My mom died a year ago and I'm still not over it

1 year later. 

And sometimes I still grab the phone to text her exciting news.

Or I still think I should call and make sure she has what she needs.

Then I remember. Or maybe I'm not really forgetting...I just hope that I'm wrong.

This year has been a struggle.

Made even harder because she's gone.

Baby Blueberry still struggles...a year later, which has to be even longer in a eight year old's mind. 

This month she has made it a habit to eat mainly the snacks Grandma would make her.

Chocolate cereal with rice milk. Mott's fruit snacks.

And she asks Gibson quite often, "you're missing her, huh bud?"

I had promised my Mom I would take care of her dog.

On Christmas Eve, Hero Hottie and I had to take her blue heeler in and have her put to sleep.

On the way home a beautiful winter rainbow appeared out of nowhere and arched right over our 

house.

Sometimes fulfilling promises hurt like hell.

This morning I was going to climb to the top of the hill with a mug of coffee and watch the 

sunrise, because she died just before the sun came out. But today is windy and cold and the town 

is on fire.

Instead...

I will just miss her.

Just like I have the last 364 days.

The Good Witch Lied, You Can't Just Click Your Heels and Go Home or Grief Covid Style

         By the time I had reached the age of eighteen, I had moved at least fifteen times. Take a moment to think about the implications of that statement. The math would suggest I moved an average once a year. If only that was the case, it would have been easier. But the funny thing about averages, is they don't mean much. Some years I moved two or three times. The longest length between moves was about four years. It was the most stability I had - those four years.
        A few years ago when I was writing for my local newspaper I would interview people working in the social work field. They all seemed to have big hearts and a desire to make peoples' lives better. They also all seem to have a lack of personal experience of what it means to live in less than middle class. But who attends college? The middle class. The upper class. Sometimes a person from the working class manages to bridge that gap. Or claw their way through the middle class language, vocabulary, and invisible barriers.
      In my town they would hold seminars for the working professionals in social work in which they would pretend to be poor. They would be given cards that would give them scenarios to work through. Examples included your car broke down and you can't make your doctor's appointment or the food pantry is half a mile pass the last bus stop, how do you pick up food?
       I was often asked when I conducted these interviews if I had a background in social work before journalism because I knew what they were talking about.
       No, I don't have a background in social work.
       I have a background in social class. In working class. In poverty.
      It wasn't until later when I grew up and started experiencing other social classes, (If you don't think American has a class system, then you're not working class. Consider yourself lucky and just make sure your town puts a bus stop out to the damn food pantry.) that I began to realize that moving fifteen times in a childhood wasn't normal. Moving half way through a school year wasn't ideal.
     Yes, I was always that kid. "Hello, class. This is so-so and she's new today. So everyone be nice to her." Do teachers realize how much a new kid loves to be told to stand up, have the entire class' attention on them and made to tell something interesting about themselves to the class? Yeah, I didn't think so, because if they realized how difficult it was to be the new kid, they might not make them the center of attention.
      I tell you these details about me, not because I ever thought they were relevant to my life today or because I seek some kind of sympathy, but because my mom suddenly passed away on March 30. And if that connection doesn't make sense to you, don't worry. I have found that in my grief, I struggle with putting all kinds of thoughts together. Some of them click as they should, and some don't. But neurons don't care when they are being destroyed by grief. So weird things happen in the brain.
    My Mom was only 59 years old and because of Covid, the hospital had strict restrictions about visitors. I wasn't even there to say goodbye or to be there for her. Hell, my dad wasn't even allowed to be with her. I was allowed to say goodbye through FaceTime, while she was sedated. But not completely, because her brow furrowed when I talked to her. When I said goodbye. And I couldn't make it better. I think the only thing she feared was dying without family by her side.
     Since that time I have struggled immensely. with grief. with a sense of failure for not being there. for failing to give her a house at the end. My Mom grew up in broken down trailers, and in tiny rooms of the back of bars, and in conditions that were not suitable for a child. If I don't know what the meaning of home means because I never stayed long enough to figure it out and I've been searching ever since,  than she wasn't even aware that she was looking for something.
    My parents moved seven more times after I turned into an adult. They might have stayed in the farmhouse, but 9/11 destroyed her business, and took nearly everything they owned after that. They house surfed after that, driven by storms they had no buffers against except for the weak ones two of their children managed to provide. Their third child, had to run to Texas to escape her poverty made demons, and I would tell her, if she was talking to me, that there is never enough distance in the entire world to run away from our own personal demons.
    My heart aches with the fact that my Mom died in a broken down trailer, with a leaky and moldy office room, windows that allowed the fierce Midwest winds in, and rats that crawled through her kitchen drawers. There were holes in the sub flooring which trips you on the way down the hallway, and the deck was falling apart. My brother had purchased them the trailer outright when they couldn't afford the rent on their last space. If he could have bought them something better, he would have.
    For years they had lived in my basement, before Baby Blueberry came along and we needed more room. I gave them shelter for the cost of running the Cove heaters because damn, those are expensive.
    I couldn't do more. I wanted to do more.
    I wanted to give her what she had spent her hard and difficult life seeking and I failed.
    But even had I provided a house for her. For my dad. Would they have finally found it? And what is it? I thought I knew. That's why I bought a house three days before I got married to Hero Hottie. And then my mom died and I find that I don't know what this idea of home means.
    I thought my lack of decorating was because I believed I wasn't artistic enough to decorate. I thought it was because the only thing I ever saw growing up, was that my parents would get permission from the landlord to paint the walls a light blue. In every single house. I thought my lack of style was because my mom used cheap, garage sale knick knocks and passed down doilies to decorate our spaces and I didn't like that style, so I didn't do anything.
    Then I had a realization as I spent hours thinking about my mom and my childhood, after she passed, I never took the time to decorate my houses, because even though Hero Hottie and I have been in our current house for over ten years, I expect to pack and move without a moment's notice. I'm always in waiting mode, ready to clear out. Ready to leave. Why decorate a space that you're going to leave? Heck, I have numerous dreams where I have to pack a bag and just leave. And in my dreams I'm always worried about taking the items that mean something to me.
    My mom has left me lost. As Baby Blueberry said, the first week of quarantine we did okay, the second week we started getting grumpy with each other, the third week Grandma died. And then counting the weeks stopped.
    Dorothy just clicked her heels and she found her way home. I lost the only stable point I ever had and I'm spinning like a tornado who might land in Oz or Kansas, or back in Oregon. And it doesn't matter, because no matter where I land, I've tried clicking my heels, and I still haven't found home.

Time Out- I'm on Base and You Can't Get Me

I officially declare a time out from life. Temporary, mind you. I'm not sure how long I'll need, but if I'm to prevent part of my heart from growing cold and hard, I need some time. - I really don't know how much more strength I can find- at this point I am digging deep.

And damn it, my shovel was smashed to pieces yesterday by someone I love dearly.

This is the part in the story where I start digging with my hands, on my knees in the mud, having a Captain Dan moment.

Except I don't have a shrimping boat to tie myself too and scream at the heavens for a few hours.

Although, if God can hear my screaming thoughts inside my head, then I don't need a shrimping boat and a storm to communicate.

I listened to Abu cry herself to sleep last night,  because she couldn't believe that someone she cared about with all the graciousness of her heart would choose an inanimate object over her. She would give the shirt off her back for this person- had nothing but nice things to say, and the hurt she feels cuts me to the core of my mommy heart.

The Vikings were brilliant- burn the shit with the owner. I told my girls- when I die- burn all my shit with my body- I don't want any fighting over scraps of my life.
Bean pointed out she might be arrested for doing that, but she would do it for me anyways.

And the ironic part of the matter, is this person was getting the items, there was no question -  but for whatever reason she freaked out, acted in such a way that even I with my big, sensitive heart can not excuse with grief- and tore my family apart. And destroyed her relationships with my girls.

I hope it was worth it.

As Doc said in Back to the Future 3- Shot in the back over a matter of 80 bucks.

That line has bugged me since I first watched the movie, because what sort of person would shoot a person over something as tiny as 80 bucks?

And then I found out. Unfortunately it wasn't a nemesis, but blood. And I have to admit that hurts in ways that are crushing.

Betrayal. It stings. That's why it plays such a big part in books. We hate what we can not fight, the stab in the back.

On top of that - Hero Hottie had a doctor's appointment and was told he is really sick, as we knew, but they don't know what's wrong with him. More tests are ordered.

More. tests. are. ordered. - Translation: we don't know what the hell is wrong with your husband.

As a child I loved to read mysteries...

As an adult they are starting to lose their appeal.


My Grandpa died last week. He lived 54 days after Grandma. He would be so disappointed to know what has happened this week.

Knowing my Grandpa, he would have burnt his shit, rather than have things transpire the way they have.

My Mom asked a nurse how could she work at the hospice house, working with people when they're at their worse.

A few days later she came back and said she had thought about Mom's comment.

"I don't work with people at their worse. I work with them at their best. This is who they are."

Because dying strips us of all our facades and walls we have built around ourselves, exposing our true, naked selves.

Media has it wrong- we don't live like we're dying. We die the way we lived.

When Life Kicks You in the Butt- Run and Hide

4 Tips to A Better State of Gratitude - 

What? Me? Give Tips? Ha! You're on the Wrong Blog :-)

Baby Blueberry and Oscar

Meet Oscar. He's a friendship turtle. Actually, I think he's a Western painted turtle. Here is a photo of his colorful underside. Tattoo lovers be like jelly- this guy is born with ink. 

He came to us from some very dear friends that were moving overseas and couldn't take him. So one crisp autumn night, they bring him over, along with his tank, and some containers full of misc. turtle requirements. I did not know one small reptile needed so much stuff. How would I ever remember the instructions on how to care for him?

But for being simply a turtle- ha, he's more than a turtle, this guy has personality, as my friend says, "like a t-rex with a shell"- he has his way of communicating. Like when he's hungry- he does this when I get close to his tank.

Back and forth he swims in his tank until we pay attention to him. My friend fed him in a dog dish, so his tank would stay cleaner - longer, and so since I'm all for time-saving cleaning ideas- I kept up with the idea. We put him in a dog dish- ahh, a turtle feeding dish- and give him shrimp. We also bought night crawlers for him, which he thinks are the tastiest critters to feast on. The worms disagree with his opinion. Greatly disagree and it's difficult for this soft-hearted gal to feed him living worms.

 Later this week I will write a blog about how the cute and ahh- not cuddly- but friendly Oscar  turns into a cold-blooded killer turtle when fed a worm. 

But for right now, I did promise 4 tips, so I've better write some sappy stuff this morning. 

1. God has a tendency to speak to us, even if it's not through a burning bush. Although, a talking, burning bush would be cool- I would probably grab the hose and dose the flames before listening to any message. It's a safety thing. But here's the story...next month I lose disability, which cuts our income by quite a bit. Perhaps our house payment. Ouch. I was feeling a bit upset by this and worried and generally just stressed beyond belief. When Hero Hottie reminded me I should be feeling grateful.

       "Uhh, how much wine have you been drinking, honey?" I was getting ready to take Bean to her early morning dance class, so of course Hero Hottie had not been drinking but still I had to wonder.

       "None. No, we should feel grateful." He looked dead serious. My honey, who is more cynic than positive, more bitter than sweet, more doubting than faithful- was telling me to be grateful over a significant lost of income. 

       "Okay, I give up. Please explain." Where was that wine? 

        "We found out before I get my yearly bonus. Now we have a plan. We use the yearly bonus to pay most of the house payment for the year. If we had found out after my bonus, we probably would have spent it and then we wouldn't have that money for the house payment. God let us know in perfect timing to save our asses." 

       Simple. (And also, this plan allows the girls to keep their dance classes, which is so important to them.)

       I know we would have spent it. I had plans to find myself a beach and camp out for two weeks. Without moving. Except maybe my toes in the sand. 

Alright, I probably wouldn't even had done that- I would have paid off Abu's braces. But still, we would have spent it.

    

        Instead we had money for our house payment without me having to rush out and trying to work full-time, even though my Crohn's is seriously screwed up right now. 

     But just to drive the point home, when I stopped at the store after dropping Bean after and my mind was still trying to wrap itself around the concept of gratitude, the car in front of me had a speciality license plate- and it read 'gratful'   Good one, God. - good one.

    

2. I just found out my Grandma's cancer has spread and she has limited time. Months. And there is unfairness to that. I can't be grateful for such limited time left, because it's not enough time. - I will never feel like it's enough time. -  But knowing time is precious, that can be viewed as a gift and one I don't plan on wasting. Other things will wait, time with Grandma won't.

3. So the basement is desperately trying to kick Hero Hottie and me in the ass. Seriously. If you knew us and our record for completing house repair projects. Well, lets say we're really good at having BIG IDEAS and DREAMS and not so good at knowing how to implement the plan. The beginning is easy- the end will look great and somehow we don't know how to travel the journey. So when the basement was destroyed and Hero Hottie decided to take on most of the work himself, I was filled with misgivings. Serious misgivings. But being the supportive wife that I am, and knowing it would look AWESOME if we finished, I jumped in. (That and I have a tendency to dream big too, it's why Hero Hottie and I get along so well.) Plus, we eventually finished our kitchen (over a year) and it was AWESOME. 

     "Honey, we need to think like our old neighbor, "Finish it like P." I said, referring to an old neighbor that seem to finish projects like magic. That guy knew what he was doing and accomplished it, in half the time a normal human being would take. I admired him greatly. 

     He laughed, as he measured the torn apart bathroom. "Okay." 

     Hero Hottie had taken a week off to get ahead of the projects looming downstairs and it was day one.

   And we accomplished...nearly nothing. 

   Why couldn't we be like P? We had gone downstairs with a lot of energy, plans and a gung-ho attitude and every time we turned around something wasn't measuring right, or we didn't have the correct tool, or we didn't know what the next step should be. 

   We should have just hired someone. 

   The next day, I told Hero Hottie again. "We need to approach this like P. If we do that we'll be done by the end of the week." 

   He frowned at me. Yesterday had not gone well and I don't think my cheerleading comments were helping. 

    I started painting, trying to go as quick as I could, which resulted in a bunch of spilled paint- on the floor, on me- drips down the side of the wall. This was stressful trying to be like P. 

   I felt my jaw clenched, as I looked at the time every half an hour, trying to push myself. Spilling more paint.

   Finally, it hit me. 

   What was I doing? 

   I wasn't P. I was me. Which meant, I was not going to succeed at this basement if I kept trying to do things like someone else. And perhaps, Hero Hottie was seeing my comments, which were meant to be encouraging and 'you can do it' as a comparison. And he wasn't P either. 

   If we were going to finish this basement, we would have to do in our own way. Carefully. Perhaps slowly because we were learning as we went, but we could finish it and before our girls moved out. 

    We just had to be ourselves. Or at least better versions of ourselves. 

   The rest of the week went much better. We had the plumber in to fix the shower drain, something we couldn't do. Hero Hottie framed the new shower stall. And with help from my mother in law, we painted until our fingers were numb. 

     Not completed, but we accomplished a lot. So be grateful for yourself, it doesn't mean you can't improve yourself- be a better version of who you are- but don't try to be someone else. It just results in spilled paint and frowns from your honey. 

4. Friends. I can't say enough about great friends. And technology, because right now without technology my great and wonderful friends would seem so far away. But with the magic of floating, invisible bits of info, I can communicate with them in an instant. (Perhaps I'm crazy but has anyone sent a text message and then stared at the air, wondering how your thoughts looked when they were being sent to the next tower of communication? And how many thoughts do we walk through every day?)

How cool is that? Because I'm starting to realize that with faith we're suppose to depend on God, but I think he blessed us with friends to make that journey easier.

Gibson and Blueberry know the value of true friendship

Happy Tuesday to my readers. Now go out and find your gratitude. Because it's somewhere between lessons learned hard and our messy mistakes of human-ness. And it can usually be found hanging out with grace and forgiveness.

Baby Blueberry Turns Two

            Navigating Life Or Did I Ever Tell You About My Mad Map Skills

I Can Do It Myself

        Why is it the thing we want them to do so badly is the thing that breaks our heart? I want my children to be independent. Strong. Kind.

(Although I did not see that yesterday in Bean's and Abu's behavior with each other. Which lead me to ignoring them for an entire afternoon, which was followed by them trying to make dinner, watching the Baby so I could have a break(which translates into a sulk while I contemplated why I had kids), and wait for it...being super nice to each other.)

        But back to my sappy blog about how I'll miss them when they're independent, even while I'm super mad at them for being mean to each other. Only in parenthood can we feel a dozen different emotions about our children -SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Mmm, that's not right. Relationships. It's in relationships that we can feel more than one emotion at a time. So preschool really screws a person up. Because the teachers holds up a card that depicts SAD, MAD, HAPPY, or CONFUSED and tells the child that when they have that face on, that is the emotion they are experiencing.

The teachers don't pull out the cards where it shows you can experience sad and happy at the same time. Or mad and love. Or confused and every other emotion with it. No one explains that you can experience happy for someone with envy. Or intense love for your spouse at the same time you're volcanically mad over some situation. (Usually involving one of three things: money, parenting styles, or stealing the covers. I'm starting to think people should give HIS/HER comforters as wedding presents.)

So parenthood involves having your heart experience sweeping waves of being proud of your kid for doing normal everyday things such as eating with a fork or walking - at the same time you're sure they will grow up, move out and never come to visit.

Which BTW- we had to tell the teenager, Bean, good job with eating with a fork the other night. She couldn't understand why we were praising the Baby for EATING. She wrinkled her nose at us and laughed. Point taken and she joined in telling Baby Blueberry what a big girl she was for using a fork and not throwing all her food on the floor.


But anyway, we want our children  ready to navigate the world and follow their dreams. Even though we start to miss them with every little step they take towards that goal.
 
  And it starts so young. Before they start to walk but you can really see it when they finally figure out the sweet success of putting one foot in front of the other. A task we take for granted, but one that took each and every one of us many times of falling down and trying again.

 
    Baby Blueberry took quite a while to walk. Crawling was her mode of transportation. She was speedy too. She could crawl faster than most other babies could walk. And so she didn't learn to walk until after her first birthday.
   Why? It was slow and torturous. Falling down. Bumping. It took forever to wobble over to the object she wanted, whereas with crawling she could reach her destination in no time at all.
   Why change the status quo? She was perfectly happy without walking.

   And then, one day, it finally occurred to her. Heck yes, walking was faster.

  She hasn't slowed down since.  So even though every baby moment I knew we would have, I tried to savor because I knew from past experience it would move oh, so fast, -it still flew by and now my Baby is a toddler.

   My oldest is a teenager and my Abu is starting to show signs of being a teenager. (hint: drama, mood swings, and demanding more independence)

  One time, long ago, Hero Hottie and I drove down to Texas. I was navigating, thinking that my map reading skills were so awesome. I managed some of the other smaller states pretty well, until I told Hero Hottie we had about three hours in Texas to reach our stop for the night.

  Three hours later and we still have a whole lotta of Texas to drive through. Hero Hottie pulls over, an impatient Baby Bean in the back, and studies the map.
   He starts laughing.
   At me.
   I had misread the scale to measure miles, which had changed since Texas is so much bigger than the other states. My inch of Texas included so many more miles than my inch of the other states.

   He pats my knees, trying to be encouraging and avoid a fight.
   I haven't lived it down but my map reading skills have gotten better since that trip.

   But sometimes I think life is like that. I'm always using the wrong scale to determine the length of my journey.

    So somewhere this blog entry is about the confusion that is life. How super excited I am that it is Baby Blueberry's 2nd birthday tomorrow and how melancholy it is making me feel.

  
   But mostly this blog entry is about how fast life moves, especially after they learn to walk. Because then it's all about chasing them until they move out.
  
   And teaching them map reading skills.

   Oh, and that Texas is a huge state.

Puppy Has Nine Lives...umm- Eight Lives Left

   Gibson has a postal worker thing. Not the usual doggie thing- where the canine wants to rip the nice- I'm just delivering your mail to your mailbox- worker to shreds.
    No, Gibson has friendship. Because he's one of the most social dogs I have ever seen. The girls and I always tease him that he has a motto-

    "Stalking 'til we're friends"

   This started at the dog park because when he would see another dog, he goes into crouch mode, like he's a big, wild beast of Africa, sneaking up on the unsuspecting herbivore. The looks we have gotten from other dog owners, as they notice this huge Great Dane/Black Lab 'puppy' trying to quietly sneak up on their small, toaster box size pet has been hilarious- if perhaps they didn't pick up their dogs and start running away from us.
    Then I start to feel bad that my extremely friendly lap dog has scared away yet another dog owner. And they simply do not believe me when I try to convince them that stalking is Gibson's way of making friends.

    But lets not talk about Gibson's troubles with social graces- we're here to discuss his other troubles:

   Gibson is a runner. We open the door and he tries to escape. We have now resorted to forming plays of action that we have to perform when we open the door. Sorta of like football- "Bean, here's the baby. Abu, grab the diaper bag. I'll throw the toy, when the dog intercepts it, make a run for the door before he crosses the living room."
    Or sometimes it's a full tackle. "Girls, grab the baby. I'll tackle the dog and hold him down while you get out the door."

    One day he made an escape and ran right for the pretty, blond mail lady. She realized that he wasn't the big, scary beast that most people think he is and recognized him for the overgrown puppy that he really is. She gave him puppy treats until I could run down the block and get him.
    And since then, it's been love at first doggie treat. Now, he watches out the window for her and when she passes, he doesn't bark like he normally would, he whines in this pitiful, gargle in the back of the throat.

   Last week, he rushes pass me as I check the mail. He thinks he sees her and runs right for the postal worker. Except it's not her. It's some guy he doesn't know. So he decides to run around the neighborhood, because for a huge oaf, being stuck in the house while it's in the negative temperatures is enough to drive one insane. And since he's free- he's going to take advantage of it.
    I go outside, not chasing him - because that actually makes him run worse. The best method is to IGNORE him- because then he runs back to me- wondering why I'm not playing chase.
    We end up in the backyard- I almost have him and then he decides to chase a car driving down the alley. The car is going somewhere between 10-15 miles an hour and he is so easily out running the vehicle.
     I'm afraid he's going to get to hit when he makes the stupid decision to turn and run towards the busy road. Then I start running but I can't outrun him and by the time I make the corner to the busy road, I notice ALL of the cars in four lanes of traffic are stopped and he's limping back to me.
    My chest tightens, the fear curling my gut and I hurry over to him and he's looking at me like a little kid would, 'I hurt Mommy and make it all better.'

   I coax him down the alley to my parent's house and holler for my Dad. Around this time a vehicle that had been stopped on the road comes driving slowly down the alley.
   "I saw what happened. He came out of nowhere. The truck tried to stop but he couldn't. I don't know how bad he got hit but he rolled under the truck a few times and then came out the side."
    I thank her for taking the time to stop, especially since the person that actually hit my dog never even took the time to see if the puppy was okay.
    My Dad feels all his bones, checking for broken ribs and legs and hips. He pokes and checks for tender spots on his belly and his torso. Gibson's tail is bleeding, road rash all up and down the sides of it. Missing chunks of fur and skin. The tail is swollen but it's not bent at odd angles or crushed.
     Gibson is crying. His eyes full of moisture and he's presses his forehead up against me. I cry with him.

     I take him back to my house, he slowly comes along, obviously sore but he's able to walk without yelping or whining.
     I make him comfortable and clean up his wounds. I don't rush him to the vet, not because of any lack of caring, because for all the headache he can be- I wouldn't let him suffer in any way- (I do happen to like my pain in the neck puppy)- I have nothing financially right now. It would be using my kids' food money to take him to the vet. So, since his doesn't have any broken bones or signs of  head trauma- we tend to him at home. We keep a careful eye on him, checking his urine and poop for blood. Checking for signs of head injury all night long. Checking to make sure the wounds on his tail start to heal quickly and there isn't a lack of circulation going on or broken tail bones.

   In the photo above you can see the tail and he's obviously sore and stiff. He doesn't even want to chew on his shoe, which is a great treat for him because to him there's nothing better than someone's sweaty, smelly running shoe. 

  Over the next thirty hours we baby him and coddle him. He eats it up, sitting on our laps and getting the chance to be the lap dog he knows he is underneath all that puppy body.
   We keep cleaning his tail and it scabs quickly. The potty stuff is going fine. Slowly he starts moving more, jumping over the baby gate, getting on the furniture.

    The house is quiet. There isn't a puppy trying to escape every time we open the door. He's not trying to eat the baby's toys and he's not attempting to eat Bean's boots every time she puts them on her feet.
    Hero Hottie asks, "What's wrong with you, man? You look like you've been hit by a truck." And that's his sarcastic way of dealing with it.- As he pets Gibson behind the ears and actually shares fried ham from his dinner plate with him.

   Just thirty hours after he is hit by a truck, rolled under the vehicle and managed to come out not only alive but without any serious injuries- he sneaks into the Baby's room and comes running out with a toy. And the chase is back on...
    "Gibson!"

Fifteen Years Later....

The Best Thing College Ever Gave Me...

    This is going to sound so fifty's housewife but I'm going to say it anyways...the best thing I got out of college was Hero Hottie.

     Hands down. Without a doubt.

     Sure, I got a whole lot of other things out of the experience.

     Biology rocked. Annoying the furniture man's son in biology lab because I was a girl and understood the material just a bit better...still makes me laugh every time I pass the furniture store.

    Hanging with friends. Learning stuff that I have never, ever used.- but don't tell my girls that.

    But meeting Hero Hottie...tops it all.

   It's our anniversary tomorrow. Fifteen years. I've spent almost my entire adult life with him.

   I didn't even know who I was. He didn't know who he was.

   After we married, we continued college. We had a little cottage house where we played house. And during lunch we would both come home and eat Ramen noodles and watch television. Or not...

   But it was fun and easy. Romantic and fairy taleish.

   Than life happened. And it wasn't easy. It wasn't fun. Not all of it. And we have had our moments of just being roommates and we have had our moments of just simply being parents.

    And we had our dark moments where we weren't on the same page. I'm not sure if we were even in the same book...

   But together...if you look at the entire story...not just chapters...we've done pretty good.

   So here's to the man who sometimes steals the covers without realizing it, who always gets me a coffee when I need it, who has encouraged me to write and write and write some more until I succeeded. (Like today, when my article, MY article was on the front page of the newspaper! Of course, my very first front page article would have to be about buffalo balls but that's the stuff good stories are made of.)

   Here's to the man who

                loves 

                                    me 

                                                for 

                                                      me.

Running through a Rainbow

I would never eat something I wasn't supposed to.

      I ran my first race...a 5k through a rainbow. I'm pretty sure all 5k's after this will seem rather colorless and take more effort to complete. There is something exciting about having powered dye thrown at you while you run. Who would have known?
      (Alright, the Indians knew. Since these races, like the Run or Dye that I ran in, are inspired by Holi, an ancient Hindu religious festival celebrated in the spring and called a Festival of Colors, than being covered in color is not a new thing. Just new to Americans. But we're a bit crazy, because of instead of having a party with food and dancing, we like to add exercise to it.)
     I am not Hindu but I do like the thought of celebrating friendship, community, love, and the start of spring. (Even though, we're in the middle of summer. Since I live in a climate where every ounce of heat and sunshine is appreciated, I will take a Saturday morning to celebrate sunny weather.)
   
     My team decided to wear rainbow tutus for the event. You can see a bit of mine in the picture above. The night I finished mine, I quickly put it on when Hero Hottie got home from work and showed him. I'm pretty sure he almost started laughing but he turned away too fast.
      "What?" I demanded, standing there in a bright and poofy tutu, feeling much like an over sized ballerina but a part of me felt giddy and excited. It was like when I was little and dressing up in my Mommy's old clothes. Dressing like a princess. Or a princess explorer. I always tended to be a bit on the adventurous side with my imagination.
       But anyway, he finally turns around and gives me that look. That guy look that says- I'm not sure what to say because no matter what I'll be in trouble for it, but I'm going to open my mouth anyways and just get it over with-
       "You look silly." He pauses briefly and then rushes into more speech. "But that's what you want, right?"
        "Silly?" I fluff my skirt, liking the bright and bold colors. Red, yellow, green, purple. Bold colors that I don't usually wear because I'm not sure how to dress with lots of colors without looking like I stepped from the eighties. But this...this tutu...I can wear and enjoy and be silly.
       Because I can have fun and enjoy this community event that has brought a rainbow to our town.
    

     And because I have a team wearing tutus too...there will be no lone tutu wearing for me.

       He winces, waiting for me to be mad. But I just twirl, like the graceful ballerina I am, and tell him he should wear a tutu next year when he does the race with me.
     
        The look he gives me, says it all. There will be no tutu wearing for him next year. 

         I show up to the race, excited, and wearing my tutu, a white shirt and a white bandanna -a blank canvas.

        There is something joyous about throwing dye at each other before the race. It's fun and silly.
      
          At one point, when we're running through the green color station, a volunteer is holding out his hand, full of green dye, and yelling for a high five. I have to say I got caught up in the moment and smacked his hand hard, sending the dye flying everywhere.
         And I mean everywhere, because when I look behind me, my sister in law's face is covered in green dye.
        Whoops.

         My girls were waiting for me at the finish line and they were soon covered with the extra dye packets that I had saved in my pockets. Even Baby Blueberry soon had colorful hair,  but no smile as she wore her Daddy's expression of seriousness, trying to figure out why we were tossing colors at each other.

         Later that day, I come into the living room and Gibson is laying on my tutu, trying to eat it. I think he started with the yummy dye, and then in typical puppy fashion, decided that tutu material was an excellent source of entertainment. Luckily, he had only managed to munch one strand on purple before he was caught.
         I will simply add tutu to the casualty list, which is growing by the hour. Now it includes, 7 pairs of shoes, numerous baby toys, various bills and other mail (go for it Gibson), an X-Box controller (do you know how happy Hero Hottie was about that one?), a board game, the recliner chair, the corner of the piano bench, and now- a tutu.
     Oh, and lets not forget the pacifier, which for about ten minutes, I thought he had swallowed whole. And in my panic, I started wondering if we got on that show, My Dog Ate What?, would they pay for the vet bill, because I'm pretty sure I don't have the money for a pacifier extraction procedure. Then, we found it, behind the couch and I took a big sigh of relief. And oh, by the way, Baby Blueberry, you can't have that pacifier back, even if I boil it.


    So I ran through a rainbow. And while there was no pot of gold at the end of it...there was friends and family and celebration.
     And I got to look silly and had fun doing it!! 

     I even managed to save my tutu from busy puppy teeth, which Abu has claimed the rainbow for herself, once I fix it to her size. And I'm so glad she's still at an age where she wants to wear a tutu and feel silly.
     Even without teammates.

Letters Drawn in the Sand

   ONCE upon a time I didn't understand music. I heard it. The sounds would fill my ears and the beat would run through my veins. Clumsy and more prone to tripping over my feet than walking in grace, I would still dance.

Dance because angels sing. Because heaven rejoices with music.

We teach our BABIES simple songs because they delight in it. Our voices can be rough and scratchy and they will find grace. And dance. And delight. And smile.

Hero Hottie taught me art. He taught me to LISTEN. To dissect the lyrics. He taught me to CHALLENGE the words that filled my ears and DECIPHER their meanings.

Because how can you say what you STAND FOR if you haven't LISTENED to the WORDS?

All words have MEANINGS. Some more than one. Some words are like double edged swords, the wound goes deep.

Some words come with a smile. With a dance. With GRACE.

With TRUTH.

And some words linger in your babies' hearts, darkening the edges, destroying their sense of grace. Silencing their dance.

Abu has had to deal with words of that nature this year. Words that made fun of her brand new baby sister, words that made her doubt her sense of style, words that made her doubt her importance in the world. I have spent months BUILDING back up her confidence.

Bean has had to deal with words that she shouldn't had shared, because sometimes words are to be kept like TREASURES.  Words shared between friends where they are supposed to be kept safe and secure and nourished. She will be more careful in the future when given such PRECIOUS items.
She has had also had to deal with words that made her feel not good enough...no matter what she did. These words have caused her to be angry and now I have to find the words to help her deal with that pain without allowing the ANGRY words to eat her soul.



Words can FEED the soul. Nourish the SPIRIT.  I have discovered that this year by developing some AWESOME friendships.

They have shown me how words between friends can BLOSSOM in the soul like a flower bed gone wild with blooms and butterflies and JOY.
Now I can't imagine a world without the WORDS from my friends. 


If only we had a filter over our ears, so that we only heard the good stuff.  So that we never bring into our adulthood ideas caused by constant HATEFUL words. How my heart cries for a small child who feels like they are a horrible person because they weren't fed NOURISHING words.


So if I PRAY often for the RIGHT words, it's because I know what the wrong word will do. And since I never know for sure if I'm saying the right word to my children, to my spouse, to my family, it's a familiar prayer.

I pray because I understand the power of a NOURISHING word...

JOY. FAITH. GRACE. HOPE. LOVE.

To all my readers: I hope you hear the nourishing words you need today to feed your soul. And I hope you find the same treasured words to pass on...with joy, hope, and grace.

And maybe a good song with the right kind of words to sing along to.

What a Gold Star can't Teach You

     In second grade, my wonderful teacher, Mrs. Tracy, read the story I wrote about a brontosaurus and taught me that I couldn't start every sentence with the word 'AND'. It was a pivotal moment in my writing career. Of course, it took me decades to realize that I could start a sentence with the word 'AND' on occasion. Sparingly. As a tool in story telling.
     And that was the beginning. :-)

     The story wasn't "perfect". It was about a dinosaur who was green and did a lot of boring, routine sort of stuff. My grade in my reading and writing class was a solid B.
    That moment, when she sat down next to me, in the tiny chair the 2nd grade classes had, her knees folded uncomfortably, is burned into my mind. I felt so crushed at first. It wasn't perfect. It didn't get a gold star.
     It wasn't as good as my neighbor's, some girl with long blond hair, perfect teeth and stylish clothes. The complete opposite of me, with my buck teeth and thick brown hair and thrift store clothes. 
     I felt insecure, lacking and if it wasn't for the gentle tones of Mrs. Tracy and her reassuring smile, I probably would have never wrote again.
     In my entire life.
   
     A few days of mulling over what I thought was an epic failure, I realized something important. A gold star doesn't force you to get better. They're nice and all and sometimes you have to award them. But when there is something to learn, we need to listen to the lesson. It's not a failure to learn how to get better.
    It's a failure to think we have nothing to learn.

    Fast forward to college and my easy sailing through classes and assignments came to an abrupt halt as my piano/choral teacher, Mrs. Reed, told me in her blunt and no nonsense tones, "You're getting a B in my class because you think everything should be easy and you shouldn't have to work too hard to obtain it. I know what type of student you are. School is easy for you so you haven't learned how to push herself for something you want. It's sad."
    Ouch. Still not totally my fault though. After 2nd grade, no teacher wanted to push me. I was getting A's easily, so they didn't have to spend time with me. They could focus on other students. I understand. It's difficult to give each student what they need. Obviously, you're going to spend time with the students having trouble. Not with the students who don't.

    But it was still a statement I had to let sink in. I couldn't toss it out and pretend I didn't have any responsibility in the matter.
 You can still be a slacker, even with straight A's.

   Hero Hottie challenges me. He invites me to listen and understand the lyrics to songs. His humor keeps me on my toes.
   Today, my editor, who I adore by the way, sent me a long list of things I needed to correct in my story before I should publish it. That crushing sensation of failure was pressing against my lungs. All the little self doubts came rushing into my head, trying to suffocate me.
 
   Hero Hottie came to the rescue. He read what she wrote, pointed out all the good things she had to say and asked about the points of corrections she was recommending and prevented me from seeing it as a failure.
   
    And instead he reminded me to embrace it as a chance to grow and to learn and to push myself to achieve success. To become the writer I know I can be.
   
    Because the path to success and growth isn't littered with gold stars, it's full of falling down and stumbling and scraping your knee.
    And not using the word 'AND' at the beginning of each sentence.
  
   

    

A Caffeinated Baby in the Land of No Sleep

    I can easily forgive Baby Blueberry for not reading the numerous studies on all the baby websites that say a warm caffeinated breast milk latte isn't going to keep her up at night. After all she can't read yet, so she's not aware of the facts that say she can't consume enough caffeine via my breast milk to get a buzz.
    She should be able to enjoy coffee before bed and expect a nice, restful night of sleep, right? Supposedly, the rumor is, that not enough caffeine enters my breast milk to effect Baby Blueberry, so drink a few cups. After all, I'm a new Mom and up all night long, so I'm going to need the coffee in the morning to survive.

    Alright researchers, this is an easy one. We're going to play a game. Have a dozen Moms drink a few grande latte Starbucks coffee drinks in the afternoon and then nurse their babies before bed. We'll put you in charge of the night time care of caffeinated babies and see if your research shows a little bit more insight.
     Because I have problems with research that report:  Moms who heavily drink caffeinated beverages report frequent night time wakings of their little babies. But than you super smart researchers say something stupid like, 'this wasn't statistically significant. So we can't say if the caffeine was the culprit.'
    Are the coffee shops funding your research?

    I love the one research guy who said, 'the caffeine is just disturbing Mom's sleep patterns, that's why she's waking up so many times at night, it's not disturbing the infant.'
     Really? The coffee is waking me up? Does the coffee cry in the middle of the night until I'm dragged from the little bit of REM sleep I have managed to find in the last two weeks and demand to be fed? Does the coffee stay up, bouncing and jumping and grinning because they're wired?
   Does the coffee wake up every hour with a sad scrunched up face and needs to be cuddled? (That or she's after more caffeine and it's a ploy.)

   In my twenties, when I had Bean and Abu, I wasn't a coffee drinker. So I didn't worry about the effects of caffeine. But this time; in my thirties and with more demands on me; I have fallen in love with a cup (or four cups) in the morning.
   When I was put on modified bed rest with Baby Blueberry, I cut out the coffee. I know that caffeine did not tear my placenta but in my worried, panicked state of mind; I decided I better just stay away from it.
   After her birth, I decided I could follow the advice of doctors and have a cup or two of coffee in the mornings. Since I was so extremely tired most mornings from the demands of my newborn; this was considered a necessity. Almost more important than a shower, but not quite.

      (Little Baby you can play on the bathroom floor and enjoy the white noise of the shower running while I remember what it feels like to have clean hair. )

    The problem though, is that I drink my coffee very slowly. Hero Hottie will drink his in about half an hour and start eyeing my cup if I don't clearly claim my territory.
    
     (To set the scene:We did have a coffee pot. Saved us money and trips to the coffee shop. Then one sad morning, while Hero Hottie was cleaning it; it broke leaving us to make coffee with hot water and a strainer. This arduous method lasted one cup before we decided to buy another pot. Which is actually a funny story and I'll have to share it later this week...But in the mean time we have been stalking the coffee shop in search of heavy doses of caffeine.)
    
      After finishing his  20 ounce coffee, he picks up my measly 12 ounce cup and shakes it.
      "You still have half a cup left. You going to finish it?" He asks, quite casually as if he doesn't care either way. But he's licking his lips and he has that gleam in his eye.
        "Hey, you had your coffee. Leave mine alone." I say, as I grip the coffee shop cup in both hands, baring my teeth and ready to fight.
         He holds up his hands, "Hey, I was just asking. Since you're not done yet."
         I glare at him and continue sipping on my coffee as he he makes another run to the coffee shop.

         And this is where the trouble starts. Right on into the afternoon I'm still sipping on my coffee. I try to finish it earlier but I can't gulp coffee. By evening, just after I have the children in bed and the baby finally to sleep; I quickly crawl into bed and an hour later I'm awoken by small baby wanted to play or practice her crawling.
        Nurse her, convince her it's bedtime and try to sleep.
        Wham. An hour later. She's awake again. Happy and content but AWAKE.
        Of course, it doesn't help that I'm feeding her more coffee with each feeding.
   
        It's vicious cycle. I drink coffee, albeit not even that much; but I drink it too late into the day. By the time it must reach her milk; it's time for bed. Except now, that little bit of caffeine doesn't seem so statistically insignificant because neither one of us get much sleep that night.
        And in the morning that coffee shop looks like an oasis in the desert. But I must resist; it's only a mirage. Coffee will keep small child up, thereby keeping Mom up; thereby causing Mom to appear to be a zombie, stumbling and muttering around the house without any coffee to make her human again.

     Moral of the story: No matter how happily hyper Baby Blueberry gets after her caffeinated breast milk lattes; she does not need it.

    Now I just have to convince Blueberry's Mom that tired, exhausted Mom doesn't need coffee either. Wish me luck. :-)

Monday Morning Blues

   So I'm sitting here, typing words on a screen, drinking coffee, and watching the soft breathing of Baby Blueberry as she snoozes on the couch next to me. Neither one of us feel all that great and I had to drag Bean and Abu to school, pretty much kicking and screaming.
   I have a hundred and one worries swirling around in my head, demanding escape but I don't know where to put them. I wish I could put them out with the trash. Sweep them under the rug. Or as my kids love to do with their toys, push them under the couch.
   I breathe. One breath, release. Two breaths, release again.
   Damn, that's not working.
 
   I would go jogging but Baby Blueberry isn't quite ready for the jogging stroller. And plus our chilly winter weather is too cold for her delicate baby skin. I'm nearly jumping out of my own skin for it to be spring again. Sometimes I wish I lived back in Oregon, where I could take the girls to the ocean and play in the sand. Where the temperature didn't drop into the minus and I didn't have to warm up the car for twenty minutes before I could drive it. Gardening is so much easier too. Dig the ground up, throw the seeds willy nilly and nature will take care of the rest.

  Gardening where I live now, has been a learning experience. Coaxing fearful seeds to grow and then watching the heat of the summer; scorch their leaves. Or a lack of moisture shrivel up your row of seedlings. Or hoards of grasshoppers to devour your harvest.
   Everything in Oregon is green. The ground, the tree canopy, the rocks, sometimes your walls since mold is a problem.
   Here I experience browns, and golds, greens in the spring, and blue. Brilliant blue for the sky, that hardly holds a overcast day.
   I enjoy the rain when it comes. Letting it wash over me, down my cheeks, through my fingers and if puddles should happen to form, and there isn't any lightening, than its time to let Bean and Abu jump until they're soaked.
 
   I went to church yesterday. Hero Hottie and I finally found one we feel comfortable attending. The sermon was basically about the masks we hide behind.
   "It's like having a messy house but not wanting people to see that. So we spend three hours cleaning before guests come over."
   Bean started snickering at me.
   Guilty.
   Because I know the way I want it to look...and I wish it appeared that way all the time. But life happens and before I know it I have dishes in the sink, loads of laundry that need folded and the living room needs dusted again. 
   It's usually happy chaos though. So I shouldn't give myself such a mental scolding when it's not perfect. When the mask isn't in place if someone drops by unexpectedly. Because I would rather entertain a friend anytime than only have them over when it's perfectly clean.

  I think my mood has to do with that sermon. Thank you Pastor. I wasn't planning on having to think, or change, or challenge myself by attending church. I was just trying to find my spiritual path.
  So what masks do I hide behind? Plenty. But I think the one that is eating at me, is my fear of failure. In school, as long as I was achieving straight A's, than I wasn't failing. Life was good.
   College was the same way.

   Then I hit real life. Full on, with no gold stars in sight. No extra recesses for good behavior.
   No report card to tally my success.
   No mask to hide behind.

   But here I am, ready to step out on the ledge and succeed at something that's for me. Not working for my Mom's business, not babysitting my nieces. Not helping Hero Hottie with his schooling, and art and such things.

   No, I need to take off my mask that hides my fear of failing and tell the world that this next thing I'm doing is for me. Is all me. There is no one and nothing to hide behind.
  
   This has been in the works for a year now. But I was too afraid to proclaim it until now. Even with all the little nudges that God has been giving me, trying to kick me in the butt and get me to overcome my fears, until the sermon yesterday I was still afraid.
  Heck, I'm still afraid. I don't want to fail. I don't want to do the wrong thing. So my doubts our still huge, even if no one can see them behind my mask.

  And my fear is caught in my throat.

  But I'm excited. I LOVE books. I LOVE words. And this is the perfect fit for me.
  I'm starting an indie e publishing company. Yay!!

   I will start with a romantic series set in the fictional town of Rocky View, Colorado. Because I love romance. Good romance. With a good story. And a little adventure.

  I will work on getting my fantasy book, Keraynn, up. Probably towards the end of the year or beginning of next year.
   But I'm also going to work on children's books. Bright, and colorful books about nature and gardening and all things outside. God's world.

  From there I'm not sure. I have to concentrate on the beginning of the story before I can worry about where to go next.
  But it's going to be a challenge, and it's going to be wonderful. And now that I've made it public, I can't hide behind my mask of self doubts and fear any more.

   So I'm putting all those negative thoughts in the trash...where they belong.
  

Babies are such a Blessing

    A week after our unexpected visit to the ER for kidney stones, Hero Hottie was finally feeling better and I was still pregnant.
    Very pregnant. I felt about ready to burst like a balloon with too much air. I was so grateful to be nearing my due date; since for a few months there I was overwhelmed with worry that my torn placenta would cause us great heartache; but I was ready to have this Baby now.

    That evening things finally started...but of course not in the way we expected. Did I  mention I'm done with making plans and trying to have more Faith? My plans for delivery would have been a disaster; but luckily my actual birth plan wasn't decided by me.

    I walked out into the yard to check on Bean and Abu who were enjoying the nice autumn evening. It was warm and relaxing. I felt a sharp, unusual pain in my back and then nothing. Strange but I didn't think much about it until a few minutes later when I realized that my water had broken. It wasn't a gush or dramatic or anything like you see in the movies. In fact, this heavily pregnant lady thought she lost bladder control for a moment.
       Normally, I would be embarrassed to talk about such things, but heck, I had a full term infant resting on top of my bladder, leaks happen.

     When I finally realized, that yes, my water had broken; I also realized I wasn't having any contractions. None. Zip. Zero. After three weeks of them, suddenly and strangely, they were absent. This labor and delivery was nothing like my other two.
    We sent the older girls to Grandma, with a promise that as soon as things actually started to happen, we would send for them. They were hoping to be in the delivery room while I gave birth and didn't want to miss their sister's arrival.
    Hero Hottie and I packed our bags and went to the hospital. Regardless of the missing contractions, my water had still broken and now we had to go deliver a baby. I was starting to feel excited. Baby Blueberry was coming!! It was going to be her birthday. And I was going to be able to hold her and kiss her and love her.

     I will skip the next sixteen hours. It's quite boring. I was barely having contractions and in fact they were so mild, I was able to sleep through a lot of them. Sleep was good though. The doctor even let me eat, since I wasn't experiencing any real labor yet. Hero Hottie and I watched the Food Network and slept and waited for something to happen.
    The next morning, after sixteen hours of labor, we agreed with the doctor, very reluctantly, that we should start the pitocin.
    I hate pitocin. I had it with my first labor and it makes the contractions rough. They're harsher, more painful, and they leave me feeling like I'm totally not in control of my own body. I didn't want to take it, but I could not get labor to kick start and we were trying everything...walking, ankle massages, more walking...nothing.
    The first few hours were still slow, since we had started with a low dose and were only slowly increasing it. I still wanted a natural birth and was even willing to try it, knowing the pitocin might make it more difficult.
    Then with another dose increase, my old uterus, as the nurses so kindly put it (hey, now- I'm only in my early thirties.) finally decided to do something.
    And oh boy, did it work then. Being the stubborn ass that I am though, I gritted my teeth through the wickedly horrible pitocin contractions, still determined to do this without an epidural.
    Until it was too late of course. And I was stuck with these massive waves of sharp pain in my back and wrapping around to the front. They were not normal contractions at all. It was like my uterus was protesting the intervention and was refusing to cooperate but the pitocin was stronger and forced it to do its job anyway.
    The nurses helped me climb into the bed, since I had been laboring on a stool. I scooted to the edge and clung to the railing. I should have asked for the epidural when I agreed to the pitocin.
     A little bit later and after a bit of screaming on my part, it was time to deliver Baby Blueberry. Thank goodness because I was done.
     And then that's when my past came to haunt me. The doctor, who knew about my Crohn's and my fistula surgeries suddenly realized that we might have a major disaster on our hands.
    "Did you ask your GI doctor if you could deliver vaginally?" she asks, studying the fistula scars on my bottom under her huge, bright lamp. I don't think she had known just how intensive they were. Or how much area they took up.
    "No." I managed to answer between contractions, wondering, even in my pain dimmed brain why it mattered.
     "You should have. We have a problem."
     "It's a little late now." I answered, feeling Baby Blueberry making her descent and getting ready to crown.
      "If you deliver this baby too fast, than you could tear all this scar tissue. All of it. We have to do this very slowly and let things stretch or it's going to be really bad."
       I had Hero Hottie's hand clutched in mine and I had it pressed to my forehead. I heard his breath catch and could feel his panic. It was my panic too. Healing from the fistulas had nearly ripped our family apart and destroyed my health. And here the doctor was telling me I risked ripping the scars open.
     If they tore, it would be a disaster. They might not even heal this time.
     At that point I really wished I had agreed to an epidural.
     So, Baby Blueberry would have arrived in three or four pushes, according to the doctor. Instead, it took over an hour to push her out because I was allowed a little, tiny push on the start of the contraction and then I had to stop my body from doing anymore.
    "Breathe." Hero Hottie kept telling me.
     "Breathe. Don't push. Don't push. Breathe." The nurses kept telling me.
     And I had to go against every natural instinct a laboring Mom has when her baby is crowning, and breathe.
    Breathe. Breathe. Little push, hardly anything. And pray desperately for enough strength to do this.
    If Hero Hottie hadn't been there, to hold my hand and keep my on task; I'm not sure if I would have been able to. The only thing that kept me from giving in and just allowing her to exit quickly was the fear that I would tear all that scar tissue and I would have...well, I couldn't even think about it, going back to that time period.  So I didn't push.
   Baby Blueberry was absolutely wonderful. Her heart is so strong and she never wavered or experienced any distress even though she had to wait so long to make her appearance.
    Then finally, when I knew I couldn't do it anymore, she slipped out and was suddenly on top of my chest.
    Beautiful baby. Our baby. And she was doing great. The twenty one hour labor didn't faze her at all. We let Bean and Abu into the room then. Originally, I would have allowed them to come in when I was pushing but with the extra complications at the end, we made them wait outside in the hall.
    They were amazed. The nurse took a photo of that special moment, when they first see her and it's the most precious image.

     So my plan for birth would have been as quick as Abu's labor had been and that would have been a disaster for me and my family. Instead, even though it was the hardest hour of my life, I had the labor I needed. With the help of the right doctor, I didn't tear or damage any of the scar tissue. I can't even tell you how many times I have said prayers of gratitude for that small miracle.

    This entire year has turned out differently than Hero Hottie and I imagined it would when we were ringing in the New Year. We were blessed with an unexpected Surprise. And that's how we will tell her that story too. She wasn't an accident, that implies we would change things if we could. No, we will tell her she was a Surprise.
     A wonderful, unexpected Surprise.
     A gift.
     A Blessing.

    Welcome to the world Baby Blueberry. 
   
   

   

Another Trip to the Hospital But No Baby

     So the month of September passed me by in a blur of  blustery days and golden leaves and...
    a Baby Blueberry.

    Hence, why I haven't wrote anything until now...I have filled my autumn days with Baby smiles and that 'new baby smell.'  I have been surrounded by diapers, little -tiny clothes, and the tasks of all new Moms.
    I will write about her arrival this week. But first the tale of how we got there.


    On the first of September, Hero Hottie and I decided that we wanted to help nature along. Weeks of strong and painful contractions and frequent false alarms were causing us to feel very impatient for the arrival of Baby Blueberry.
     And even though I had just experienced an entire year of being reminded that plans made are often plans changed; I decided I should have some say in Baby Blueberry's due date.
    I wasn't thinking inducing, I hate pitocin, it makes for the worse contractions; but I thought we should try the safe old wives tales on how to kick start a labor.
      So, on that Saturday, we went through our lists of ones we wanted to try. We walked around the park with the older girls, we spent the day together, he rubbed my ankles, and we ended the afternoon eating really spicy food at the Mexican restaurant.
    The contractions would start and then fizzle out.
    We didn't have a Baby, but we had a really nice day as a family.

     Hero Hottie came home though not looking so well. He had woken up not feeling real great but it hadn't been bad enough to stop our day. Now, he just wanted to nap.
    So nap he did, until about 6pm when searing, sharp pains in his back and side woke him up.
    If anyone reading this has had a kidney stone, than you know...it is not a fun experience at all. For Hero Hottie there is usually a lot of vomiting, clammy skin, shaking, rolling around on the floor trying to find a position that eases the pain, and language that has me sending the kids downstairs.
    He has experienced kidney stones twice before so we knew what was probably happening and in that second I was so glad we hadn't had a baby earlier. Could you imagine being in labor, in the middle of trying to birth your child and suddenly your husband is having to take up residence in the floor above you for kidney stones? How horrible would that be?
   So here I was just a few minutes earlier thinking how disappointed I was that we didn't have a Baby yet, and now I was so grateful that MY PLANS hadn't worked. Another reminder on having Faith. It wasn't the right time to have a Baby, because if we had; than her Daddy would have missed her birth.
    And that thought was just horrible. I didn't want him missing that.

   I sent the older girls over to Grandma's and took Hero Hottie to the ER. Which was a disaster. It was packed. So busy in fact that there was no place to sit and since they couldn't see him yet, he went outside to walk and pace and try to deal with the intense pain.
   I stayed inside to listen for his name.
   An hour passed without his name being called. I kept checking on him and he looked horrible, trying to deal with the pain of the sharp little kidney stone.
   More time passed and I couldn't see Hero Hottie from the window but I knew he was just passed my view. Then I saw two security guards walk in his direction and stop.
   I quickly went outside, thinking something horrible had happened.
   Hero Hottie was lying on the ground, obviously having just puked. He did not look so well at all. But he answered me when I said his name. I don't think I sounded as panicked as I felt on the inside when I saw him lying on the sidewalk.
    The security guards were so concerned for him. I write that with sarcasm, by the way. Because after I explained to them that he was suffering from a kidney stone and not only could the ER not see him yet, but there was no where to sit down in the waiting area, they told me he would have to go inside anyway, because it didn't make the hospital look good to have him outside and puking.
     Well, heaven forbid, we make the hospital look bad.
     'Honey, you have to go inside and just stand there, while having a kidney stone and remember don't make the hospital look bad.'
    As if he intentionally planned on vomiting in front of the hospital.
    The security guards talked to the staff and we were told it would only be a few more minutes, so we went inside. That few more minutes was almost an hour and then he was given a bed in the hallway, next to a room that had big, bold signs on it that said don't enter unless you are wearing a mask. I have to say I felt a bit uneasy about our location since I was pregnant with Baby Blueberry.
   Twenty -long -minutes in the hallway next to the contagion zone we finally received good news...       Finally. 
     After three hours of waiting...we found ourselves in a room and being seen by a doctor. Who quickly prescribed some painkillers. And then Hero Hottie was blessed with a wonderful nurse who filled the order quickly so that he could finally obtain a bit of relief.
    After a blood test, a CT scan; to make sure it was a kidney stone, to verify that it was a passable kidney stone and to rule out appendicitis; we went home at 2:00 in the morning.
   So our busy day, which had started out with a plan to be in the hospital, had in a way happened. It just wasn't me who ended up there.

    Luckily. Because then both of us would have been there.
  
    Of course, I'm sure Hero Hottie would have gladly passed on the chance for such a nice visit to the ER. 
 
     Over the next week I would keep telling Baby Blueberry to stay in her nice, cozy space until her Daddy had passed his kidney stone and was well again. In the meantime, I would just wait for labor to happen naturally, realizing that there was a bigger plan involving the whole process than I knew about. 
   

Home Again

      If this story was a blockbuster movie, than after I got done folding my load of laundry, Hero Hottie and I would have looked at each, blissfully happy and that would be the end of the story.
       It wouldn't take years to truly recover our relationship, but when we did it was better than before. It wouldn't take years to recover our lives and it wouldn't take years to heal emotionally from that tough time. But it did.

     We watched a movie that afternoon. And if you can believe it, we watched Nanny McPhee. It was an odd choice but the only thing available.
    And for once, I actually remembered the movie. In the nine months before the hospital, any time we watched a movie together, I was in so much pain and my brain was so foggy that I wouldn't recall much of the story at all. Even to this day, Hero Hottie will mention a movie we watched during that time and I can't remember it. It's a blank. A frustrating and ugly reminder of that time period.
    
   The girls stayed with Grandma and Grandpa for a few more days until I was ready to have their busy in the house again.
    It was the sweetest moment when they came home and their little arms wrapped around me. I closed my eyes, savoring their unique smell. Their little kid scent; freshly washed and then warmed in the summer sun.
    Their eyes were wide as they studied me, especially Bean's since she was older. Her attention never wavered off me that day, following me around, watching for signs of me being sick, slow smiles creeping across her face as she realized things were better.
 
   The next morning, when she got up; she hopped out of bed and went right for the kitchen. Just like the days before she was going to pour her own cereal; make her own meal. I was already up. What a victory. I was already out of bed and had the energy to take care of my children right from the start of morning.
    It was such a simple thing...managing to get out of bed without feeling like I was going to black out...and it was such a blessing to start feeling normal. Mundane. Routine.
    I stopped her in the kitchen and told her to sit down at the table. She frowned, sitting down, her intense focus on me, never wavering. Abu joined her, clutching her blanket but with grins on her face.
    It was just cereal. But I got it out. I poured the milk. I set it on the table in front of my children.
   Bean and Abu stared at me, spoons in their hands and for a moment- time was frozen as we all looked at each other. Mommy and daughters.
    We had gone through a dark and hard journey together. Day in and day out, just struggling to hold it together.
    And in that simple, sunny moment with just a normal bowl of cereal and a kitchen table; we all realized that we had made it through that journey.
   That we could move on to the next chapter in our lives. A better chapter.
   In that second, we turned the page...and found a new beginning.

   It wasn't easy from that moment on though. I had two wild children who weren't used to routine, schedules, and having to ask permission to do things. That summer was fairly rough as we all tried to figure out how to interact with each other.
   I was still having my bottom packed with cotton twice a day but finally the fistulas were healing and the length of gauze was less than two inches. Another small victory, which filled me with hope that they would totally heal.
    Slowly, ever so slowly I gained weight. But it about more than just packing on pounds. I had lost a massive amount of muscle mass and tone in my ligaments and tendons. It would take literally years for me to rebuild my strength and in fact, it would only be in the last year and a half once I started P90X that I would succeed at not only regaining what I had lost but going beyond that.
   But even a better benefit to the exercise, besides feeling good about the way I looked, was the fact that it helped regulate my Crohn's. I couldn't believe it. Daily, sweaty, Tony Horton is nearly killing me exercise was helping in keeping my flares under control.
 
   Our finances after the hospital were horrible. We owed over $85,000 in medical expenses and credit card bills that had been used to pay for living expenses. Bill collectors started calling, even after setting up payments because the payments weren't large enough.
    Except I only had so much money and I had over a dozen and a half different doctors, clinics, and credit cards wanting a chunk of our limited funds. At first I would send something to them every month, but it wasn't enough for them. They started adding interest and fees to the amount.
    Because adding more to the bills helps. When the hospital made it very clear they were going to put a lien on our house and take the money from us, we decided on bankruptcy.
    It was a tough decision for us. We had always, always paid our bills on time, kept our debt limited and tried to do the right thing.
    But we couldn't risk our house, not with two little girls. And having a lien of ten of thousands of dollars on it was scary. If we couldn't pay it, we would lose our house. Our children would lose their home and their only security.
   We declared bankruptcy due to medical reasons.
   

   In my head I rolled all this stuff into an image of the hospital and hated the place for it. But the hospital wasn't to blame.
   And it would take Abu to point this out. When I was discussing how difficult it was to write these pieces and how much I hated the hospital, she stops what she is doing and looks at me with the most puzzled frown on her face.
   "But Mom, it's where you got better."
    To her, the hospital wasn't a terrible and horrible place. It was the place, that she can't hardly remember because she was only three at the time, but it was the place that her very sick Mommy went for two weeks...
   And came back healed. Happy. Joyful. Able to be her Mommy.
    It's about the only thing she remembers from that time period. Thank Goodness.
    But to her it's the place where I got better.
    She's right.
   And now...I'm ready to deliver Baby Blueberry because it's also the place I'm going to have my beautiful, unexpected surprise.