Iridescence: A Lyric Exploration

   

That which She who shows luminous colors that seem to change when viewed from different angles is called iridescent. To see from a different angle is a matter of work, a choice.

My continued pursuit of shine: I have chosen to see the future from different angles. Colors illuminate paths of possibility without number, and that which is fixed anchors each: my children, friends and loved ones, community and commune-ity, my faith and the love of God, the need to create and to live an extraordinary life.

February  just past: the culmination of months of depression and stress gnawing at the heart of my beautiful everyday lead me first to prayer, then to a notebook, and then to a doctor.

In the prayer: Here I am. This is quiet. This is mine.

In the notebook: a list of the ways my body feels broken.

From the doctor: you are not sleeping enough. You have not slept enough in almost three years. You are overworking your heart, your stomach, your mind. A note. Take it to the therapist downstairs.

In the notebook that night: Plan A, Plan B, Plan C. They all begin with an edict: cut back at work. Sleep more. Finish school. Mamma more. Quiet thoughts more. Stress less.

The brother-in-law was here from LA before the doctor week and when the brother is here things are easier in many ways. He is a persuasive and gentle salesman for the idea of a move to Burbank, where he and the sister live (one of the sisters). No kids of their own. Commune-ity. Big hearts. There are jobs for me there, and good schools for the kids and sunshine. The beach in one hour one way and the mountains (even snow) in the other. On the phone with the sister she says come in July. The thought goes in the notebook. In Plan B-- a red that fades to orange because it would be hasty but alright. Plan A calls for one more year, cap and gown at almost 37, and then deciding, carefully. Assessing all that is, all that has passed. It is soft mint, like lamb's ear or sage buttercup shoots in spring. Plan C ends in a question mark that looks like home, and has no color that stays.

Best-friend texting:

She. Don't make a decision to fill a void.

Me. Voids must be filled. Even if temporarily or changeably. Close family fills a lot of voids.

She. Love you without location.


With the friend-boss:

Me. I need to leave a little. And then maybe leave more. But my segmented heart is half-rooted here. These people! This garden they grow! I don't know.

She. Leave a little. Get some rest. Tell me more and when. Your roots will transplant if you need them to, but I like them here. Finish school.  We'll see.


With the therapist:

Me. It's really about seeing an end in sight when I need to see a beginning behind. And these high                   expectations.

She. You're very hard on yourself. An A- is a good grade. Many students have fewer                                 children and fewer publication credits than you.

Me. But I am a butterfly. I don't have as much time. I have fears that drive me as much as hope.

She. Tell me about the men.

Tuesday just past: the first day I can feel it, this working less. Money is tighter, but after school, I come home. My children come home. That is new. We have almost five hours together before night falls. This has happened before, but as a fluke, not routine. It is calendared now! I let my sugarless-Lent end early and we eat cake to celebrate. We talk about August and the road trip, and I get a Go-Pro steal off Craigslist for the journey. We talk about hometowns, and wander-lust, roots and wings. The light changes, and Plan A calls out: Wait. It may be Burbank. It may be Missoula. It may be everywhere, in all the colors. Get some more rest but keep working hard. See how the light changes if you just hold on to this beautiful Tuesday, this beautiful everyday, and shine.

Squeezing It In

If I were to enumerate here the number of things I must/ I tell myself I must get done in a day, there would be no novelty in it. I am like you, and you are like me. But conversations about what we choose, and how we manage those choices are important to have. Often, I think, we feel alone in our struggles to accept our needs, or, conversely, to accept that we just plain don't need the same things all the other ______(moms, women, neighbors, coworkers, friends, people in our family- you choose) do.

Specifically, today's topic of need: exercise.  (Cue eye-rolls. Are we done? Okay.) Some of us feel this need only physically, some emotionally or mentally, some not at all. I feel the need for consistent exercise physically, emotionally and mentally. When I don't get it, I feel weak. Feeling weak causes me stress and I start to feel unequal to the tasks of daily life. This leads to feelings of depression, self-criticism (to which I'm already predisposed), more stress, consumption of excessive carbs and chocolate...

...but it doesn't lead to motivation to exercise. It's a nasty cycle and breaking it is hard. Just committing to that first workout after a few weeks off is the hardest. Best not to get caught to begin with. I must choose, consciously each day, to squeeze exercise in.

My fitness history lacks consistency. In my childhood/ teenagery, I was a competitive swimmer, a cross-country runner, and a roller-skating rink referee (that job will tone your tuchus.) In my young(er) adult years I had babies. I lost the baby weight and stayed mostly fit through breastfeeding, running, some free weights, a really excellent Pilates For Dummies DVD, and walking uphill pushing a stroller. Amber reincarnate discovered Oula and even trained to be an Oula instructor, but was interrupted by life and that whole pesky heart-surgery debacle, on top of early-onset arthritis in both my knees. Which is quite painful at times. Stupid barefoot running trends in the 90's. And now...

One might think that because I work at a Y, finding the time to exercise would be easy. I keep workout clothes in my office. Which is down one flight of stairs from the gym, for pete's sake. But on that list of must-dos (see paragraph one), and I'm not making this one up, is Must Work At Least 32 Hours Per Week So As To Not Be Homeless, while going to school, studying, managing a household, teaching Sunday school, and being all- in for three kiddos- the most important task of all. Sometimes, that bare-minimum half-hour, plus at least 15 minutes to change clothes/ freshen up after, just isn't there. I have found that on days when I plan to exercise during my work day, and things just don't flow that way (my work to-do list is in constant, varied flux), it completely ruins my 'tude.  

This semester (I promise I'm a grown-up), squeezing it in is functioning in three ways:

1. If I get up at 6, when my alarm goes off, and don't fall back asleep (which depends on how late I was up studying/ writing/ eliminating my politically-stupid "friends" on Facebook the night before) then I have time to throw on a sports bra and run through three 7-minute workout circuits before hitting the shower.

2. If I have a load of reading to do after the kids are in bed (and I haven't dozed off while reading Jasper a bedtime story, semi-consciously adding words to the page that just aren't there*), then I can use some combination of my resistance band, yoga mat, and weighted hula hoop for any exercises which can be done while holding a book. There are actually quite a few.

3. If, in the course of rushing back and forth betwixt work and campus each day, I can pull into my parking spot (yes, I have a secret parking spot; no, I won't tell you where it is), which is exactly one mile from campus, with a bare minimum of 19 minutes until class starts, then I can walk instead of riding the bus. I've timed it. It takes me 14 minutes exactly to walk to the corner of campus in winter weather, 12 when the sidewalks are clear. Which leaves 5-7 minutes to get to the right building, fill the water bottle, hit the bathroom, and find a seat before classwork officially begins. So between there and back, and depending on the day, I can walk 2-4 miles if the fates of time-management help me play my cards right.

Notice how each of these contingencies starts with "if"?

But I'm leaning on them optimistically. They might not help me lose the 20 pounds I didn't have a year ago, but squeezing in at least one each day helps me feel more equal to life's tasks, and better about who I am.




*The words "Fake it, fake it, fake it 'till you make it" actually don't appear in Curious George Flies a Kite. Huh.

Reasons Y

To counterbalance last week's frustrated rant, and for the good it does my soul to speak positive truths, I'll share some gratitude today. A couple of years ago I shared a post on the joy our family found in joining our local YMCA. With all the things that have changed in our lives, this is one that has not. I work at the Y now, part-time, and last week I had the opportunity to speak at a luncheon to a group of coworkers and fundraiser volunteers about my experience with this incredible organization. I've taken out the names of the people I mentioned, just for privacy's sake, but the rest of that speech is here, word for word. I mean each one. 

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I want to thank you all for the opportunity to come here today and share my Y story. My story is very personal, but I believe it is in the moments when we, as a Y family touch each others' lives personally that the true worth and value of the YMCA organization is revealed. Through the three tenets of the Y vision--Social Responsibility, Healthy Living, and Youth Development--we have daily opportunities to share the human experience and affect lives in our community. My family's life has been positively impacted by the Y in more ways than I can express.

In September of 2013, just before I began working here in Childwatch, my thirteen year marriage came to a sudden and unexpected end. Saying nothing of the emotional devastation his absence wreaked upon me and my three children, the financial support he provided for us was very suddenly and very drastically reduced. I, a veteran stay-at-home-mom of nine years, who'd dropped out of college to move for her husband's career, found myself in the position of parenting and providing for three young children 90% on my own. I was determined to take care of them, to heal, to go back to school, to work hard and show my children how to rise above the hard knocks of life, but I needed help. I needed childcare for Jasper, my youngest. I needed a safe and healthy environment for Laurelei and Riley, my oldest and middle, to be in after school. I needed a place where I could come and get the regular exercise I need to manage the heart condition which affects me. And then, as the year progressed and my daughter Laurelei was diagnosed with the same potentially fatal congenital heart disorder, I also needed her to be around people who would look out for her, people who knew how to use an AED, people who could keep her safe while still allowing her to be the irrepressibly active kid she is. 

Through the generosity of donors who make program and membership assistance possible, we have found what we need--and beyond that, what we want and love: an environment which has strengthened us through the most difficult trials of our lives--here at the Y. ___'s help was invaluable in helping me to set up our family membership in an affordable way. In a matter of just one day, ___ and ___ and I were able to get Jasper set up for daycare at the Development Center, and later I applied for and received assistance in putting Laurelei and Riley on the Rock Climbing Team. Yesterday at the climbing team's first practice, I showed up at 4:30, ready to brief Coach ___ and Coach ___ on Laurelei's medical condition, only to find they had already been filled in. They were on top of it and knew what to do. 

As a mom who, by necessicity, can no longer be at her children's sides quite as much as she used to be, or quite as much as she'd like to be, I am relieved and grateful to come to the Y each afternoon and find my children happy and engaged in healthy activities. Whether that is Jasper smiling and laughing in the daycare or Laurelei and Riley playing a game in the Youth Center with ____ or ____, or climbing on the rock wall, or running around in the gym, I know they are surrounded by people who truly care for their well being. To also know that circumstance is one which will never be dictated by our financial status is an added comfort and blessing. I am determined that someday I will be the donor who writes the check that changes a Y family's life. Thank you, each of you, for volunteering your time to help the Y and so many families like mine. 

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An American Childhood

I am frustrated recently, but particularly today, with myself, with this culture of busyness and over-achieving expectations that is the way of the modern American family and with my submission to it, against my better judgement and wishes. Does anyone else feel, I wonder, that our protestations are worthless? Because, in the end, what is our choice?

I spent an hour last night googling "time management skills for kids," "too much homework for elementary schoolers" and "teaching kids to be self-directed." I hated that hour. But night after night, weekend after weekend, I find myself nagging my fourth grader to catch up with all the schoolwork she's not getting done in class and in homework time. My stomach turns as I, standing beneath the embroidered Play is the Work of Children wall hanging in my living room, cut her play time short or make her free reading time dependent upon schoolwork accomplishments. And when she brings home high test scores but low overall grades because her work is not done, I don't know what to think or do or say.  I hear myself, as if it not myself, rushing her and her brother to school each morning, quick breakfast in hand, saying "if you don't learn to hurry you won't make it in this world." 

What the hell?

I have become, in my singledom, that parent I always judged so harshly. That parent who uses the school system for childcare because I HAVE to go to work and to school. That parent who doesn't serve on the PTO or volunteer in the classroom or get involved in anyway because there is literally NO TIME. I am the mother who hates the system of busy work and pointless desk assignments and government testing, but does nothing about it because she can't even figure out what to do about paying the bills. I conform and I push my children to conform, all the while telling them it's wrong, wrong, wrong. 

What do I do?

My children's extracurricular activities are minimal and, I feel, really more valuable to their development than many aspects of school. My time, on the rare occasions when we are home together, I focus on them, leaving my own studying for midnight or between classes or when they are at dad's. We don't watch tv, or play video games, or waste time in any other way. I try hard, so hard, to allow them time to eat well, to wonder and talk and discover. But it's not enough. I feel I am building broken children, only slightly more whole than their broken parents by virtue of their natural strengths. 

Reason would tell me I have two choices:

Opt out. Out of society, out of school. Go off the grid or out of the country and let my children grow up in wild wanderlust, isolated from deadlines, grade books, and competitions of social expectations. If I were independently wealthy I might give this some serious thought. 

Or

Get married again, and share the burden of providing and the responsibility of parenting with someone else, hopefully creating in that convergence some time not spent rushing and pushing and nagging to do, go, be. But at what cost to me, and the emerging sense of self-worth I have grappled to cultivate in the last six months? At what cost to my independence and goals and plans? At what risk to my heart?

I cannot afford option A and I fear option B. 

I suppose there is option C: Find the balance. Guard my words. Teach them what's important and when it's okay to fail. Make sure, somehow, that they are learning, not just memorizing, and that their opening souls are being nourished even more than their minds. And fumble through these years of hurting and healing without looking back in longing for the life that was better in some ways, but never quite right. What we have is now, my three babies and me. An American childhood, in a middling sense, with moments of both the best and worst. 

The Space Between

When I last wrote here, I clung to the edges of a life I'd woven, sometimes blindly, which was unraveling even as I continued to bind the strands, trying so hard to make them stay. In the space between then and now, I have seen and felt my marriage falter, without knowing why, then, upon learning why, offered forgiveness, offered my whole heart, my whole being, tried desperately to change and control that which was out of my hands and still, in the end, watched my husband of thirteen years walk away. I have lain in darkness and sorrow and wondered if I should just stay there. But I couldn't stay. Someone called my name: Amber June. Mamma. Daughter. Sister. Friend. And in the darkness I turned toward that someone, those many someones, and saw myself in their light. 

I'm different now. Stronger. Scarred. Smarter. Winged. I carry three little hearts on my heart, and I am finding hope and joy in the journey of rediscovering me. 

There are many practical differences in our daily lives now; quiet nights when the kids are with their Dad. Four at the table. We will leave our beloved Moon Cottage at the end of this month and move into an apartment. Come January, I will do what I've never done with my babies, and leave Jasper in someone else's care while I finish the education I cut short to move for my husband's career. 

I am anxious. But I see so much good in the future for my little ones and me, in spite of and because of this pain. The space between now and then is indefinite. But I am determined there will not be so much space between my shared words, my sacred thoughts, and this place where I scream them quietly from my own little mountain, again. 

What They've Taught Me

I wrote this post months ago and never posted it...not sure why. But here it is. 


 A Not-Nearly-All-Inclusive List of The Number One Thing I've Learned From Each of These Important People in My Life

(how's that for a subtitle?)

   First, my mom. Mammas should always be first. I have very few singualr light-bulb-moment- type memories of my childhood with my mother. What I do have is more of a general feeling of her presence in nearly all my memories. Which, I think, indicates where I learned to be a present parent in my children's lives as much as possible. She was in mine. As to what she taught me, there are many things...how to bake without making a mess in the kitchen...how to fold hospital corners on flat sheets...and to always say 'I Love You' before hanging up the phone (with someone you love, that is). But I think if I had to choose one, I would say, above all,  that my mother taught me I can do anything. If I am still and close my eyes, I can still hear her saying the words. "You can be anything you want to be and do anything you want to do." Never, in all of my growing-up years, did I come to her with some scheme or dream to have her put it down. She never told me something was out of my reach or too hard, no matter how illogical or far-fetched or naive my ideas may have been.

Life Lesson from Mom: I Can Do Anything.

  Then there's my dad. I inherited from my father my love of reading, writing, poetry, vocabulary, classic British literature, and, I dare say, sarcastic wit. In contrast to my mother, whose inadvertent teachings pervade nearly all my memories, when I think of what my father taught me, three very direct, specific things come to mind. The first two have proven useful, if not always 100% accurate pieces of advise: Never vote for anyone with poor taste in neckties, and, When all else fails, try Masterpiece Theater. But it is the third life lesson that I remember most clearly and that has meant the most to me throughout the years: Find out what you believe in, and stand by it. Even if you stand alone. I don't know if my dad remembers the day he said this to me, but I've never forgotten it. He and I sat on the astro-turf covered kitchen porch of our small country house, watching the sunset and talking about things which, I'm sure, were mostly beyond me. At least, I don't remember anymore of the conversation than that. But I've done my best to put that teaching into practice. Ironically, many of the things that I've found I believe in have turned out to be things with which my father would disagree. So, in that sense, I do stand alone. But there it is. We teach our children principles, but we cannot dictate how those principles are applied.

Life Lesson from Dad: Find Out What You Believe In, and Stand By It.

  Now Brian. My husband and best friend of thirteen (at the time I write this) years. I don't even have to pause to think about what he has taught me, because I know it and I am grateful for it everyday. Brian has taught me that Life Can be Fun, Even When It's Not. Shall I expound? Brian has taught me that it's okay to find something to laugh about even when the rent is past due and the fridge is empty and the car needs new tires for winter. It's alright to smile to yourself and sing your favorite song even if the weather is yucky and you were late to work. And it's more than okay, it's absolutely necessary, to be happy even when you have failed. Or lost something or someone you loved.

Life Lesson from Brian: Life Can Be Fun, Even When it's Not.

Laurelei is my first baby. I could say she taught me to be a mother, but that wouldn't be exactly true. The skills of Mammahood are learned through being mothered and grandmothered, through observing other Mammas and applying what's learned. And saying Laurelei taught me that would be not only be a role reversal, but it would also be to place her value in the circumstance of her position, rather than the divine nature of her person, her individuality and soul. My beautiful Laurelei has taught me to Make My Actions Consistent With My Words. I have never met anyone truer to her proclaimed standards, more pure and Christlike and loving and fair in heart than my Laurelei. And when I, in my justifications and laziness, become a hypocrite, she tells me so. I see in her the blessed life of one who walks the walk of unconditional love and sometimes, I just want to be that girl.

Life Lesson from Laurelei: Make Your Actions Consistent With Your Words

Riley. He's sitting here, near me, strumming his out-of-tune guitar. How can I narrow it down to one lesson from you, my tender-hearted, wild and crazy, singing-silly-sweet boy? But there it is, as you, without a single guitar lesson behind you, plunk one chord, adjust the knob, and plunk it again and again before making up a tune. My Riley has taught me to Have Patience and Persevere. And I don't mean that in the way most Mammas would say their six-year old sons have taught them patience. I mean that Riley is one of the most patient, just-keep-trying people I have ever met. He'll spend hours figuring something out, and, most of the time, come away successful and happy and proud. Couldn't we all stand to be a little more like that? I know I could.

Life Lesson from Riley: Have Patience and Persevere

My baby boy Jasper is not old enough, as I write this, to have anything I say mean much to him. I hope to be  around when he is. But I will tell everyone who might read these words that Jasper has taught me to Linger in the Quiet Moments of a hug, a snuggling nap, a silly nose-to-nose laugh, a kiss. I think even more, because of the changes that have come about in my life, than my other babies did. Memories are made in those moments. And memories, I believe, are one of the few things we can take with us from this world.

Life Lesson from Jasper: Linger in the Quiet Moments

There are others...my sisters, my closest friends. Too many to list. But never could I express enough love for all of them, never except in living, as best I can, the lessons they've taught me. And hoping we get to learn many more together.

xo

The Nothing I Did Today

I've always been a list-maker, garnering untold satisfaction from the dozens of little check-marks on my to-do rosters daily. Granted, my lists often include items like "eat," "shower," "get out of bed," but still...a tangible marked-up account of how I have spent my time is the end product. And these lists become like journals to me. I can look back in my scores of saved notebooks at the dates and the items on the list that day and clearly remember, based on the to-do's, what was happening in my family, with my friends, in my creative brain at the time.

The last few months...okay, year (pregnancy + 5 1/2 month old baby), my lists have been considerably shorter than usual. And wrapping my head around that, accepting that, has honestly been very hard. I have had to re- learn how to place value on resting, sitting, snuggling, singing songs and laughing...moments of quiet Mammahood surrender which, obviously, I knew how to value when L & R were babes, but that seems so long ago! They're so...active and...independent now. But what I have learned and come to accept, is that these days of no (or very few--I still eat and get out of bed) check marks are beyond important to my infant son, and my older children as well. Even when I feel like I'm "getting nothing done" (I haven't blogged! I haven't written or read or sewn or drawn! The laundry is piling up and shouldn't I be making my bread from scratch everyday?),  it's not nothing to Jasper. It's everything to him.

Slowly, very slowly, I'm figuring out a balance. I'm placing less importance on excessive social interaction (something I never even realized I had been giving extra to) and spotless housekeeping, and more importance on family interaction, creative "me" time, and moments--whenever we can find them--with my husband, who is, after all, the other half of my soul. I've set some writing goals, and hope to be posting here a little more to share them, and I've remembered how to linger in the face-to-face moments with my little ones, even when I've checked very little off my list.

For now, at the end of each day, my home and family are (mostly) clean and (generally) safe. My husband and children, I hope, are emotionally, physically, and spiritually well-fed. That is not nothing, I lay in bed assuring myself each night. Quite often, that is enough to change the world.

xo

Natural Childbirth, My Story, part III

My reasons for putting off the third installment of this series for so long are, I think, obvious to any regular readers I might have out there. The family that my children were born into is not the same. It broke, and I sometimes still can't sort out exactly when. Was it already happening when my Jasper arrived? I don't know. I think yes. But despite those fractures which I can see clearly now, he came to this world welcome, whole, healthy, and madly loved. That is this story. And despite the timing, my list-checking personality could not leave this third part of a three-part series unpublished any longer. Jasper turned 14 months old today. Here's to you, Little Bear. 

We waited a long time for Jasper. Laurelei was about to turn eight and Riles was six when Brian and I sat them down to tell them a baby was growing inside me. They were overjoyed. As was I. My third was the most...conscious? I guess is a good word...of all my pregnancies. I felt everything physically much sooner and with much more definition than I had with the others. I felt an awareness of the life inside me from the first moment I knew he was there. And I reveled in the pregnancy, the growing belly, the flutters and kicks and hiccups from within me, it seems, more than I allowed myself to do with the older two. Or maybe, I just embedded those moments more firmly in my memory because I knew it would be the very last time.

All went well with Jasper's gestation until the beginning of the third trimester, when our amazingly skilled, attune, and intelligent midwife said, "Tell me some more about the heart problems you had after Riley's birth." 

We were planning on birthing at her birth center,after all. Safety first. 

So I told her. 12 days after R was born, I was at home, and suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred, I had an enormous build up of pressure in my chest and I could feel my heart drumming, very slowly, in my head. At the ER, they told me I was hyperventilating, panicking, nothing was truly wrong and sent me home. Two days later, it happened again. Actually, the pressure in my chest never really went away. This time, in triage, my heart rate rested at 40, so they ordered an ECG and checked me in. After two days in the hospital, during which my HR got as low as 29 bpm, several ECGs, a cardiac ultrasound, and some indefinite talk about a QT interval being prolonged (could send her to the hospital in Boise...specialists...medical jargon), I was suddenly released. They said the tests found nothing, having babies effects your body in strange ways, and I should go home and rest. Being two weeks postpartum and anxious for my babes, I did. Ever since then, I've had episodes of feeling that weakness, shortness of breath, chest pressure, low HR, but, despite mentioning it to several doctors, no one seemed concerned. 

But Jeanne, my midwife, was concerned. She ordered an ECG. With the results of that ECG, I was referred to a high-risk Obstetrician, and a cardiologist, and eventually, diagnosed with Junctional Bradycardia and Long QT Syndrome, a double heart disease combination which, in some corner of my mind, I knew would change my life. But, for the moment, all I could see was how this would change Jasper's birth. 

Jeanne was amazing--by my side as  I consulted with the fetal medicine specialist, found a new OBGyn, and learned all I could about my options for birthing naturally in the hospital. She provided a doula for us, free of charge. In the whirlwind, I don't think I was as grateful as I should have been. 

The plan became come in to the hospital as soon as you're sure it's real labor, rather than laboring at home and waiting. IV and continual heart monitoring required. Cardiologist on call. Fetal Medicine on call. NiCU prepped. I was terrified. 

But the night Jasper was born, nothing went as planned, in the best way possible. After slipping and falling in the snow in my bestie's driveway, walking around the track at the Y with my mom for a half hour, and stopping on the way home to have Jeanne strip my membranes, the rushes came fast and strong. Our doula, Marlene, arrived at our home around 10, and just before midnight we left for the hospital. I barely made it in the doors. Full moon. There were no rooms. I continued my labor in triage with no IV, no heart monitor, no drugs...just as I'd wanted but didn't expect to get...not even admitted to the hospital. When a room opened up 20 minutes after we arrived, my water broke as they wheeled me down the hall. I pushed. Many voices told me to stop, but I listened only to my son, ready now. We had been in the room for maybe three minutes, no doctors-but lots of nervous nurses darting around and my amazing doula calmly but firmly running the show, advocating for us- when I reached down and pushed my baby boy into my own hands. 

And despite all the fear, all the hype, all the prep, all the change, it was the three of us- mom, dad, and babe- in that moment. I laid him on my chest as the doctor arrived, and let Marlene stave off the ancie nurses for a beautiful moment in time. The blood pulsed in his umbilical cord, part him, part me, warm and strong. Riley and Laurelei arrived with Nanna moments later, and our little family reveled in the new soul on Mamma's breast. We sang to him the song which had been his for many months and still is: Hold on to me as we go, as we roll down this unfamiliar road...know you're not alone. We're going to make this place your home. 

The life changes came later. Jasper's birth was an unexpected kind of perfect. And so is he. 

Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part II

Picking up what I began so many weeks ago, writing what I want my children to know about their own births and the birth journey; what I don't want to forget...

Two years after the birth of Laurelei, I was pregnant with my second child and determined to educate myself and remain in control of our birth this time around. For the first time, I ignored the majority of moms' go-to pregnancy book (you know, that one about expectations) and turned instead to Childbirth Without Fear by Grantley Dick Read.

It was during this pregnancy that I truly began to understand that the advancements of modern-day medicine and science are both a blessing and a curse. We have access to solutions and cures for so many diseases and conditions that, in the past, have been fatal. But because of this power over nature, we often undervalue our bodies' own healing abilities and strengths. Concerning childbirth, we (and by 'we' I am mainly referring to modern Americans) use the lifesaving methods which should be reserved for the few to unnecessarily complicate the process for the many. Like giving the treatment for leprosy to everyone with a little dry skin. And we do it, as Grantley Dick Read could see even so many decades ago, and one of my personal heroes, Ina May Gaskin has taught since the 1970's*, because of the pervasive culture of fear. Women are taught to fear childbirth, to fear pain, even to fear the natural instincts which tell us to stand, to push, to place our newborn babes immediately on our breasts.

With my Riley growing inside me, I believe I truly overcame those fears.

At the time, Brian was working 60 hours a week at an intense job. December came, with Riley due December 19th, and Brian was told by his boss that if I hadn't given birth by December 15th, he could have time off for the birth OR Christmas, but not both. Everyone to whom I related this antidote said the same thing: get induced. But artificial inducement, usually done through use of the drug Pitocin, was absolutely a no-way for me. So I listened to my body, my baby, and, yes, my doctor, who all told me my baby boy was doing well, growing strong. I went for walks, took warm baths, and waited patiently for him to move lower, into a birth position. Then, on December 11th, when I felt with all my Mammahood instinct that he was ready, I rearranged our bedroom furniture. By myself. And my labor began that night.

Laurelei was with Brian and I in the hospital while I labored with Riley, and when he was born. She slept for most of it, and I won't pretend that we intentionally chose a family birth, but we had only lived in the town we were in for a few months and just didn't feel we knew anyone well enough to drop off our two-year old daughter in the middle of the night. I'm glad now that it happened that way. I wouldn't take it back. I worked through the contractions with Brian's arms around me, standing, kneeling, balancing on a ball, all while our sleeping daughter reminded me of the joy to come. The doctors and nurses, thankfully, for the most part, left us alone. No one told me how to labor, no one made me have an IV. No one looked askance at me when I said calling the anesthesiologist would not be necessary and no, thank you, I would only be on the bed when I wanted to be. And when I felt that unmistakable presence of my baby entering the birth canal, the reawakening of memories flooded my mind, bringing me even more to the moment, to the oneness of mother and child. With Brian's hands on my back, once again I pushed when my baby asked me to. The doctor barely made it into the room before my 9 lb., 5 oz. beautiful baby boy entered this mortal sphere. With him cradled on my chest, my husband's kisses fresh on his head and mine, Laurelei's first words for Riley were: "Oh Mamma, he's pretty."  

And those words, coupled with the love jam-packed into our little family of four and the soul-moving comfort of a newborn babe in my arms got me through the next few weeks, when that pesky, and sometimes scary, health problem I mentioned began to rear its head. But there were years to be lived and a third babe to be had before answers would become clear.

Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part III coming soon.

xo

*so need to see this movie

Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part I

And now let's pretend it's December (when I actually began composing this post). Let's say I'm 36 weeks pregnant with my third child, and my head is wrapped around Mammahood and little else. My favorite moment of the day comes late each evening when I lean back on my bed, prop up my feet and lay my hands on my swollen belly to feel my son move. Often, the hands of big sister, big brother, or Daddy join mine, and we revel in the miracle of the tiny life coming to us.

And of course I have the time and energy to blog about it, because, what nine-months preggo woman doesn't? ;-)

The last week of November was difficult. Our birth plans had to change and questions have been raised about my health...more on that some other day...but, because of these trials, I have felt so urgently the need to put into words, here, the story of my birth experiences, and how strongly I believe that the journey of labor and delivery can carry a mother to a place of sacred awareness, empowerment, and bliss that cannot be reached in this life in any other way. The reasons I choose natural childbirth are portrayed and promoted in life-changing books like Childbirth Without Fear and bold documentaries like The Business of Being Born (my favorite!). I passionately recommend both those sources to women everywhere, but my stories can only be told by me.

Almost nine years ago Baby #1, my sweet Laurelei, was on the way. I was so young! I have always known I wanted to be a mother, and I have always known I wanted to bring my children into the world through natural childbirth, the way my mother brought me. Actually, until I was a junior in high school, and went to see a friend in the hospital who was having a baby, I didn't know much about any other way. I remember my older sister telling me I should leave the room because they were going to do something called an 'epidural' and she knows I don't like needles. I left obediently, wondering what on earth needles had to do with giving birth.

A little older and slightly wiser in the ways of the world by the time I became pregnant with my first, I ignorantly thought I knew all there was to know about labor and delivery and my options and rights. There were no birth centers near where we lived, but the hospital was small and personal and, as informed as I thought I was, a home birth really hadn't even crossed my mind. I said 'no' to the epidural, the pitocin, the being induced, and I presented my D.O. with the birth plan Brian and I had worked through together (a quiz torn from the pages of a parenting magazine, the boxes checked with our answers). He nodded and said he understood. And I think he did. But still, on the night my sweet girl was born, things were done to me as a mother and to her as she entered this world that we would have said no to had we known--really known--as much as we thought we knew. It was a hospital, after all. And a hospital has policies that most moms never bother to learn and most docs never bother to disclose because the expectation is blind faith in the 'experts,' and little to no faith in our bodies; in what we, as women, were designed to do.

I have a huge problem with that expectation.

When the night came, I had back labor. I stood and walked the polished, white, hospital floors, leaning on Brian through contractions and letting gravity help us along and the pain was manageable. I could see the purpose in it and Brian could talk me through the worst moments...until I dilated to 5 or 6 centimeters and was told that, according to procedure, it was time for me to lie down.

What?

But we didn't know enough to say 'what?' I thought, she must be coming soon. It must be time. I obediently laid on the bed...and felt the full pain of back labor which, up to that point, my standing position had eased me through. I'm sure I screamed. The nurses began hooking me up to machines. External monitors. Heart monitors. An I.V., and, worst of all, an Internal Fetal Monitor screwed into the top of my helpless daughter's head. I remember thinking, and I remember Brian asking, why? But then my focus returned to the contractions that had suddenly intensified tenfold and Brian's focus returned to me. With all the wires and cords holding me to the bed, and the full weight of baby and womb on my back, there was nothing I could do now to handle the pain. I wanted to stand up again. Someone told me no. I fought through several contractions that way before a nurse suggested a "milligram or so of Stadol. Just to take the edge off." Brian and I didn't know what that was and neither of our heads were really with the nurse anyway. But with the hospital -regulation IV that I never wanted already in place, it was easy to inject the medicine for "the good of the baby" without really waiting for us to say yes.

We had lost control of a situation that was ours--not the nurses' or the doctors' or the hospital's. Ours. And even though I could still feel the labor, I still knew where I was and I could try to find the purpose in the pain,  I felt a little bit lost.

Under the influence of the Stadol, the semi-helpful effects of which didn't last that long, I hallucinated. Between contractions I fell into a half-sleep that terrified me without giving me any real rest. Then, at about 8 or 9 centimeters, the drug began to wear off and they wanted to give me more. This time, I found my voice and said no. They still wouldn't let me off the bed, but I insisted on being propped up. I knew she was coming. I knew that the moment I had waited and prepared for was about to happen and I didn't wait to be told to push. My body and my baby together knew what to do and the doctor barely caught her in time.
There is no physical feeling that can compare to the sensation of a baby leaving the birth canal, and there is no emotional or spiritual experience to be had by man nor beast to envy the infinite wonder and joy of having  completed the journey of labor and birth. At the moment she was placed in my arms, Laurelei, Brian, and I were the only beings on earth.

I kissed the wound on her head and cried, happy tears for the child fresh from eternity in my arms; tears of grief for my ignorance and pain. And I knew, as she nuzzled her tiny mouth to my breast, I would never, ever, lose control of my sacred Mammahood rights again.

Coming Soon: Natural Childbirth: My Story, Part II.

xo

Face Your Fears

     Raw honesty time, gentle readers.
      For basically my entire life, I have always had trouble asking other people for help. Or even telling anyone else when I have a situation wherein I need help. It's the Mammahood-familiar I Can't Be Seen As A Failure/I Must Be Perfect and Do All fear.

     Do you know that fear?

     The crazy thing about giving in to that compulsion to do it all on my own is that, in the short term, my manic achievements are a source of confidence and pride; an endorphin-laden rush of power. But in the long term, denying others the chance to be involved in my life, and disallowing myself to be involved in theirs only creates weakness, loneliness, and isolation. I know that. And still I struggle to let others in.
     The other day I called up one of my oldest friends and asked for her help with something. That may seem mundane and expected and unremarkable to most people, but to me, the fact that I did it and I survived it was a reminder that, even with the realizations I've made about my fear, it's not something I can ever forget about or stop fighting. But the easy part of that comes here: I believe my Heavenly Father (insert your personal deity term here) opens doors that will lead us places where our weaknesses become our strengths, all the time, right in front of our faces. For me, those doors have lately taken the shape of someone asking me to be in charge of an activity or committee or event that I really can't (even though the manic-mom part of me still says I can) make happen on my own.
     My calling in our church right now is to plan and coordinate monthly activities for our women's charitable service organization. Every month I fight the urge to plan all the lessons, teach all the classes, and make all the refreshments by myself. A small part of me still feels that would be easier than picking up the phone and delegating assignments or asking for help. But I do it. I call. And you know what? People want to be involved. They don't call me names and hang up the phone like my fear-mongering subconsciousness tells me they will. They say yes. That lesson, I recognize, is why God opened that door for me.
     This past week, while volunteering in Riley's kindergarten class, his teacher asked me to be the group leader of the Halloween Party committee. I had to roll the words leader (not do-er of all) and committee (not solo party planner) around in my brain a little before I said yes. And later that night when I logged onto Pinterest to start scratching up some ideas, I had to remind myself again: The other parents on this list wrote their names down voluntarily. They WANT to help. Not only is it implausible for you to come up with and make all the games/activities/refreshments on your own--it's also not fair. And so I stopped pinning. I will give each of those other parents the chance to pitch in, and I will meet them and we will collaborate and--who knows?--maybe even uplift each other and encourage each other a little bit at the same time. 
     What fears do you face, blogland beauties? I hope you are conquering them as I am learning to conquer mine.The easy part is that the door has been opened. The hard part is choosing to walk through.

I hope you choose to walk through the doors God opens for you.

xo

Sewing Spree!

     Whenever big events are coming up, or big changes are happening in our family life, I feel the need to Make Stuff. It's as if the primal survivalist nurturer in me is asking if I am prepared for whatever's coming and  when my modern Mamma answer is no, it screams, "Well, what are you waiting for? Get out the serger!" Or the cookbooks. Or the embroidery hoops. Or the knitting needles even though I can't knit. I feel like if I can make something then we will be ready. Even if it's just readiness in the sense that my family will know I care.

   Last weekend I went on a making spree, mostly sewing, which has carried over into this week and morphed in to baking and cooking and healthy lunch fixing. Be forewarned: expect a scrumptious waffle recipe and an onslaught of everything Bento in the days to come. Today though, sewing pics to share!

     Typically, I do not buy for my children shirts with a large expanse of stain-luring white covering the chest, but...these were $1 on the clearance rack, so I thought, why not? I'll make something cute to put on them. I asked Riles what he'd like and he requested one alien space ship, and one train with buttons. A little felt applique and an hour or so of sitting on Mamma's lap to 'help' later, and here we are. I love them!

      And for Laurelei...a new dress. Did she really need a new dress? Hmmm...not really. But Mamma really needed to do something with that yard-sale-score vintage apron.

      And doesn't every girl need a good twirling dress? I think so.

    And finally, custom Bento box covers for L's and R's school lunches. They picked the fabrics from my stash, I stitched.

   
    I love how they turned out!

    What about you, blogland beauties? Do you get the urge to Make Stuff when changes come your way? Share links- I want to see!

xo

To School

  
     To school. For us, this time of year is not back to school time, because our children have never attended school a day in their lives. We have homeschooled for...well, eight years, since the day our oldest was born. We didn't think of ourselves as being homeschoolers at that point, but we always considered our parenting style to be present and attentive...never pacifying our children but identifying their needs and interests and helping them to learn from the world around them at every moment of every day. And that became our homeschool philosophy: Life is learning, learning is life. It was, and still is, our family's way. We didn't really call it homeschooling until about three years ago, but our children flourished. Learning to read naturally and at their own pace; discovering math in every room of our house, in every store, in every daily task. They found science in the backyard, the kitchen, the forest, and the night sky. And it is our hope and aim as parents to make sure they continue on this path of wonder and discovery. This fall, however, it will be, for the first time, To School.
   After much thought and prayer, days and weeks and months of quietly observing our children and trying to objectively determine what is best, at this point in their lives, for them, Brian and I have decided not to homeschool this year, but to send Laurelei and Riley to the public school most of their friends attend. Laurelei will be entering the third grade, and Riley-going only on a trial basis- will be a kindergartner.
   My feelings are mixed. I am comforted knowing that we can, at any point, change our minds. And knowing the confident individuals we've raised our children to be. I am comforted knowing that public school and homeschool are only two of the many educational options we see in our family's future; that life will always be learning and learning, life. Travel, private schools, cultural immersion...these are all on the wish list. But for this year, my wish--my prayer is this: that Laurelei and Riley learn a little more about who they are, and that they can do it under the guidance of exceptional teachers. Teachers who know the difference between thinking and following instructions, important, logical rules and unnecessary ones, creativity and cut-and-paste.
       My thoughts have turned lately--and I feel the need to put them into words--to the teachers who most shaped and influenced me in my formal education years. Three stand out; one more than all the rest. I'm sure there were others who tried, who meant well...but these three reached me, changed me in some way.
     In junior high, there was Ms. Johnston, life science. I like science, but it wasn't her class that I remember...it was her classroom. A place that, on lunch breaks and in free periods and after school became a safe haven for the under-confident, identity-seeking misfits like me. And it was that way because she was that way: a safe haven. She was one of the most sincere, accepting people I have ever known. I confided in her and she, always to an appropriate level, confided in me. Ms. Johnston taught me to look for friendship and goodness in unexpected places; to disbelieve stereotypes, and to believe a little more in me.
     In high school, I took an advanced literature and composition class because, in a sea of mediocre educators and even more mediocre curricular choices, it was one of the very few things that interested me. I'd been given the English-nerd label early in life, but I had never, before that class, before Mrs. Black, considered myself a writer. In my mind, an understanding of grammar, an aptitude for clarity, and an ear for the rhythms and complexities of language were just...what everyone should have if they bothered to try. Mrs. Black was strict. She had high expectations. She was stoic and distant and our student-teacher relationship remained impersonal. But she always, always called on me (me!) to read my work out loud. If the assignment was a short story, she'd push me to develop it more on my own time. If my work was weak or sloppy, she'd demand a rewrite because she knew I had more in me and she wouldn't let me settle for second-best. From Mrs. Black I learned that I am a writer. And, no, that's not something everyone has in them. A few people yes, but through Mrs. Black I discovered it's something that's mine.
      The third teacher, also from the high school years, is a name and a face and a person and a friend I will never forget.
     I don't remember being quite so angst-y about it, but my dad tells me I came home from my first day of school as a sophomore despondent and distraught because the art class I'd registered for was full and I'd been stuck in Drama 1 instead. I lamented my fate in tears and begged him to use his influence (he was also a teacher, well-known and liked in the district) to get me what I wanted. I thought--and here's an example of the strong negative influence a poor teacher can have--I thought that I hated drama. I had hated it in junior high. (So it must be the subject, right? Couldn't possibly have been the embittered, unenthusiastic instructor...) Dad, probably inwardly laughing at my first-world teenage problems, encouraged me to give the class two weeks. If I still hated it then, he'd see what he could do.
      That's how I met Kay. Mr. Jenkins, officially, but mostly he was Kay. Tall and thin as a bean pole, quiet when he wanted to be and boisterously loud among people he liked, his passion for story is what, I think, drew me in. I had that too. Was that drama? Theater? I didn't know. And he didn't know how prepared I was--in my timid, still under-confident way--to hate him and everything he taught. But I couldn't. He was just so animated...so excited, sometimes boyishly excited about sharing what he knew. More than that, and despite his frequent dramatic mutterings about juvenile delinquents, I think Kay saw beyond the system labels kids sometimes can't shake. I think he saw his students as human beings who could, if they chose, become someone better. Someone no one had pegged them to be. Kay taught by demonstrating, raising curiosity and inspiring. The stark opposite of so many teachers whose classes I slept through daily, he was accessible and funny, knowledgeable and real. Plays transformed from scripted words to enactments of humanity, with history and humor and sadness and deep, ardent love. And the best part was that I--that everyone--could be someone else.
     I never took a single art class in high school.
     In Kay's classroom, and in my subsequent active participation in all things drama (yes, Dad, you were right), I learned to shed the label "shy." Kay was my favorite teacher, my after-school coach and mentor, my  example. I learned to be a leader, to make decisions, and to be accountable for the choices I made--disappointment was an expression I learned to recognize in his eyes. But more often, I saw in them a light that burned through me: a fiery, father-like pride. Kay was the only adult, outside of my parents, I ever felt comfortable enough to argue with. He laughed with me, but never at me. He taught me in his imperfect way to use power tools, build sets, and handle deadlines and stress. And I learned in his stage makeup class the techniques I still use to apply my makeup today (sorry Mom).
     At my high school graduation ceremony, Kay stood on stage reading the names as the graduates walked. I'd like to think, and maybe it's true, that his voice broke a little, and that big Adam's apple had to swallow hard when he came to mine. For my part, I know I smiled back at him through my tears and said my silent, grateful goodbyes to the teacher who had taught me, more than anything, to be me.  
     These are the people on my mind as I prepare to send my children, for the first time, to be under someone else's influence, taught someone else's thoughts and answers and views on life. I think about these three teachers who cared so I won't worry so much about the ones who really don't. And while they came into my life later in my school years, I can't help hoping a Ms. Johnston, or a Mrs. Black, or, especially, a Mr. Jenkins will, at some point, come into my children's lives. Sooner would be better, but it's never too late.
     What teachers shaped your life? Do you remember them still? Share in the comments.

xo

 

p.s. The quote graphic at the top of this post is a free printable. Just right click and it's yours. A little school inspiration to you from me.

Camping Glacier

     I love camping for so many reasons.

(Me with three reasons right here.)

       Sleeping outdoors, even in our own backyard, can be an amazingly refreshing experience, but I've found when I can sleep outdoors in the wilderness, where no lights outshine the stars, no human-made sounds overpower nature's own nocturnal soundtrack, no machines change the temperature of the night air, I am more than refreshed. I am inspired. Cooking and eating outdoors always makes food taste better. And, for me, organizing a space for my family to live in, a space to meet our needs, is like playing Little House in The Woods. I get giddy with nesting, homesteading excitement when we find the campsite that, for a few days, becomes ours.

(Our little campground home.)

     We all get dirty, letting soap-free lake or river swimming serve as our only baths, but despite the dirt, camping always makes me feel beautiful, natural and clean.
     I love to see the effect of wilderness on my children and my husband, and to feel it in me; to know, when we are stripped of our phones and computers and toys and comforts, who we become. Laurelei and Riley never fail to inspire me with the things they find to do; the play things and places they make in forests and on riverbanks and lake shores. Brian and I work together without effort to plan and cook and tend, laughing, seeming suddenly to have energy and patience we have only on the best days at home. Is that the distance from worries? The lack of deadlines and schedules? The not knowing what time it is and having that be okay? And sleeping on the hard ground (let's face it, camping pads and air mattresses don't really do all that much) is okay. Even that squirrel who throws pine cones at our tent every morning before dawn is more than okay.
     Whatever it is about camping that does this to me, I crave it. And we, as a family camp at least once a summer; more often if we can. This last weekend we spent four days camping in one of the most beautiful places God ever put in man's fumbling care: Glacier National Park.

     The last time the kids and I were in the GNP, it was two years ago with Nanna and B couldn't be there. I fell in love with the park, and, even though I don't think L and R have very clear memories of that trip, the vague impression of familiar beauty and wonder was still upon them as we explored this time around.

(This is my favorite shot from that long-ago trip. Look how little they were!)

     

   I've wanted to take B there ever since. He's a loyal Yellowstone groupie who vowed his affections would not be swayed, but by the end of our four days, I think a soft spot for Glacier had made its way into his bison-and-geyser-loving heart. And me? My heart was full. 

    How could it not be?

    We came home with sunburns (Mamma remembered sunblock on three out of four hikes--no one's perfect), tired legs and feet, sleeping bags to be aired, coolers to be scrubbed, and roughly eight loads of dirty laundry I almost didn't want to wash. I didn't want to lose the smoky, piney, forest smell. But as B and I unloaded our little car and cleaned up the remains of a trip not to be forgotten, all I could think was: When can we go again?

   What places and family trips have filled your heart this summer?

xo

Childhood Fair

     As an adult (okay, a sort-of adult), August has always been my least favorite month of the year; the heat, the smoky forest fires, the longing for fall...but growing up, late August and early September meant one thing only. It was time for the pinnacle social event of the year in our rural farming community: The omnipresent Eastern Idaho State Fair.

 courtesy my hubs: ayresphotography.com

   
     Some of my most sensory-rich childhood memories come from this time of year. Eating a hot, flaky Tiger's Ear scone drenched in honey butter, sitting in the shade of the spruced-up shabby grandstands, smelling the Best in Show animals (who couldn't care less if their ribbon-bearing stalls were soiled) and the bone-dry, end-of-summer dust. Feet sweating in my sneakers, licking butter, licking dirt, licking I-don't-want-to-know-what from fingers trembling in excitement. Fingers itching to spend the few, scraped-up dollars in my pocket. Fingers that, on one lucky year, were attached to a stamped hand that hung from a wrist strapped with the neon orange ultimate symbol of cool: The All-Day Unlimited Rides Wristband. It was an expensive, unreasonable indulgence. A want, not a need. But I still remember the glow on my mother's face when she gave one to me, one to my older sister, and announced, mischievously, that, just this once, we would be allowed to cut school. I still don't know what she did, which bills she juggled, whose shifts she volunteered to take to get them for us, but I know she knew how much it meant in our tiny preteen world.
   
     I'm not a Mamma in small-town Eastern Idaho like my mom was. Here, in bigger Missoula, the much smaller Western Montana Fair seems a passing note in the lives of most of the residents; more important to those who live on the outskirts or in the surrounding ranch and farm towns. Those are the kids who wear their best boots, their new hats, their ironed jeans. I love to watch them and remember the place where I lived and the MOMENT the fair used to be. But more than that, I love to go to the fair with my husband and watch our own kids trudge through the dust, and up-and-down the barns, touching every single sheep and lamb; honking to the geese and snorting to the pigs. I love seeing them count their carefully saved coins and their wrinkled dollar bills onto a sticky counter for a cotton candy or caramel apple. I loved the moment that came for the first time this year, standing outside the Fun House, hand-in-hand with Brian, waiting for kids who are finally tall enough to go on their own to make their way out and tell us all about it, shouting with unconstrained glee.

          The Missoula fair came last week, in the summer, the mark of an urbanized community where there is no need to wait for the harvest to come in, so I will probably not ever have the opportunity to give my kids permission to cut school and go ride the rides. But I hope I will always have the memories of my most exciting early September days (oh! to be on the fairway after dark!) and I hope I will add to those memories, over the next few years, watching my own little ones experience their own childhood fair.

    

Now go have a cherry lime-aid and a corndog or two :-)

One Pink, Two Blue

     For a time that seemed so long to me we thought we'd never have another child. I remember buying my kids something one day, a couple of years ago- I think it was a lemonade at an outdoor market- and pulling two straws from the jar. One pink, one blue. My hand froze in midair as I realized those straws symbolized my Mammahood. One pink, my Laurelei; one blue, my Riley boy. And there was nothing wrong about that. There were, actually, so many things right. His made-up songs and jokes, her mind-blowing vocabulary and wise-beyond-her-years ways. And the bond of friendship between them that, even now, I know will last their whole lives. But still, we took our lemonades and went home and I stood in the closet in front of a box of baby clothes and cried.

     It wasn't the thought of not having a third baby that broke me, it was the not knowing, and mostly, the not knowing why.

     We kept trying. Eventually, I told myself and everyone around me I would be okay either way. And then, eventually, I accepted that it was not going to happen after all. We had a yard sale and got rid of the strollers, the bassinet, the bike trailer, the hiking back pack...and two weeks later I woke up one morning and puked.

     My first thought was that I'd eaten something bad. But in the shower, my breasts leaked. And ached. Still, I didn't want to think I might be pregnant...I'd been wrong so very many times before. I waited. I looked at the calendar and thought maybe...I'll give it X amount of days before taking a test. I didn't make it that long. When you want something so much, even when you thought you'd stopped wanting, and you've waited so long, the unconfirmed possibility is worse than the heartache that might come.

     This is not an announcement. If you know me, if you've ever read this blog before, you know the end to this story. Two lines on the pee stick; a miracle of modem science. But today, the day this little one has not stopped leaping in my womb for even one minute, my Mammahood color pallete was finally redefined. One pink, two blue. The growing person Laurelei and Riley have been affectionately calling Little Sprout is now our son. Jasper.

I love you, Jasper, my second, happy blue. And I can't wait to hold you in my joyfully overflowing arms.