanket to keep me warm. Oh no! She returned to drape a microwaved blanket over my hospital gown, and tuck it in on the sides. I was transfigured from a sick and worn out mother to a baby kangaroo huddling in mama’s pouch. I’m telling you, kangaroos have the life.

I have a two year old that thinks anything at least one inch higher than her is prime climbing real estate – including me. My hair is constantly used as rope, my gut as a landing pad, and my shoulders as the ultimate challenge for standing on. Without warning I will be pounced upon, have a little dirty thumb dug into my eyeball, and a small, vicious body shimmying up my side. Despite my screams of “Ow!” “That hurts!” and “Get off!” I am used as a bouldering wall multiple times a day. So when someone apologized with a look of concern after sticking me with a small needle, I shrugged, grateful someone had even recognized the ability of my nerves to decipher pain. What a blessed thing a little human consideration can be. 

But I think the best part of a hospital stay is definitely the socks; the clean, wool, ankle-highs neatly folded and waiting on your bed upon arrival. They even put the floor grippees on both sides so you don’t have to think about left and right, up or down, when putting them on. We all know freshly polished floors can get a little slippery! And boy, oh boy, those things are cozy.

I didn’t exactly feel like the Queen of England in her royal carriage, but the ride through the hospital was pretty awesome. Laying underneath my toasted blankie, twiddling my toes in the most phenomenal pair of socks, and spying on the patient rooms that passed, I was having a splendid time. Now I know why my kids love rides in the stroller. It is a relaxing sensation to be transported from one place to another without having to move a single muscle. It is a wonderful thing to have everyone smile as you pass, and it is awesome to have your very own personal servant whose only job is to make you comfortable. Nurse is now at the top of my Christmas list.

I don’t know about you, but I often lay awake at night, doing everything I can to sleep, only to have a list of tomorrow’s duties skitter about in my mind like a hamster running a wheel that never ends. It is depressing to hear the snores of husband, toddler, and baby, while I waste precious time reminding myself to close my eyes – again. So when they told me to sleep, put a mask over my face and some magic liquid in my IV, I was thrilled to feel myself drifting off in thirty seconds flat. What a glorious invention. And what a nap! I haven’t slept like that in ages. I need to start snooping the black market and get me some of that!

When I woke up they told me I was perfect – and I was still drugged enough to believe it, too! They gave me cookies, gummy bears, crackers, individually packaged cheese slices (and not the fake stuff either), and a baby carton of orange juice just for me. It was like I had been accidentally switched with someone important.

Throughout the ordeal people offered their condolences, and kindly helped my family out. They made meals, babysat the kids, and chauffeured me about town so I wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. They said, “That’s hard.” But I could only think, “Are you kidding me? This was like a five star vacation! I want to know if there is some way to rent a room for the weekend. The Hilton doesn’t treat you like this. I’m only sad they made me go home.”

It was such a wonderful stay, I didn’t even mind having to pee in a cup!

Granted, health issues aren’t much fun. But, there is a silver lining to every cloud. And although I would rather be a spectacle of physical perfection, I’m looking forward to my next stay. It’s hard to beat those awesome socks.

Pregnancy vs. Infertility: The Great War Among Women

WARNING: POSSIBLE THIS MIGHT OFFEND

I don’t know if it is just me, but I feel that lately, especially in social media, there has been a great battle between the women of this world who bear children, and the women who are unable to. Insensitive words are said, offense is taken, friendships are broken, and husbands are forced to take sides.

In my opinion, things are getting out of hand.

I once read a very popular blog post by a woman who adopted a little boy. She talked about how much she loved adoption, how much she loved her son’s birth mother, and how she loved to share these two facts with everyone she could. She then expressed frustration that people were always focusing on their adoption, bringing up the birth mother in conversation, and always looking at their son as an adopted child. I was perplexed. If she hated so much that people openly emphasized the fact their son was adopted, then why did she bring it up at every cocktail party?

Infertility is a touchy subject - believe me, I know.

Jordan and I found out we were pregnant with Jo almost the same day our very dear friends found out they were infertile. So while she commenced the horrors of fertility treatments, I commenced the horrors of throwing up absolutely everything I ate.

Being the typical oblivious Leeny that I am, when asked about how I was doing by these precious friends I would respond, “awful.”

What’s worse:

At a cocktail party, that didn’t include cocktails, but included these friends, I made a ridiculous side comment. While I sat holding a giant blue water bottle I was doing everything in my power not to violently hurl into, I said, “I would rather have cancer than be pregnant. Then at least people feel sorry for you.”

Admittedly, a stupid thing to say.

Obviously, pregnancy has some perks cancer does not. First of all, there is not the idea that your body is turning against you, that this condition might lead to death, and that all this suffering is unnervingly taking away important parts of your life. When you are pregnant, you get a baby at the end, and the awesome knowledge you created a life, and you know that some day the misery will end. Cancer patients have no such perks.

While my comment was incredibly insensitive toward infertile couples, and cancer patients alike, (to whom I would like to apologize right now. I’M SORRY!), the point of it was to say something entirely different. My mom had a bad case of breast cancer during my growing up years. While she laid in bed nauseous and weak, friends and family rallied round to support us. They dropped off meals, they helped clean the house, they shuttled my brother and I to and from school, and they offered words of condolence, comfort, and encouragement.

In many ways morning sickness is like chemotherapy. You feel like you’re dying. But, in my experience, chemotherapy is much more accepted. When I was pregnant and puking so hard my nose would gush blood, the general consensus was, “Shut up and get over it, Kayleen. You did this to yourself.”

I also received A LOT of negativity from infertile women. Some said, “I wish I could feel like that.” I made no comments, but I wondered why anyone would want to throw up so much it lands them in the hospital (a common thing during pregnancies like mine). Another one was, “You have nothing to complain about. Just be glad you can have kids.”

True. I have been blessed with the opportunity to bear two children, a privilege I would never regret. But does that mean I am not permitted to suffer? Does that mean I have the moral obligation to enjoy internal bleeding and lifelong consequences from throwing up so hard?

My infertile friend who was present for my idiotic comment, mentioned above, was at this said non-cocktail party. In her frustration, which I can understand, she got on her blog and wrote about how comments like mine are so unbelievably annoying. She had lots of infertile friends, and let me tell you, they let every pregnant woman have it, especially me.

Unfortunately, I stumbled upon this post when I was pregnant with my second and suicidal. (See post below.) I remember reading the onslaught of comments about how I am a horrible woman, a horrible mother, and that I don’t deserve to have children. I was already contemplating signing off the responsibilities of motherhood and this little online discovery about my obvious unworthiness sent me off the handle. I had a panic attack, and decided I would end things right there. I had bounced the idea around before, but this time I was determined. I called everyone I could possibly think of, trying to find a babysitter for Jo so I could take my life without putting my one year old in danger. I was going to leave a message for Jordan at work telling him to pick up Jo from the babysitters on his way home. Thank God, no one answered their phones. In a ward like mine, a miracle indeed.

When Jordan got home he found me sobbing. (Not uncommon for this period in my life.) But I seemed particularly distracted. I told him about all that had happened. He assured me I deserved my children, and that while I had said something insensitive, that my suffering was still relevant and I was not an unfit woman for despising pregnancy.

The stress of giving life to J.J. was so great on my body that I now have a couple medical problems. Mainly, tears along the tissue of my intestines, internal bleeding, and hemorrhoids you wouldn’t believe. I meet with a surgeon every three weeks to evaluate my situation. I have to be careful about every single thing in my life; what I eat, how far I walk in the grocery store, how many times I pick up my kids, what chairs I sit on at church, how intense I get when mopping the floor, and I take the nastiest medication practically nonstop. In short, I might as well be 80.

In addition to the aforementioned lameness, the doctor says it would be incredibly risky to have more children. (Oh! The irony!) Which is a bummer. I so wish I could have at least two more kids. And, I have cried about this late at night. But, I still maintain my former conviction that pregnancy is a downright drag.

I came home from the doctor’s and told Jordan my news. We were both upset by it, but, and this may offend you, we also felt we had been given a reprieve. We would never have to go through that again. No more leaving Jo, a defenseless one year old, at home with a mom who contemplates driving the car into a lake. No more tearing intestines open when hurling like a hurricane. No more nights spent crying uncontrollably on the couch, trying to breath.

http://adoptionmama2012.blogspot.com/

Jordan and I have begun to investigate adoption options. A scary realm, as well as expensive. (Hence the “first” step. You can’t take the second unless you’ve got $40,000 up your sleeve.)

I love how a friend of mine who struggles with infertility explained it. She has spent years and gone through extensive treatment to have her three children, two by birth, and one by adoption. She said, “You work for your babies either way.” It is true. No matter what, if you are a mommy, you will suffer. And just because it is a blessing to be able to get pregnant does not mean pregnancy is easy, and that every woman who utters the phrase, “I hate being pregnant” is inherently unworthy of this gift.

I have another friend who struggled for years to get pregnant. She admitted to secretly feeling hatred for every woman who complained about it. Then, when she finally did conceive, and the first round of morning sickness came, she thought, “This is what they were talking about? This is horrible!”

Take it from someone who has been on both sides of the line.

Pregnancy SUCKS.

Not being able to have kids SUCKS.

Now, can’t we all just get along?

_________________

Disclaimer 1: I have never experienced infertility. Being told you can’t have more kids when you already have 2 little ones at home is TOTALLY different than coming home to a quiet house night after night. I realize this.

Disclaimer 2: Before I got pregnant, I didn’t realize how hard pregnancy could be, even though my older sister is even worse than I am.

Disclaimer 3: I do agree it is inappropriate for a pregnant woman to approach an infertile friend seeking comfort for pregnancy woes – not someone who needs your particular brand of suffering in their life. Instead, seek out someone who can sympathize and understand your struggles. You will probably receive better comfort, and you won’t be throwing salt in your friend’s sores.

Disclaimer 4: No matter WHAT situation you are in, everybody hurts. Cut everyone you know a little slack.

When You’re Feeling :(

I hope I do not offend anyone with this blog post. But I wanted to write about something that has been brought to my attention over the past year.

Jordan and I moved to Indiana in August and just a week later we found out I was pregnant with our second baby. We were so excited to have another baby on the way and there were a lot of great things going on in our lives. Jordan was starting his doctorate, Jo and I were at a point where we could stay home together, and our new apartment was so much better than our last two. Things were looking up and although I missed Provo and our friends there tremendously, I was ready to make the most of things.

But within the first few weeks I was having a hard time feeling happy. I was somewhat sick with JJ and it was difficult to get around, Jordan had a very demanding school schedule, and I felt I wasn’t able to care for Jo the way I wanted. All of these things were difficult, but there was something else too. I had had a really awful pregnancy with Jo, but even then Jordan and I still laughed together, I was still interested in things, I forced myself to get up and walk across campus, even if I was throwing up into trashcans and bushes along the way, and I always felt like things would get better.

This time around I felt hopeless. I cried constantly. I would wake up in the morning and dread the day before me. I remember waking up one morning to Jordan and Jo talking in bed next to me and I did not feel any love for my family. It terrified me. I knew I loved them, it made sense to me in my head, but I could not feel it in my heart. I did not want to do anything, even be with my husband and daughter. I mentioned divorce, I thought about leaving them, and I was continually at war with myself.

I started waking up in the mornings feeling discouraged that I had woken up at all. It was disappointing to know I was still alive. Next it got to the point where I thought it might be better if I just ended things. I knew these feelings and thoughts were wrong, and I did not want any part of them in my life, but at the same time, I could not control these emotions. It was like living in murky water and never breaking the surface.

I was out of my mind and I knew it. It was exhausting to live continually arguing with myself. Having horrible thoughts, then recognizing how bad they were, working hard to fight it, but feeling I was on the losing side. I was at war with my own thoughts and feelings. It was not only painful but frightening.

Once during the worst of it someone asked me, “I know this is hard, but can’t you just try to be happy?” The answer was, “I am trying. And no, I can’t be happy.”

When I look back on these things, my heart aches the most when I think of Josephine. My poor daughter was not yet two and had lost her mother to depression. I would lay on the floor crying for hours. I remember sobbing uncontrollably while I laid on the bathroom floor. Josephine had climbed onto the table and was bringing me pack after pack of fruit snacks to open for her. At one point she ran towards me holding out another pack, then looked at me, put it down, laid on the floor next to me and grabbed my hand. She laid there sucking her thumb watching me cry. It hurt me to know I was hurting her.

When things got bad enough Jordan and I decided I should go see a counselor. Medication was not an option since I was pregnant, but we felt like we could no longer handle the situation. I did not stay with the counselor for long, I probably should have kept going with the sessions longer, but after four months things got better.

I was still struggling, but I was once again able to function. Jordan helped me to set up this blog, he organized his work schedule to help take care of Jo and I, and he was stalwart every step of the way. How grateful I am for husbands who care for their wives the way God expects them to – with selflessness, patience, and tremendous strength in the face of adversity – men who willingly shoulder family burdens without frustration. I love and respect my husband more than ever now and I know our marriage is forged with the strongest of bonds – Christlike love.

The depression left me soon after JJ was born and I always tell Jordan, “I can’t believe normal people can be this happy!” “I can’t believe I can feel this happy all the time!” “It is so wonderful to be able to be happy when I want to be!”

And it is true. Being free from depression is an incredible blessing. I regularly pray for those who deal with this challenge throughout life. I am grateful mine was limited to pregnancy.

If you are depressed it is not your fault! You are not a bad mom if you feel unhappy with your child(ren) or don’t feel like you love your family anymore. You are suffering. Depression is difficult enough without blaming yourself too. You are still a wonderful mother, and you still deserve your children. Would you ever feel guilty for getting cancer? Do not feel guilty for getting depression.

I have written and deleted this blog post numerous times over the past months because I do not want to start one of those “blog wars” where people bicker in the comments stream. Also, I do not feel totally comfortable pouring my woes out like this, the subject is a little sensitive for my family, and some other women I know, so please, if you do not have something 100% kind to say, then refrain from using the keyboard.

I only wrote this because the more open I have been, the more open other women who have similarly suffered have been with me. And we all need the support from knowing we are not alone in our trials. That we are not the only ones fighting these personal wars.

I Ain’t What I Used To Be

WOOHOO ARTS HIGH!

Five years ago was the last time I slipped my feet into a pair of pink ballet slippers and calmly rested my hand on the bar. Back then I liked to stand towards the front of the class, where I could easily see my hip placement in the mirror and make sure my head was held high in that snooty ballet-bun-head kind of way.

Monday night I decided to resurrect my dancing self. I dug a pair of old ballet slippers out of my purse and slipped them on once gain. I placed my hand on the ballet bar ready to enjoy the feeling of a sprightly gazelle.

Little did I know.

I found myself at the very back of the class overwhelmed by my instructor’s French accent and the obvious superiority of the women standing around me. Everyone’s leg was higher than mine, everyone else could balance longer, spin faster, jump higher, remember the routines, and actually give off the impression they had pointed a toe before.

It was a downright leotard and tights nightmare.

When I looked in the mirror I was confronted with weak ankles, soft arms, a slouched back, and blatant lack of skill. It was in no way a young, happy gazelle bouncing around in my reflection. It was more like a dying warthog. With the expression of, as my teacher kindly pointed out, “A deer in the headlights.”

Monday I endured a full hour and a half of humiliation. Not only was I embarrassed to look so idiotic in front of superior ballet scholars (after class I found out most of them worked with dance professionally); I was embarrassed to look so idiotic in front of myself.

In many ways, this experience reminded me of my first day at the beloved arts high school. I had naively showed up ready to strut my dancing stuff, only to realize I had been poorly trained. I must have looked like a frantic mouse trapped inside a room with aggressively agile kitties -desperate to please and terrified of being eaten alive.

I wish I could say I am the girl with dreads . . . but I’m actually the one with a boy haircut.

It seems I had forgotten what dance was really about. I remembered the glorious moments when I felt I could consume space and morph into flawless energy, and erased the tears, sore feet, bruises. and absolute desperation to do just one thing right. Fortunately, Monday night reminded me of what I had lost over the past five years: hard work.

The only reason I could approach a ballet bar without trepidation back then was because I had sweated myself to the brink of death nonstop – fueling myself on soy milk and broccoli mixed with applesauce. After sitting around reading Victorian literature and eating whatever I wanted for half a decade I have no idea why I thought putting on an old leotard and ballet slippers would make me a dancer again.

In the end, I will most likely never again be the dancer I was. The glory days are over. But that doesn’t mean more days aren’t ahead.

I absolutely hate being the worst dancer in class. But I love to dance even more than this.

Which is why I am going again next Monday. It will probably be a depressing experience – like it was this Monday. But I refuse to give up what I love simply because I am struggling.

Besides, if I didn’t have to fight for it, it probably wouldn’t mean so much.

XYZ!

I recently developed a dangerous condition called Multiple-Offspring-Syndrome. Included in the long list of many symptoms are lack of sleep, a tendency to randomly snap over lint on the carpet, wrinkly belly fat, dramatic loss of income, and a blank zombie-like stare. Not all symptoms and side-effects are presented in the same way among every carrier, but one thing remains constant among the afflicted – bewilderment.

In my particular case this bewilderment has resulted in a constant problem with XYZ.

It seems I cannot manage to simply enjoy the freedom to empty my bladder without someone barging into the bathroom screaming, “Mama potty!”, or someone feigning near starvation and screaming in agony, or another person screaming, “What happened to the ____ (any random household necessity)?” Because of the constant commotion that arises from my condition, I often jump up, run my hands under burning hot water, and quickly button before attending to whatever new minuscule catastrophe awaits my motherly services. Very rarely do I have the wherewithal of thought to remember the important act of zipping.

So far, this little explanation probably seems like it took about ten minutes to write to all you blessed, faithful readers whom I adore. But in reality, it has taken much longer.

There was a small mental breakdown because Jo couldn’t get her leash on properly, J.J. woke up screaming for no apparent reason, Jordan is pressuring me to finally get dressed at 6 o’clock p.m. so we can leave our insane asylum, and something just crashed to the floor in another room (I have stopped running to check in these circumstances – I figure I will find out if anyone has been seriously injured eventually, and I might as well finish the task at hand as long as my miniature terrorist is incapable of getting in the way because she is trapped under a large box or managed to break a leg.)

DON’T JUDGE ME!!!!! I’m doing what I can.

All in all. Little slips in appearance tend to creep up among my person. If you are a mom who always looks like she has a hot date, then I applaud your stamina and superior abilities. But as for me, I’m just shooting for a shower twice a week. (I’m afraid the arts high school has permanently damaged my respect for hygiene.) I figure Jordan just automatically respects my daily life a little more if I always look a little haggard. I don’t want to make this mommy thing look too easy. So it is okay to go a few days without brushing my hair or teeth. Besides, if I have stinky breath we are less likely to end up with another little (or big) bundle-of-joy any time soon.

Best form of birth control: Being Nasty (And it has no hormonal side-effects! Just a higher risk of head lice.)

It also helps if you clip your toenails with your teeth. 

Some moms take pride in natural birthing – I take pride in natural living.

And next time I see you at the grocery store, don’t be offended it I stop to zip. It’s just part of my new gig.

Eaten Alive

Jurassic Park came out when I was little. I remember casually meandering into the basement and feeling relief to see it was only my father sitting in front of the TV screen. (Fathers are less aware of television shows that might be bad for four-year-old brains.) I did as little as possible to draw attention to myself as I perched on the sofa and reveled in my opportunity to see a “big person” film.

Not too far into the film a man was eaten alive by some large, mysterious creature in a big metal box. I ran upstairs and told my mom what atrocities my innocent mind had witnessed. My dad paid for his mistake, both because my mom chewed him out for letting me watch the film, and also because I had to sleep on their floor for the next three nights because of nightmares.

Ever since that traumatic afternoon in our basement I have always been terrified of being eaten alive.

Well, my nightmares have broken into reality and I have suffered the fate of the living digested.

Metaphorically.

My Children

I have two children. I feel like I am being persistently gnawed at. If one baby is sleeping, the other is crying. If I sit down for a meal, J.J. is automatically hungry. As soon as I change a diaper, a thunderclap of poop is heard. Jo has recently restricted herself to a diet of nothing bug animal crackers, and I spend my entire day bribing her to at least eat some cheese. Grocery shopping has become an event that requires copious amounts of candy, a nursing cover, and a large Dr. Pepper for mom. My addiction to cleanliness and organization is not being satisfied and I am suffering the horrible effects of withdrawal.

I am being hunted, every second of every day, by a pair of merciless velociraptors.

ROOOOAAAARRRR!!!!

Alright, I know I am being dramatic. (Surprise!) But give me a break, I was up every single hour last night and my kids made a carcass of nap time today. Hence, my rather T-Rex-ish behavior.

In all reality, Jordan is in need of your prayers, or kind thoughts, or a vacation to Bermuda, or an ambulance – whatever you feel you can send his way. One man can only be so strong, and he has fought with unmatched courage this last month. Enough determination to make Hercules weep and bow at his feet. Thank heavens for his Scottish heritage – he is like a real live Braveheart. (Doesn’t he look good in dreads?)

I AM A WARRIOR!!

All in all, I am living on an island of hungry, ferocious, wild creatures that will stop at nothing until they have had their breastmilk or crackers shaped like various circus animals.

IT IS A JUNGLE IN HERE!!!

Gotta go – duty calls – better put my war paint on and wear my camo.

Miracle Makers

http://www.cineastentreff.de/error/404.php

There is a book about a young, misunderstood, dramatic, and rebellious teenage writer living in the mid-1700s by Elizabeth Taylor (the author, not the movie star.) I love the first half of this book. Not only because the main character, Angel, is hilarious, but because all of her clothes are way cooler than mine.

When Angel finally finds a publisher for her novels, he asks her to change some things. She asks, “What is wrong with it?”

He says, “The childbirth scene, where you describe quarts of blood and screaming, is a little repulsive.”

She leans across his desk and says, “Isn’t it true?”

He looks somewhat flustered and responds, “I have been a father many times. And I can assure you childbirth is a beautiful and wonderful experience.”

Angel gets a knowing smile on her face and says, “That’s because you’re not the one bleeding,” before giving him an awkward wink.

I really appreciate it when a book can make me laugh out loud. And I laughed for a long time after reading that.

It is so true!

Seeing pregnancy pictures makes me shudder.

This new baby has been nothing but a physical nightmare for me from start to finish. Thankfully, I did not vomit as much with him as with Jo, but when I did throw up it was severe. I would puke so hard it burst blood vessels in my nose and I thought my eyes were gonna pop out of their sockets. I remember kneeling over the toilet trying to control the racking of my body so I wouldn’t spray blood everywhere when I retched. Fortunately, this torture ended around week 12 – but only to be replaced by an excruciating bolt of pain that regularly shot through my lower back and right leg. This little ritual continued to the end of my pregnancy. Then I gave birth – and we all know how that went. I thought I would be flying high once I recovered from a 9 lbs 10 oz whopper, but alas, some things are not meant to be.

Poor J.J. has developed a severe infection in his mouth. And since I am breastfeeding, he gave it to me. Right on my chest. I can survive the continual burning in my boobs. But when it comes time to feed him, and I have to latch him on and let him suck away for 45 minutes, I must concentrate on breathing in and out so I don’t scream. (Sometimes I still scream.) I am telling you, bearing this child has been nothing but a nightmare.

The other night I was praying for some spiritual support while I make it through this next baby-related fiasco. I thought, “I am trying to do the right thing here and provide a good life for this little person. If God wants me to be a good mother for him why does he make it so incredibly hard? If being a good mother is a commandment, why does it have to be so hard to do?”

Well, for all you spiritually mature readers out there, this question is probably a no-brainer. We know it doesn’t make a difference if the commandments are easy or hard. The point is to obey them, whether we like it or not.

But I was getting a little frustrated with how painful this whole “Bringing J.J. Into the World” ordeal has been. And I needed some help.

He is Not Here – Walter Rane

I was reading in a magazine and came across a statement by one of our church leaders. He said, “The crowning achievement of the Savior’s life was suffering the atonement.” (The atonement refers to Christ suffering the consequences of our sin.) I thought, “Hm. That is interesting. It was the moment when Christ willingly brought himself to the lowest point that was also the moment he achieved the highest miracle.”

I asked myself, “What has been the lowest moment in my life?” Automatically I thought of giving birth to J.J. just a couple weeks earlier. It was physically difficult and emotionally trying. His heart rate was low and amongst the unbearable pain the doctor told me he would have to intervene and possibly harm our baby to keep him alive. I was already out of my mind and I felt so helpless. All I could think was “Dear God, make it okay” while I moaned and pushed – hoping it would be enough.

My awesome gremlins

I realized that the crowning moments of my life have been giving birth to Jo and J.J. Don’t get me wrong, I hate pregnancy, I hate childbirth, and I hate breastfeeding. It hurts, and I don’t want to have to do these things. But I willingly volunteered to suck it up and suffer because I wanted them to have a chance at life. Even just the decision to get pregnant is a huge achievement for any woman because she knows suffering is on its way, and she takes it on willingly.

I was discussing this with a friend (smart girl, you should read her blog here http://transplanteditalian.blogspot.com/) and she said, “You think the Savior wanted to do that? No. He didn’t WANT to do it, but he did it because he loves you.”

I never want to vomit that hard again, I never want to feel like I am being tazered multiple times a day again, and I never want to give birth again. None of this was very fun. But I know I will have more kids – even though it means I will have to do all of these things again. I love my children, and I will love any baby that comes into our family, and if suffering is what it takes to provide life for them, then that is what I will do.

My mom did it 4 times.

I really do think that the greatest thing a person can do is willingly suffer for another’s benefit. It sounds morbid, I know, but think about it. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” John 15:13.

That is mothering in a nutshell. I commend every woman who lays down her own life, again and again, not only to bring children into this world, but to give her children the best. We have accomplished something incredible, and I know that God appreciates our sacrifice. You have performed miracles.

Doing What We Hate

Our sad garden. The entire right side is weeds. : (

Jordan and I agreed to do a community garden with some friends this summer. Unfortunately, a few glitches developed in our green thumb plans. The head family of our veggie growing enterprise found a job in St. Louis and we lost our entire supply of gardening experience. A second family chose to back out of the arrangement. And the third lives on the other side of town – making it difficult for them to visit the plants often. As a result, Jordan and I are now the primary care takers of two tomato plants, some squash, carrots, peas, potatoes, beans, cucumbers, garlic, and a pumpkin.

To be brief, things are not going well.

We wander through the community garden, where our little plot is placed, and marvel with anxiety at the incredible success other growers are having. People have tomato plants twice as tall as ours, their squash have large, beautiful leaves, their plants stand straight, and tall, proud of their owners, and everything appears to be sprouting in perfect rows any obsessive compulsive farmer would praise.

Our plot is struggling. Weeds have come to choke the life from what little growth we have managed. Every time I try to pull a few, the soil is so hard it is like pulling a thin hair from hardened cement – impossible. Whenever I hose down our designated patch of vegetable death it immediately floods and the water runs off into neighboring gardens that have somehow managed to become beautiful arrangements of new life.

Jo is an angry gardener too.

In addition, we always have a newborn and a raving, lunatic toddler with us. Jordan usually watches the kiddos while I “garden.” He chases Jo through everyone else’s garden plot, begging her not to step on sprouts or pull plants while I stand in the summer heat scratching my head. “I put seeds in the ground according to package directions and I water every other day. Why doesn’t anything grow?” (Anything but weeds, that is.)

Well, I assume the answer to this question is not so perplexing after all. Nothing grows because I know nothing about growing. It is sort of like being a parent. Lucky for me, children are a little hardier than peas. As my wise sister-in-law reassured me when I was pregnant with Jo, “Just don’t drop ‘em or shake ‘em and they will be fine.” So far, this wise and comforting counsel has proven to be true.  (Although, I would add, “Horsewhip them if you ever catch them with alcohol” – that pretty much covers all parenting basics.)

What am I to do with this pathetic little plot of tortured vegetables? (Technically, tomatoes are a fruit.)

I can either give up and let the summer sun take its deadly course, or I can press on, faithfully tending my struggling charges even when hope of success is small.

Considering that I paid twenty dollars to reserve the garden plot, and another seven-fifty on plants, I feel a strong obligation to continue ministering to my sickly sprouts. They are relying on me for a shot at life, and I hope that through hard work and perseverance I can give them a fair chance – before eating them.

LOOK OUT! SHE’S GOT A SPADE!

To be honest, I don’t expect more than a couple potatoes and maybe a demented pumpkin demented perfect for Halloween. And it isn’t easy to pack up two kids into the stroller, walk them to the community garden, manage both children, and then pull a few weeds before someone takes a hoe and commits some heinous crime. (It is hard to keep your temper in hot weather.)

But I am going to garden anyways. Because I believe in doing hard things, even if you don’t enjoy them, if only because you have made a commitment to try. (If I can stick it out through 2 pregnancies, Chem 105,  and a whole opera, then I can certainly stick this out through the end of the summer.)We all have the ability to do things we hate. And thank goodness because we will probably be required to exert this super power many times throughout our lives. Whether it is passing classes, parent-teacher conferences, taking kids to Disney On Ice, or preparing dinner – we’ve all got to stick it out. And it is in the sticking part that we learn a lot about hard work, sacrifice, and our power to overcome.

Look at my awesome rubbers!

So even if your plants are all wilting, dinner tastes like dog vomit, and your toddler believes you are evil reincarnated for denying her the privilege of more gummy bears, I say, “Here’s to us! Doing the things we hate!”

It is the folks like us who keep the world spinning and are bound to find success in the end.

ROCK ON SISTAH!!! (Or brother – in case you are a man who reads lady blogs.)

Not What I Had In Mind

There is no experience comparable to the joy and relief felt when you are finally able to hold a baby your baby after months of hard work and waiting. I am happy to say, my moment finally came and my ginormous son was born early Friday morning.

I had been to the OBGYN on Thursday afternoon (I love going to the OB on my birthday), and he told me I wasn’t near delivery, but behold, a few hours later things were beginning to rock and roll in my uterus. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! I was like, “These contractions are great! I’m so excited to have this baby!” (HA! Naive me.)

1:00 a.m. rolled around and my contractions were coming about 7 minutes apart but were lasting about two minutes each. I woke Jordan up and told him I wanted to go to the hospital. He thought we were going too early, but I wanted to leave so we had plenty of time to get settled in and for me to soak in the tub before getting an epidural.

We pulled up to the hospital and Jordan offered to drop me off, but I told him I could walk since it would probably help speed things up a bit. (Ayayay). On the way in my contractions were suddenly very intense and only 3 to 4 minutes apart. I got up to my room, tried to be pleasant as staff made small talk and wished me happy birthday, and threw my beautiful hospital “gown” on. I looked at the tub and thought, “Maybe I should wait until after they check me.”

At 2 a.m. I was in the bed and at 3 cm. They kept on asking me questions. I was getting more and more frustrated, and I attempted to lie a few times to speed things up but they caught me. I was like, “If you already know the answer why are you asking me again?” Fifteen minutes later I said, “I want my epidural now.” The nurse smiled and said, “I have to register you into the computer before I can do anything.”

Another ten minutes went by and I was sweating bullets, moaning, and saying, “I’m serious. Get me an epidural. This is why I was born now. So I could get an epidural. This is why I wasn’t born 100 years ago. Get me an epidural.”

Another nurse came in to help out her co-worker since I was getting a little feisty and said, “You have to be at 5 cm before you can get an epidural.” I said, “I’m a five. Get me an epidural.” The first nurse explained I was only a three, but my new friend decided to check and said, “Whoa. She is flying. She is already a five.”

This is when things began to get crazy.

“Where is the anesthesiologist? I want my epidural.” (More high pitched panting.)

“Well. You can’t get one.”

A frustrated roar. “Is she here?”

“She’s here.”

“Why can’t I get one?”

“The baby’s heart rate is too low. You can’t get an epidural.”

Then all “H-E-double-hockey-sticks” broke loose.

My first nurse got on the phone and about twenty more people entered the room (ok, maybe not 20 but it seemed like 20!). They were running around calling down to the pharmacy for antibiotics, jabbing pins into me, drawing blood, calling my OB, and taking the bed apart. I was progressing incredibly fast and screaming bloody murder. From this point on everything is a blur. Jordan claims I was out of my mind.

A few things I remember.

I tried to repeatedly explain to the medical crowd that I was dying. No one seemed to be paying attention and they kept shoving an oxygen mask on my face. The large black nurse stopped, leaned over to look me in the eyes and said, “KayLynn, you are not going to die. I promise that you are not going to die.” I would have corrected her mistake and told her my name was actually Kayleen, but it seemed like an insignificant detail since I first had to convince someone that I was dying and needed to be beat over the head with a sledgehammer till the pain stopped. As a result, everyone kept calling me KayLynn for the rest of the delivery.

I remember a bald man drawing blood from my left arm and I screamed, “Stop it! Stop it right now! Just stop!” He looked a little overwhelmed and took a step back. Only to return after I had directed my attention to some other obnoxious procedure. I could have killed him.

I remember Jordan standing by my head repeatedly popping ice cubes into my mouth so I would have a harder time yelling at everyone.

I remember hitting the plastic railings on the bed.

I remember uncontrollable shaking.

I remember screaming as multiple people held me down and begged me not to push.

I remember the anesthesiologist finally coming in after I was already at 10 cm and telling me to “hold still.” They strapped my legs together and held me down while she put the needle in my back.

Finally. I was able to roll over and I started pushing. Since I could still feel everything my doctor gave me a local anesthetic and I was going to get the baby out. This proved to be difficult since he was 9 lbs 10 oz. But I had finally received some pain medication, and for the first time I realized I wasn’t going to die.

At 3:34 a.m. little Jordan E. Barlow was born. They whisked him away to clean him off and wrap him up as I laid back in complete shock. I was in no way prepared for that kind of delivery. I went from 2 cm to giving birth in an hour and a half. With Jo it had taken more than 12 hours. I couldn’t do anything but cry.

Half an hour later I was holding my son. I knew he was worth it. I knew I would do it again for him. And I also knew I would never have more children.

It was the most physically and mentally trying experience I had ever been through. Jordan described it as a nightmare.

While they were cleaning things up my nurse looked at me, “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to look at your birth plan.” I shrugged my shoulders, “That’s okay, all it said was that I wanted an epidural.” She kind of nodded and then continued typing things into the computer.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when I think about J.J.’s birth.

But I do know that I love him. I am so glad he is here. He was worth every minute. And I am the luckiest woman in the world. I now get to spend the rest of my life watching him grow, torment his sister, be tormented by her, learn new things, and feel the warmth of his hugs.

I couldn’t be happier.