Giving thanks, but not Thanksgiving

As this is the month of Thanksgiving, I've been pondering the giving of thanks (deep, right?). I'm terrible about sending thank you notes. I always have been, and I probably always will be. In fact, I think I've got some still laying around from when I got married 5 years ago.

Anyway, the point:
I've decided to blog a giant thank you note to everyone that has helped me out in the past little while. So, here goes.

Thank you for listening.
Thank you for being a friend.
Thank you for the meals.
Thank you for not judging me.
Thank you for making me smile.
Thank you for watching my boys so I could have some time away.
Thank you for the words of encouragement.
Thank you for crying with me.
Thank you for the hugs.
Thank you for the advice.
Thank you for the naps.
Thank you for smiling at me.
Thank you for telling me it'll get better.
Thank you for reminding me to enjoy today.
Thank you for your patience.
Thank you for enduring my never-ending stream of pictures and stories.
Thank you for letting me talk about nothing but my children.
Thank you for not staring when we're all collectively losing it in the grocery store.
Thank you for holding my hand on hard days.
Thank you for telling me how beautiful my kids are.
Thank you for telling me how beautiful I am.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you again. Words cannot express my gratitude at being blessed by the wonderful people in my life.

How's it Going?

"So, how's it going?"

I have heard this question more often than any other in the last few weeks. Everyone seems to ask how it's going. I wonder how many of them want an honest answer.

I know what people want to hear from a new mom (whether for the first time or somewhere further down the line). They want to hear about how fabulous it is. How your baby is an angel baby that sleeps through the night, eats like a champ, and has a sweet disposition. They want to hear that you've never felt better. That you're so star-struck with your new little one that you just want to look into his or her eyes all day.  They want to hear about how much your older child loves the baby. That he's a good helper who is always gentle and kind to the baby. People want sunshine and roses and sappy-happiness.

But here's the truth:

It kind of sucks. In fact, some days it sucks a lot.

I really do have an angel baby. He is mellow, happy, and content to just hang out. He loves to snuggle. He is a great sleeper... during the day. He eats like a champ, but he also spits up a lot.

The truth is that most of the time, I don't remember the last time I showered. I've worn nothing but yoga pants and old race t-shirts for almost a month now. And sleep? Forget about it. Between middle of the night feedings, a 2-year-old that only naps sometimes, and a newborn that is possibly the noisiest sleeper EVER, I'm awake a lot. There are days that I wake up with a nervous pit in my stomach wondering how I'm going to survive the day until Greasemonkey gets home from work. And some days I'm hanging onto the sanity cliff by one little finger by the time he does get home.  The truth is that I cry. A lot. Some days we go run fake errands, just so the boys will both be strapped into their car seats and I don't have to entertain for a little while.

The truth is that T-Bone is angry. He hasn't asked me to send the baby back, but there have definitely been some hard feelings surface since we brought Little O home. He's been aggressive, defiant, and argumentative. The truth is that we spend a lot of time talking about good choices and bad choices, about how it's not ok to hit/kick/bite/slap/lay on/ or abuse people. We spend a lot of time talking about how it's ok to be angry and sad sometimes.

I don't want to give the wrong impression. I love my boys. I love them more than anything else in the whole world. But being a mom is hard. It will test every limit you can think of. It is tiring emotionally, physically, and mentally. And sometimes it sucks. Sometimes it sucks a lot.

So, if you ask me how it's going I'll probably paste on a smile, lie, and tell you how I've never been happier. Just know that sometimes what I'm really saying with my eyes is, "This sucks, and I could really use a chocolate donut."

A bit of a whine

I'm not feeling so hot today. Physically, there isn't anything wrong with me, but in my heart I'm hurting. You see, I was supposed to be having a baby next month. True story.  You can read the background here. I've since come to the realization that it wasn't time for us to have another one yet.  T-bone needs me right now, and he needs me all to himself.  I get that.  Emotionally, I'm not ready for another baby yet (you can read more on the "why" of that here).
Anyway, not the point, let me get back to that... The point is this:
In the past year I have had no fewer than 25 friends announce pregnancies. I wish that were a gross exaggeration, but it's not.  If anything, it's an underestimate. In the past 3 days, I've seen at least 5 new announcements, not to mention a phone call from a friend of Greasemonkey's saying that they'd actually just birthed a 3rd child that we didn't know they were expecting.
And all of it kind of hurts. I know, I don't have anything to complain about.  I have several friends that, for whatever reason, aren't able to have children without medical intervention, or can't have children at all.  I am so blessed to know that my body has the ability to get pregnant and carry a baby to full term. I am so blessed to have my sweet T-bone. And I'm so happy for all of my friends expecting children. This isn't to take away from their joy, not in the least. I know that many of them have waited a long time for the children they are expecting. I know that they will be wonderful parents and that they will love their babies with everything they have.
I know it's not our time yet, but it still hurts.

The Women we Become After Children

"We change shape, we buy low-heeled shoes, we cut off our long hair. We begin to carry in our bags half-eaten [snacks], a small tractor, a shred of beloved fabric, a plastic doll. We lose muscle tone, sleep, reason, perspective. Our hearts begin to live outside our bodies. They breathe, they eat, they crawl and-look!-they walk, they begin to speak to us. We learn that we must sometimes walk an inch at a time, to stop and examine every stick, every stone, every squashed tin along the way. We get used to not getting where we were going. We learn to darn, perhaps to cook, to patch the knees of dungarees. We get used to living wtih a love that suffuses us, suffocates us, blinds us, controls us. We live. We contemplate our bodies, our stretched skin, those threads of silver around our brows, our strangely enlarged feet. We learn to look less in the mirror. We put our dry-clean-only clothes to the back of the wardrobe. Eventually, we throw them away. We school ourselves to stop saying 'shit' and 'damn' and learn to say 'my goodness' and 'heavens above'. We give up [parties], we colour our hair, we search the vistas of parks, swimming pools, libraries, cafes for other of our kind. We know each other by our [strollers], our sleepless gazes, the beakers we carry. We learn how to cool a fever, ease a cough, the four indicators of meningitis, that one must sometimes push a swing for two hours. We buy [cookie] cutters, washable paints, aprons, plastic bowls. We no longer tolerate delayed buses, fighting in the street, smoking in [public], sex after midnight, inconsistency, laziness, being cold. We contemplate younger women as they pass us in the street, with their cigarettes, their makeup, their tight-seamed dressed, their tiny handbags, their smooth, washed hair, and we turn away, we put down our heads, we keep on pushing the pram up the hill."

The Hand that First Held Mine

by Marrie O'Farrell

Ask any mom you know and she will tell you that this is the truth... and that she wouldn't change it for the world. 

To Hell and Back

The last week or so has been really hard. But let me start at the beginning...

I've spent the last month-ish coming off my anti-depressants. I went on them shortly after T-Bone was born to help with my PPD, and they did.  I felt "normal" again. Then after about 9 months I decided it was probably time to try living life without it. I talked to the midwives and they recommended that I wait until winter was over.

So after I miscarried, I decided that it was finally time to bite the bullet and try to detox myself. I did a lot of research on the best way to wean myself down.  After about 6 weeks, I was finally done.  Because I did a slow wean I didn't experience any of the untoward effects that can come with getting some anti-depressants out of your system. (Apparently it is akin to detoxing off of heroin.  Glad I didn't have to go there).

Anyway, about the time I was down to just 1-2 doses per week, T-Bone decided that he was done sleeping until 8 am. Ugh. I don't do 5:30 in the morning unless I'm at the tail-end of working a night shift, and I especially don't do it with a whiney 1 year old. After much weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth (mostly from me, a little bit from him) we got him sleeping until after 6. Praise the Gods of toddler sleep! 

But the plot thickens...

I was already on edge from lack of sleep, as anyone would be, right?  Well, on Tuesday I was having a conversation with T-Bone's wonderful babysitter, Katie.  She has been watching him for a few hours every Tuesday while Greasemonkey and I cross shifts. She has been such a blessing in our lives.  I have never once worried about leaving T-Bone with her because I know she just treats him like one of her own kids. I also love the environment she can expose him to, that I am just not capable of exposing him to. See, Katie is blessed with adopted kids, so every Tuesday they go to adopted kids playgroup.  I LOVE that Tommy gets to be involved in that, because it's not an experience I am able to give him. Anyway, back to our conversation: after some back and forth about my family watching him this summer, she told me that with her daughter starting kindergarten this fall, her schedule is going to be such that she can't commit to taking T-Bone once school starts back up.  I completely understand where she's coming from, and she's got to do what's best for her family. However, that didn't stop my heart from dropping just a little bit. Any of you that are moms will understand. When you find a sitter as good as the one I have, you want to hold on with a death grip and fight for them tooth and nail. So, thank you to Katie for a wonderful 9 months being a second mom to my sweet T-Bone.  (And yes, I had a mini-meltdown at work when I realized all of this)

And then poor Greasemonkey couldn't do anything right.  I yelled at him for putting the baby down for a nap, for crying out loud.  It seemed like every little thing set me off.

And then there was the usual Sunday drama.

And then Monday rolled around.  "Great!" I thought, "We can start fresh with a new week." Well, Greasemonkey got stuck working a long day at work. And T-Bone couldn't seem to find any voice but a whiney one. And so I decided to brave the grocery store by myself. T-Bone did great!  He was happy, smiley, and helpful.  We got to the checkout line, got everything rung up, and sweet mother of all things annoying, I forgot my wallet.  Seriously? I forgot my freaking wallet. So I called up the husband to come rescue me.  He got stuck getting off the freeway (there was an accident blocking the off ramp), but he came and paid for our groceries. We finished out our day, and I collapsed into bed.

Today (Tuesday) started out fairly well.  We started our day at 6:45, which is tolerable, and T-Bone was actually in a good mood. I came into work... and it hit the fan.  Greasemonkey called me in a panic saying he was stuck at work, and wondering if there was any way I could go get T-Bone from Katie's house. He was panicked, which made me panic, which was not a pretty sight. I burst into tears for the 700th time in the last week (seriously, ask my mom... I think I had 5 meltdowns at Sunday dinner, alone) and came to the following conclusion:

It's time to go back on my medication. I tried to live without it, and I failed.  And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.  If the balance that a small dose of antidepressant brings is what I need to be an effective wife, mom, nurse, friend, whatever, then so be it.  I will gladly take that little blue pill every day if it means a better life for my baby, my husband, and myself.

Sixlets

#6- What is the hardest thing you have ever experienced?

I've been thinking a lot about this one. We all experience hard things everyday. When compared to other peoples' hard things, mine are fairly small. But that's the thing, we can't compare our hard things to anyone else's. They are our own, and the way they affect us and shape our lives make us the people that we are. Anyway, back to my hard thing...

I've written a few times about how having a baby changed me. Anyone who even semi-follows this blog knows that I suffer(ed) from postpartum depression. For the first few weeks after I had the Sharkbaby it took everything I had just to get through each day. Honestly, there are some days that I probably wouldn't have made it out of bed if my mom hadn't stopped on her way in to work to make me get up.

Every step I took felt like it drained me of any energy. Every time the baby cried, I would cry right along with him. There were many times I considered just running away. Anywhere had to be better than where I was. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't even smile. My world was gray, and not just because it was January.

For a little while after Sharkleton was born, I lost myself. I didn't know who I was anymore. I was just floating along from moment to moment, day to day, waiting for things to get better. And that was terrifying. It took me so long to find myself, that to have that identity stripped away broke me.

And that is the hardest thing I have ever experienced. The losing, and subsequent rediscovery, of myself. Becoming a mom changed me in ways that I never could have expected. It is hard, it is scary, and everyday brings something new and unexpected. But I can do hard things.

The One That Breaks My Heart

***I'm going to start with a disclaimer: This post has some strong subject matter. It contains some medical stuff. It is also very personal. I don't expect comments. I don't write this post for sympathy or pity. I write as an emotional outlet for something that I can't seem to form into words to force out of my mouth.***

There are some incredibly ugly and horrible words in the English language. There are also some that aren't intended to be hurtful, but they cut very deep nonetheless. This week I have spent a significant amount of time considering one of these words in particular. Here is the story of that word.

Around the Sharkbaby's first birthday I couldn't shake the feeling that it was time to start trying for another baby. I felt like someone was missing from our little family. So I broached the subject with Curious George. He wasn't sure how he felt about things, so he told me he needed a little bit of time. Within a week he was on board. So, we began trying for another baby. By March, we discovered we were pregnant.

I was elated! Our babies were going to be close in age, only 21 months difference. I was ok with that, though. All that mattered is that I was going to be a mommy again.

Things with this pregnancy were very different than my first, almost from day one. My nausea was very mild and just sort of vague. I was hungry constantly. I had to pee about every thirty seconds. It was all I could do not to shout my news from the mountaintops.

And then I hit 6 weeks and the trouble started (this is where it gets a bit graphic if you want to skip to the end). On Friday there was some light spotting. I was a little bit worried, so I called my midwives. I left a message with my symptoms and waited to hear back.

Friday, no call.

Saturday, no call.

Sunday morning, spotting is more like bleeding, I get a call back (finally). I talk to Angel (who is possibly the sweetest person on the face of the planet), she tells me to keep an eye on the symptoms, call if they get worse, and gives me my current options. We decide the best course of action is watchful waiting, and agree to just talk it over at my appointment on Thursday. On Sunday night I have my husband and brother give me a blessing. It helps.

Monday, my bleeding is significantly heavier now. I call again and they get me an appointment for that same morning. I go in, they opt to do a couple of blood draws to check my pregnancy hormone levels. They do the first draw on Monday, and ask me to return on Wednesday to have a follow up. If my hormone levels have doubled from Monday to Wednesday, they'll do an early ultrasound at my Thursday appointment to check for a heart beat.

Monday night things got ugly. I started to have some pretty severe cramping and aching low back pain. I began passing some small clots. This continued on through the night into Tuesday. I opted to call in sick and just spend the day taking it easy at home with the boy.

I spent all day Tuesday dealing with mild cramps and preparing myself for what Wednesday's blood draw would show. At this point I was already pretty sure what the blood draw was going to show. My levels won't have doubled, in fact they will probably have dropped.

And then came Wednesday, also known as doomsday. Things were going fairly well. The bleeding had slowed down and I was feeling well enough to go run some errands with Sharkbaby. While out and about I was hit with a sudden, double-me-over pain in my abdomen. I hurried to my parents house (the closest safe place I could think of) and left a screaming child with his toys to run to the bathroom. My heart sank as I realized what was there. My body had gotten rid of anything substantial left inside. I opted to just pack things up and head home.

Once there, I put the baby down for his nap and made the dreaded call to the midwives. They told me not to worry about coming in for the blood draw, just make an appointment to come in for a follow-up the next week.

So, my story comes full circle to the ugly word that has been my constant shadow this week: Miscarriage. What a horribly, ugly, foul word... somehow implying that I am to blame for what happened.

And now, I am one of the 25% of women that will experience this heartbreaking, gut wrenching, terrible trial. For now I am left with a gaping hole in my heart that was the hope I held for this future life. I am not ok.

But I will be.

On Motherhood

Having young children is not easy. Many days are just difficult.

~Elder Neil L. Andersen

With it being the Sharkbaby's first birthday so recently I've been doing a lot of reflecting on being a mother, but for some reason I have been having a terribly difficult time actually writing this post.

I started this phase of my life a little disillusioned. I was under the impression that motherhood would come naturally to me. I'd seen my friends transition effortlessly into the role of Mom. I'd watched people around me shower their children with love, affection, and kindness, all while setting up boundaries and discipline. I thought I could do it, too.

I spent my 40 weeks of pregnancy imagining how wonderful my life would be, how much joy this sweet little boy would bring to my life. I had hopes, dreams, and plans. I'm somewhat ashamed to admit that I had a list of "nevers." You know what I mean: I'll never get upset when my baby wakes up in the middle of the night, I'll never take my children home from church in the middle of the block, I'll never let my baby use a binky or a bottle after his first birthday. However, I'm not ashamed at all to admit that I've broken pretty much every "never" on my list.

Being a mom is hard. It is a never-ending; 24/7; day shift, night shift, swing shift job.

But being a mom is also so easy. When I hold that sweet little boy in my arms my heart fills with so much love I think I might burst. When he cuddles up on my lap at bedtime to read stories I feel more fulfilled than any other time in my life. When I see him smile and call out "Daaaa-deee" when his dad gets home from work, I experience a joy that I never knew existed. I think about him constantly. I pray without ceasing for him. I worry and I hope and I dream and I plan.

Motherhood has not come easily to me. I work hard at it every second of everyday. I cry, sometimes I yell, I lose patience, and I get so sick of singing "If you're happy and you know it" that I could puke.

But I wouldn't trade those sticky little hand prints on my fridge for the cleanest kitchen in the world. I wouldn't trade my stretch marks and loose skin for six-pack abs. I wouldn't trade the sleepless nights for a solid 8 hours.

I wouldn't trade this terrible, mixed up, crazy, emotional, wonderful, amazing, life-changing for anything.