Lost and not found

Things are really bad.  That is all I will write.  I don't think I can keep going anymore.

A Home of My Own

Have been playing around with layouts, templates, fonts, and images.  Trying on different clothes to see what fits.  

 Finally feel like the look of the blog is truly reflective of my style.  A combination of vintage, modern, and lots of flowers.  I have long been dreaming of fifties style furniture upholstered with vintage fabrics, mid-century moderns filled with quilts and lace curtains.  

 Plus: Our Lady of Ypsilanti.  Watching over the little town in her garden between coffeehouse and Catholic church. 

 I took the picture in the summer of 2008.  The last single summer before motherhood. The summer I had one last road trip as a free woman with my best friend.  The summer I met my husband.  The summer I got knocked up.   

She is kind of a symbolic bridge between those parts of me that make the whole: woman, wife, and mother.   I'm each one of these and I'm all three.  

Yes, this feels more like me.  This feels much more comfortable. 

Mothers in Mind

Two mamas are on my mind and in my prayers tonight.

Over at Roscommon Acres, Dana celebrated the second birthday of her little boy "Tiggy" today.  It was like any other toddler birthday with a cake, decorations,games, families, and stories.  Except for this: Tiggy died in December after a tragic accident.

If it were me...I'd probably be crying in my bed all day.  If it were me....I'd be unable to eat, let alone have some birthday cake.  And yet.  Dana is choosing to celebrate the life of her little boy, to give her other children the joy of celebrating their beloved brother.

 And when most mothers might feel a bit protective and understandably selfish about this precious birthday, Dana asked her readers to share stories and memories of their own children.  

She is a beautiful soul.  I am humbled by the generosity of her spirit.  God is truly speaking through her words and teaching so many people about how to live out the grieving process with grace.

I am also thinking of Rebecca at Bending Birches. Tomorrow her little boy will be going for a medical procedure. Like any mother she's nervous and worried.  And so grateful for the support people have shown her.

Lord, be with them.  Bless them.  Keep them in the palm of your hand.  Be their rock.

I am so grateful for this blogosphere....it gives us such great opportunities to pray for each other!

The Endless Winter and Some Discontent

WHEN icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,	5
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whoo!
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all around the wind doth blow,	10
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl—
Then nightly sings the staring owl	15
Tu-whoo!
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

William Shakespeare

This has been a trying week.   My husband and I learned that someone whom we thought trustworthy shared some correspondence of mine with a third party.  The letters were very personal and meant for the reader alone.  We feel betrayed by both the person who violated our confidence, as well as the third party.  After all, they had a choice to respect our privacy and they didn't.

Formerly comfortable and close relationships are now awkward, filled with hurt and anger. A horrible letter was written to my husband filled with vitriol about me. Unfair, cruel things. Hateful words.

Where there was once almost daily communication there is now silence and distance.

Things were getting pretty heated. Nasty exchanges. Resentments bubbling to the surface.  Advice was given to step away from the drama, avoid the fray.   To let things settle.  To avoid a situation where the emotions keep getting re-triggered.

It is hard because it is still so very fresh, the wounds are not yet scabbed over.  Rejection tends to bring out the devastated in me.  Injustice brings out the angry.  The past week has been a cycle of mad and sad, anger and tears.  I've cried a lot.

It probably doesn't help that the anniversary of my father's death was this week as well.  It definitely doesn't help.  Grief is bad enough when you aren't grieving some other loss.  And on top of that...our time with winter is not over.  After a beautiful couple of days where I could smell sunshine and earth and the promise of spring we were hit with a ton of snow.

Cabin fever and difficult emotions made for a very irritable me today.  I am struggling to forgive but I am still so very hurt.  You see, I really liked the person who betrayed our confidence.  Even though there were many things we did not see eye to eye on I valued her presence in my life.  And now: this icky feeling about it. all.

How do we move on from hurt?  How do we choose growth over being stagnant in sad feelings?

My pipe filled childhood memories

For five years I have hated February.  I have hated this cold short month.  My father of an aneurysm while driving on I 75 and Clark in Detroit.  Ironically, it was on his father's birthday, February 21.  Interestingly enough, it was right near the old Southwest Detroit neighborhood where he grew up, went to Catholic school, and played basketball.  It was instaneous.  One minute he was alive.  The next minute he was dead.

So I hate February because instead of hearts and flowers I am reminded of losing my dad who was only 58 and totally missed walking me down the aisle or seeing his grandchild.  When I was a child I was a Daddy's girl, as I grew up we became friends in addition to father and daughter.  We watched a lot of hockey and other sports together.  Saw movies.  Went to museums.  Talked politics. Exchanged books. 

 He would come to Ann Arbor to visit the campus where he went to school and we would get brunch and walk around, always browsing at the bookstores. My dad loved reading.  He always had a book in one hand and a pipe in the other. As a child I only saw him on the weekends after the divorce and at least one Saturday a month we would go to the little tabacco shop in Nikel's Arcade.  The shop is still open today and when we walk by I am instantly transported to my childhood again. 

People always think that they need to take their kid's to Disney World or Europe to give their child an amazing memory.  I can barely remember the vacations that I took as a child.  But what I do remember is the smell of my dad's pipe and the sound of his voice as he read Grimm's Fairy Tales before tucking me in at night when I was little.   I remember working in the garden with my Grandpa Smith. I remember when my Grandma would give me a little piece of cinnamon gum during the sermon at church.  I remember how my Grandpa Kepich always had Tang and little cups of ice cream for me and my cousins.  Those are the little things that make up a childhood. Everyday moments.

So this time of year always has me thinking about my dad a lot more than usual.  One thing about him is that he was always there for me, without criticism or judgement, when I had a problem.  He wasn't the type to tell me I was overreacting if something hurt me.  He wasn't the type to tell me how to fix my problems. He was just emotionally supportive and a good listener.  

For various reasons the past few days have been difficult and I wish I could just drive to my dad's house and pour my heart out and not be judged, criticized, second guessed, rejected, or excluded.  Just cared about and listened to.  And then we'd go to a movie.

The space between

Some people call these years the terrible twos.  Yes, there are challenges.  The temper tantrums, the coloring on the wall, the time outs.  Yet, this is such an amazing time period as toddlers are in the liminal state between babyhood and childhood. As much as they still need the comforting supervision of Mama and Daddy, they desperately want to learn how to do things themselves.

Brushing his teeth before bed

Feeding himself oatmeal in the morning

First night in the toddler bed

I love watching my little one take his first steps toward independence knowing that Mama and Daddy will always be his safe haven.

Single Girl, Married Girl

The magnets were placed just so.

The little kitchen with the big white cupboards

The light from the windows was beautiful

The outside view

Three years ago this was my home.  A little vintage one bedroom flat on the second floor of an old Victorian house.  I moved in shortly after my father died and at first I found it to be depressing and rather small.  But eventually it became home.  A refuge filled with books, vintage floral print linens, and pretty pieces of China. I read here, drew here, sewed here.  I stared out the windows at the people in the street below. I watched mourners at the funeral home across the street. I decorated, redecorated, arranged, and rearranged.  I cooked. I played music. I smoked cigarettes. I drank wine. 

Don't worry, I quit!

Just a short walk downtown

Here is where my siblings and I baked Christmas cookies and decorated the tree the year my father and grandmother both died. The year I was determined to keep Christmas. 
 

There were many tears shed in this place, some heartbreak, some grief.  I was sitting on this sofa when I got the news that my grandmother had the massive stroke that would take her life.

This is not the actual moment.

 There was also joy here.  This was where John and I spent all our time together after we met.  This was also the place where our son was conceived on an August day.

In many ways I miss this home, this little sanctuary.  It was essentially my own space.  While I love being married and being a mother, and wouldn't change it for a thousand yards of Liberty of London prints, there are times when I miss the sense of having a place of my own.

I miss the lace curtains, the vintage floral pillows, and the pretty little china figurines.  There are times when I wish that the quilt would stay folded on the arm of the sofa, that we could use the embroidered bird napkins with the lace trim. (Well, I would use them anyhow. I don't think my husband would!)

There are times when I wish I could have a few days in this little apartment to myself.  To sit, to read, to watch the people on the street, to play Of Montreal late at night while smoking a cigarette.

And then I remember that I wanted this.  I wanted the husband, the baby, the diaper bag, and the tupperware pulled out of the cupboard.  That this is not something that was thrust upon me. That I chose this.

Loving the Unloveable

The other night I was listening to a Catholic radio program in the car. The hosts began the show with something called The Face Prayer:

Heavenly Father, I embrace your grace this day,
So that I might not:
Think of another,
Speak to another or
Touch another,
without first looking for
Your Face in the other.
I ask all this through
Jesus Christ:
God Incarnate,
God with Skin,
God made Poor,
God with a Face.

Amen
-James Pinto, Jr, MEV

It is a new prayer to me. At least I do not remember encountering in the past. When I heard it I thought back to a conversation I was having with some of my family members on Superbowl Sunday. We were talking about a guy we used to see around the neighborhood.
 
He was a man without a face. Literally. Where is face used to be was a large healed hole.

I am not sure why this guy did not have a face anymore. Some people say he had bone cancer. Some people say he tried to shoot himself in the head. Whatever the cause, the outcome was tragic.

We used to see him walking around town, on the bus, and in grocery stores. Twice I'd seen him in the Psychiatric Emergency Room when I was being treated for serious episodes of major depression.

Why was he there? I have no idea but I can only imagine how lonely and sad daily life was, wandering around a college town full of other young people who were healthy and whole. I can only imagine him looking at the women he would never date and wondering what the point of life was anymore. I can only imagine how he found the strength to get out of bed everyday.

It is easy to dismiss someone like him. To say things like, "Well, if he shot himself, he brought it on himself." To laugh at him and call him names. It is easy to turn our eyes away from the cavity in his head. It is easy to think that someone like that is unloveable.

But no one ever said following Christ was easy. Jesus didn't say to only love the good looking, the successful, and the well balanced. He said to love others. No matter what.

In his book, Loving People, author John Townsend says this:

"The more we require that the other person be loveable in order for us to care, the less loving we are."

That's is a serious statement. It's also a powerful and challenging truth that threatens to expose quite an ugly side to ourselves. If asked we would probably call ourselves loving people. But how about when we are confronted with the ugly, the disfigured, the downtrodden, the misfit, or the obnoxious?

Once he approached me in the frozen food section of Meijer's one night. He gave me a note asking for money. A note because he could not speak clearly. I would love to say that I completely channeled Mother Teresa on this one. I would love to say that I offered him compassion. I would love to say that I gave him some money.

Instead, I was the deer in the headlights. My mind went blank with surprise: "No, I did not have any money on me. I wasn't carrying any cash. I'm sorry." He nodded thank you and went off to ask someone else.

There was an ATM in the store. I could have given him a twenty, easily. I could have offered to pick up his grocery tab. But I was so taken aback by his appearance that I couldn't think clearly.

Some people say love is a feeling. You either experience it or you don't. But I think that love is a choice. It is a challenge we face everyday of our lives on earth. To love when we least feel like loving. To see Jesus even when the other person doesn't have a face.

Re:Birth and Revolution

The week I got pregnant

Five months pregnant

We found out I was pregnant on Sept 11, a week after our engagement. We'd unknowingly conceived in August. I knew I was late but I chalked it up to the move into the new apartment.  Other than the fact that I got really big, really quickly, the pregnancy was progressing normally until my 32 week.  I started having pre term contractions and was put on bed rest after being monitored in the hospital for several days. At 34 weeks I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia.  I went into labor at 36 weeks.

One of my many ultrasounds. I had fibroids so we got a lot of pics.

During my pregnancy I gained over 100 lbs.  Most of it towards the end, thanks to pre eclampsia.

We look so young and clueless

Someone took the pretty out of pre-eclampsia

I had a very traumatic labor, birth, and post partum experience.  It started when I lost control of my normally progressing labor when the doctors decided to "actively manage" the situation.  As I was laboring on my birthing ball, feeling this amazing connection with my body a resident came in and said that they "needed" to augment my labor with artificial rupture and Pitocin.

An early scan

I thought perhaps they'd seen something on the Fetal Heart Monitor.  After all I'd only been in labor for less than 6 hours and I was dilated at 5 cm the last time they checked me.  

As they were hooking up the drip and getting ready to break my waters with the hook I asked, "What's going on with the baby?"

"He's fine.  We like to actively manage labor at this point as a matter of routine Don't worry we won't be dialing up the Pitocin very high." 

"Can I move around with the IV?" 

"No. You need to stay in bed.  We're going to put internal monitors on the baby because he keeps falling of the external monitor." 

They dialed the Pitocin up all the way.

And within a half an hour I was dilated at 10 and began pushing.  For hours. Camel back contractions. On my back. No meds until I screamed for an epidural after four hours. It didn't work.

I repeatedly asked if I could change positions.  I knew my baby was big and we needed some gravity to help us along.  I was not allowed out of bed. But they did let me pull on a bed sheet tied to a bar.  It was straight out of a Civil War romance.

This is what a woman really looks like after labor

On serious narcotics

Gabriel Judah

At the end: utter exhaustion, a sense of defeat, and a Csection. I didn't meet my son til I was in recovery. All I heard was a little cry and that he was 9# 13 oz.

Then we had the wonderful time in the Mother Baby Unit.  I will spare you all the horrific details but here is a sampling:

First time in the NICU

He was being nursed, fed pumped milk, and formula

• The lactation consultant yelled at me for having a pacifier.  "It's against hospital policy!" Which was strange because it came in the basinette drawer with all the undershirts and diapers. 

• Same lactation consultant told me to stop complaining when I said that breastfeeding hurt.  

• A nurse told me to "get your priorities in line and take care of your baby" when I told her that I needed to get some sleep.  I had been awake for two days, nursing, pumping, and bottle feeding my baby who'd had jaundice and was in the NICU

• When I cried after hearing that our son might have a heart problem  and was being rushed back to the NICU a nurse told me, "Take that shit somewhere else. I don't want to hear it."

• When my husband told her she was out of line considering the circumstances and said he would report this to her supervisor, she called security with some BS tale of how he was "threatening the nurses."

• As I sat their with my breasts exposed pumping milk for my son in the NICU, three security guards burst into my room and threatened my husband with arrest.  They also said, "We'll make sure you never see your son again. You can't treat our nurses that way."  I had to diffuse the situation while being half naked in front of strange men. 

Waiting to hold Gabe in NICU.

After my post partum pelvic exam the doctor handed me a letter.  She said I was being dismissed from the practice for "emotional problems."  I was told that people like me shouldn't have children.  It was my fault for having PPD. Also people just didn't really like me.  And I was too demanding.  How dare I think I deserved a continuity resident when everyone else had rotating health providers.

Finally at home.

I sat there flabbergasted, thinking

"But you knew about my history of depression and anxiety from the beginning .  My psychiatrist and therapist both told you what kind of supports I needed.  Yet why was my medication often late while I was in the hospital?  Why did you get the dosages wrong?  Why was I criticized for wanting some sleep after the birth"

 And

Am I really to blame because you decided to assign me a continuity resident?  I was more than happy to leave the practice months ago.  Why did you practically beg me to stay?

Earlier on in my pre-natal care I'd had an ultrasound to measure the fibroid that was very close to my placenta.  When I asked the rotating resident what the measurement was, she said,

"How am I supposed to know? I'm busy. I don't have time to read charts."

 When I asked to speak to her attending she refused to get her.  So I got up from the exam table and started to walk towards the door. She pushed me out of the way, ran outside, and slammed the door right in my pregnant belly.  And held it closed.

When I finally got free I told them that I wanted my chart and I was leaving the practice.  The attending came over and apologized for what happened.  Then she told me that they really wanted me to stay there. That she was going to assign me to a continuity resident because she thought it would be best with my history.

 This is what I am thinking. But I am sitting in a chair getting rejected by a woman who just had her hands in my vagina.  Crying with snot down my face.

"We really hope you don't have more children."

Some people think that if you end up with a healthy baby in the end, it doesn't matter what happened during the birth.  That you should be grateful.  That you shouldn't complain.

I don't agree. These lines from Ani Difranco's song, "Not a Pretty Girl" keep coming up over and over when I think about my birth story:

i am not an angry girl
but it seems like i've got everyone fooled
every time i say something they find hard to hear
they chalk it up to my anger
and never to their own fear
and imagine you're a girl
just trying to finally come clean
knowing full well they'd prefer you
were dirty and smiling

Halloween Baby Wearing Style

I've been trying to process and talk about my traumatic birth experience for two years.  Some people might say, "Get over it already" but  it was an extremely important and profound event in my life. There is no time table for this sort of thing.  It's been on my mind more lately as we are TTC baby number two.  How do I prevent this sort of thing from happening again?  Can I prevent this sort of thing from happening again?

But also this:  Education, Advocacy, Information.  Can my tale be transformed into a passion for some kind of birth/postpartum work?  I don't know what this means yet. Doula? Childbirth Educator?  Blog about birth issues?  Creating a mental health wellness packet for pregnant women?


I am reading. I am exploring. I am thinking. I am choosing to see this as a catalyst.  Coming clean can bring about revolutions. Even if I"m not such a pretty girl anymore.

Dear Ignorant Asshole OB: I am a damned good mama.

A Day In the Life

Before I had my own child I was a nanny and took care of many small children over the years.  Some of them were infants, some were toddlers, and some were in pre-school.  Even though being a nanny is nothing like being a  mama, I got a fairly good idea of what daily life as a SAHM would look like.

 And often it looks like this*:

Wake up
Change Child
Feed Child
Clean up Mess 
Dress Child.
Clean up Mess
Play with Child.
Clean up Mess
Feed Child
Change Child
Redress child
Play with Child
Clean up Mess
Feed Child
Clean up Mess
Change Child
Nap
Change Child
Feed Child
Clean up Mess
Play with Child
Clean up Mess
Feed Child
Clean up Mess
Bathe Child
Dress Child
Clean up Mess
Put Child to Bed
Put Child to Bed
Put Child to Bed
 ( Add Nighttime Feedings and Changings for those under 1)


However, there are people who have this delusional idea of what a day in the  life of a SAHM is like:

All the free time in the world.  Plus, a cute baby!

They will say things like:  "How hard can it be?"  "It's not like you're working."  "Taking care of babies is not that difficult."  "It isn't like you're busy or something."

Of course, I am barely listening to them because:

my 21 month old is busy coloring on the wall with a crayon he found under the couch.
While I am wiping that mess up:
the cat's water dish is being overturned.
As I'm getting the towel to mop up the floor:
little hands are exploring the trash bin.
So off to the bathroom I go to wash and dry hands:
which will immediately find their way into bowl of the cat food. 
That is being dumped all over the floor.

So...what was it you were saying again?  About all my free time?  About my easy life?
Gosh, I have to run now...
My bon bons are melting and my soap operas have started.









*This is the easy version that leaves out housework and laundry

Being Choosy

I was reading Apples With Honey a few minutes ago and noticed a box on the side of her blog that read,  "A Year of Choice.

Intrigued, I clicked on the link and found a new (to me) Waldorf inspired blog called Bluebirdbaby.  The author Erin has issued a challenge to other bloggers to write about choosing happiness over misery, focusing on the positive rather than the negative. That we have the ability to determine our outlook and focus.

I am taking up the challenge. While I am not about to become an instant Pollyanna...that's just not the kind of girl I am..I want to focus on the happy more than I do the negative.  I think it will help me grow as a person, a woman, a mother, a wife.

There is a little serendipty at work here, I think.  Earlier today I was chatting with my SIL about learned pessimism.  Some cultures and families pass down the idea that it is better to complain and keep your joy to yourself, lest some larger spiritual force, like the Evil Eye, take it all away in a sort of Karmic retribution for allowing yourself to be happy.  The message I received was "hope for the best, but expect the worst."

What I learned from this was to be absolutely terrified that the worst was going to happen in any given situation.  It is something I struggle with to this day.

I want something different for our child.  I want him to love his life and to trust in God.  I want him to experience the feeling of hope.  Joy. Peace. Love.

Image: Vlado / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I want him to choose happiness.


So, I am grateful for Apples and Bluebirdbaby for posting the link and the article.  Thanks Ladies!  Your timing is awesome. :)