Fast forward to present.  We took a trip to Clackamas Town Center this past weekend.  It was just a family outing to escape our small town and nasty weather of late.  I knew I wanted to buy a new bra.  I had not bought a bra since I worked at Victoria’s Secret.  You see, when I left Vicki’s I had a collection of bra’s from over the years that were purchased with my discount, or given as a perk.  I had a basket full of bra’s with tags still on them… so why buy a new bra?  ….. for 8 years.  yeah.

When I was 19-27, I fitted women for bra’s.  I helped women of all sizes and shapes find the perfect fit.  I recall one type of woman.  The mom.  The woman dragging 3-5 children in tow, looking like she had not brushed her hair in days… much less showered.  Wearing spit up and many unknown, yet suspicious substances on her clothing.  I would kindly tolerate her kids… though they annoyed me.  I would fit her for a bra, see the tattered old one she was wearing and refrain from the gasp emanating from my utmost being.  How could she let herself go like this?  Who in the world could tolerate wearing a bra 3 sizes too small, full of holes and stains?  Oh the horror!  I would feel truly sad for this woman, knowing that I would never allow myself to slump to this state.

I walk into Nordstrom with my 3 kids, husband and a gentleman we care for on the weekends.  We are a rag-tag bunch.  My husband the most put together of the bunch.  The boys in the double stroller with all manner of diaper bangs, toys, coats, scarfs, sippy cups all dangling from this poor, overloaded stroller.  Brynn quietly tagging along.  I walk over to the bra’s and start looking at them.  A cute, fashionable young woman comes over and asks if she can fit me for a bra.  Immediately…. something is familiar.  Not sure what.  I follow her to the fitting room.  She tells me to remove my top.  Uh…. you want me to do what????   Panic strikes.  I start to sweat.  I take off my top and notice my large frame in the fitting room mirror.  That mirror must at least 20 lbs right?  Then, I SEE MY PANTS!  They are maternity with the big, stretchy belly going up to the level of my worn, tattered, stained bra.  The one I used to fit 60 lbs ago and before nursing 2 boys.  The girl gasps!  “OH DEAR! You do need a new bra!  You poor thing!!”  Ahh, there it is.  The familiarity I was struggling to understand.  I was her.  I am the mom dragging the 3 kids and various others… wearing the horrifying bra.  It hits me and I sink to a new low.  How could I let this happen to me?  How could I let myself go so badly that I didn’t even brush my hair that morning before we left.  Just throwing it into a ponytail, pulling on my maternity pants and climbing into the van.   She wraps the measuring tape around my padded rib cage.  She is fast as lightning… just like I was.  I know she has already sized me up before she measured me… just like I would have.  The measurement is just to make the person feel better.  She comes back with a few bras.  These are the bra’s that I would have made some joke about when I was a 32C.  I would have said something like “Look Sonja, I can fit my ass cheeks in this!”

The size is ungodly, but it fits and lifts me back in the proper place. The girl jumps and claps her hands for joy when she sees me in a good bra.  I buy one.  I cringe at the price… and again see the parallel of the mom asking me if these bra’s ever go on sale.

Later in the mall, my husband comments on how I look different with the new bra.  I comment on how far I’ve let myself go.  He agrees with me.  He AGREED with me.  Ugh.  He notices.  How could he not?  I mope for a few hours.  At some point, walking around the mall, my husband says “remember when we used to shop at Abercrombie & Fitch and we didn’t look like idiot’s?”  haha.  Yes. I. Do.  He mentions that he is reduced to wearing IZOD shirts and Dockers.  He wonders what he has come to as well.  I feel some sense of camaraderie with him.  We are together.  We have aged together, born children… 3 of them, together.  Him gaining weight right along with me. I am oddly thankful for this.  We talk of making a pact to change our diets and lose weight.  We will start tonight, we say.

It seems to me that the things you say will “Never happen to you” …. always do.  It may be a few years, but life has a way of feeding you humble pie.

I am not the same person I was at 26, and in a lot of ways, I am thankful for that.  I have learned that there are far more important things in life than having the most expensive pair of jeans and a perfectly groomed exterior.  I have learned that my friends and family value me for the person that I am… not the person I appear to be.  I have learned that doing the very best job of mothering my kids, means that sometimes I will go without a shower, but they will not go without love.  I have not yet learned to love myself no matter what.  I have been in a state of “don’t look in the mirror” for a couple of years.  There must be some sort of balance that I have not found yet.  In the meantime, I vow to do my hair and makeup at least a couple of times a week and stick to a gluten-free diet.  I will think about retiring my maternity pants … and wear my new bra with pride

I finally made it out of the bathroom.  Asher did not stop screaming until we left and were walking to the childrens section.  All eyes were on me.  Or at least I thought they were.  Either way, I started sweating and stressing out.  The kids section was uneventful.  The baby was an angel, and Asher had worn himself out in his fit of rage.  Or so I thought.

We left to go to the van.  I realized that I needed to pump.  The baby didn’t nurse very well, but I was determined to keep my supply up…. so pumping every 3 hours was a must.  I loaded the kids up in the van.  Everyone seemed okay.  I sat in the back seat to pump.  I have privacy glass, so I felt pretty confident that I would be pumping in privacy.  Not yet considering the front and center parking place I had scored.  Pumping lasts about 15-20 minutes.  Quitting pumping in the middle feels like what I might compare with having a full bladder and only being able to empty it half way.  About 5 minutes into pumping, Asher decided that this was not fun.  He unleased his ungodly screams yet again and with renewed zeal.  I figured he would just cry himself out sooner or later… so although stressed out, I continued to pump.  A few minutes later a male security guard walked up to my van.  He obviously could hear Asher screaming.  Probably thinking that there was an abandoned child in my van, the well-meaning guard peered into the back window.  Directly at me.  Pumping.  All I could do was shrug and smile at him.  He immediately backed away, gesturing that everything was fine and to proceed with my pumping.  Wow.  No dignity left.  No pride left.  Praise the Lord I have a sense of humor and can have a great laugh now.

Hope you enjoyed a small snippet of my life.  These things happen weekly.  My kids embarass and humiliate me regurlarly.  Oh well.  I am learning to let go of my pride and sense that I am something special.  I get tummy aches and have to poop in kids toilets.  So what?  I freely pump in public. Oh well.  Life goes on, and so do I.

The Sara Bareillas song “Uncharted” is my new anthem.  It seems a bit depressing, and I’m not depressed exactly… I just really relate to the lyrics and feeling like I’m going into uncharted territory… and I’m completely out of foolproof ideas so I’m just going to walk forward.

Birth. 

Did I mention that I prayed for a drug free birth?  Ha.  Yes. I. Did. 

April 7th~ 12am:  Asher is really sick and fussing.  Tossing, rolling.  Uncomfortable.  I pick him up to walk him and try to get him back to sleep.  I walk with him for a few minutes and he settles down.  I stand by the side of my bed, ready to climb in and feel a pop and gush.  “Did I just pee myself!???”….. funny that this is always the first thought when I know full well that my water always breaks before birth and I am full term so… “okay, here we go!”

I feel excited and also strangely calm.  I walk across the house with a bath towel in my pants.  I go into Asher’s room, where Che is sleeping until he gets his snoring under control.  I inform him that my water has broken and we should start getting ready.  I’m holding Asher in my arms… water leaking out of the towel and down my leg.  This is an uncomfortable feeling.  Che has a hard time waking up and being rational at irrational hours.  He panics saying… “REALLY?  ARE YOU SURE?  WHAT DO I DO?!!!”  I told him to go shower and I would try to finish packing.  I’m still carrying Asher around.  He is not sleeping and has no interest in me setting him down.  I pack while i hold him.  Wet towel in my pants.  I wake Brynn up and help her pack.  It’s been a long time… and Che is missing.  I go into my bedroom and find him in our oversized shower… standing.  Soaking.  “clears throat*  Che, shouldn’t we get going?  Maybe I should get into the shower too?”  “Oh yeah”  he says.  Brynn and I get into the shower.  I help her wash… wash and shave myself.  I still haven’t felt many contractions.  Maybe none at all since my water has broken.  We get out of the shower.  I do my makeup, braid my hair, get dressed with a towel in my pants.  I have this vision of a beautiful, peaceful birth.   I have an outfit picked out.. I will refuse to wear that nasty hospital gown.  I will have Che take some pictures of me peacefully birthing our baby boy.  What an imagination I have!

About the time I finish doing my hair, and I am walking to the kitchen, a contraction hits me.  Doubles me over.  I grab onto the granite island for support.  Brynn is standing beside me and gets worried.  “Mom! Are you okay?”  me:  “Ccccaaant talk!!!” I grown the words out.  The contraction lifts and I stand upright once again.  I go switch the laundry and in the process of doing that…. “ugaahhhh!!!! ouch!”  I double over again.  This time grasping the washer.  I realize at this point that things are progressing.  I go find Che, who is laying down with Asher in our bed.  I tell him to make sure his mom is really on her way.  He calls, and she is nearly here.  Every 2 minutes, to the second I am contracting.  Each one harder and more painful than the one before.  I find myself kneeling on the floor of our living room… leaning forward against the couch.  Making guttural noises that might scare a priest.  Brynn crouches beside me, rubbing my neck saying: “Mom, focus on the neck rub… relax mom.  Breathe.”  What an awesome labor coach she was!  Che’s mom came in and took a look at me and instructed Che to get me in the car and hurry up. 

We were on our way.  It was snowing outside and about 2:20am.  I decided to get into the front seat rather than the back to lay down.  I didn’t want to temp fate.  We drove down our hill and into our town of Silverton.  For a moment, I wondered of maybe we should stop at the Silverton Hospital instead of Salem.  I was feeling a strange sensation of not being able to sit down.   I was holding myself up with the arm rests and my stiff legs.  I decided that I would feel very silly when we arrive in a huff at Silverton hospital and they announce that I am only 1 cm dilated and have many hours to go.  So I keep my mouth shut… well except for the loud groans and periodic screams. 

I begin to shake and feel nauseous.  We are just arriving into Salem… but still 10 minutes to go before we reach the hospital.  I really can’t sit down now… I am nearly squatting/standing as much as I can.  I am crying now…. I tell Che that I don’t want to do this… it hurts too much.  I can’t stand it.  He reassured me that I have no choice now and that I am strong and can do this.  We park,   I try to walk into the Emergency Department.  Brynn holds my hand.  I can barely walk.  I feel so much pressure like his head is working it’s way down and nearly out as I am walking.  I know I must hurry though… so I do.  We get into the Emergency Room.  I puke.  All the wonderful dinner I had made the night before… banana pancakes, latka’s…. all gone to waste   The nurses in the ER quickly run over… recognizing the signs of “transition”.  Transition is the time in labor when the mom is transitioning from active labor, to the pushing stage.  Basically the baby is ready to come out.  This usually causes shaking and nausea in a natural, unmedicated childbirth.

A nurse comes over… one who has apparently delivered a few babies.  She takes a look at me and says “if we hurry, we can get her to labor and delivery.. otherwise we’re delivering here.”.  They very quickly push me through some back hallways to labor and delivery in a gurney.  The nurse comes along incase we have what they call a “hallway delivery”.   They get me into a room and transferred into a bed and I begin to scream.  Yeah, you may think I’m being dramatic here.  I’m not.  I screamed like the exorcist.  I inform them through a scream that I must push now.  They told me not to because they haven’t examined me yet.  Then they do examine me.  The nurse says I’m at 6 cm.  I didn’t belive them.  My body told me to push and push I would do.  I had absolutely no control of what my body did at this point.  I grabbed the side rail and bore down.  HARD.  My eyeballs felt like popping out.  Just at that point, my doctor ran in.  The nurses quickly robed her in her delivery gear and she rushed over.   She examined me and announced that I was “complete” and could indeed push. DUH!!!  I’m still laying on my side with a death grip on the side rail.  They tell me to roll onto my back.  This seems impossible to me.  I say “NO!”.  Che says “Honey, you can’t deliver laying on your side.”  I yell…no scream, “YEEESSSS I CANNNN!!!!!”  They laugh and push me over to my back.  Grab my legs and guide my hands to hold the backs of my legs.  This was all I needed.  I bore down with all my might.  With that first push in this position, his head nearly crowned.  With the next one his head came out.  I felt the ripping and tearing and burning… what they call in natural childbirth the “Ring of fire”.  Yeah, not exaggerating.  I had to stop pushing.  He had a cord around his neck.  Then I can push again.  I push one more time… and out he flew.  I yell as he arrives… “PRAISE THE LORD!!!”  I suppose it may have sounded a bit southern Baptist… I didn’t mean it that way.  What I meant was “Thank the Lord this awful pain in my crotch is over!”  

They laid him on my chest.  I began to shake again.  The pain did not go away.  Now everything hurt… of course not as intensely as before… but now I ached.  I shook for 2 hours. I had torn in 2 places from the sheer speed of delivery.  They finally gave me something for pain.  I took half of what they told me to take.  I just needed to take the edge off.  It did, thankfully. 

Now, my thoughts on natural childbirth are muddy.  I did a lot of reading while pregnant with this one. I became very convinced that a purely natural childbirth was the very best thing for the baby and for me as well.  I am not so sure now.  I was in so much pain, I had a hard time bonding with my baby.  I held him and nursed him, but was cringing with so much pain, that it wasn’t pleasant at all.  Both of my previous births were with an epidural.  I am not advocating for drugs over an unmedicated birth… but I know for me, it wasn’t as euphoric as I had read about.  I was more euphoric after having Asher when I wasn’t in an incredible amount of pain after birth. 

The Lord answered my prayer, however and I praise Him for that.  I have now experienced about every sort of childbirth you can.  I think I must have a future delivering babies or something…. with all this experience, I must have something in store like that

So, now it’s late and I know I have other thoughts I had planned on sharing… but I have a hungry baby and I am needing some sleep.  I will blog again when I can find the time.

Love to you all and thanks for all of the blessings of your friendships and support!!!

Fast forward to arriving at the hospital.  All of that went smoothly as well.  I hated saying goodbye to my kids.  I realize that while I complain that I never get a break, never leave the house with out them in tow… don’t sleep, blah blah blah… I love them more than life!!  … and I actually don’t like to be away from them much at all.  I snuggled Asher in his car seat, knowing that I was running late and should be heading for Labor and Delivery, but just couldn’t get enough of his sweet baby smell… soft hair snuggled in my neck and fingers tangled up in my hair.  Brynn looked at me with concern and said “I love you mom, I’m sorry you won’t have fun today… I’ll see you soon and you will be okay.”  Sweet girl!  What would I do without her wisdom?

My mother in law and I walked the 3 miles to Labor & Delivery.  The hospital is under some serious construction… so it really was a crazy walk.  I contracted the whole way and had to stop once to breathe.  Once we got there, they quickly led us into my room.  It was the one I gave birth to Asher in.  Sweet!  The nurse was named Wendy.  She was very tall and very kind.  My IV, which is usually a nightmare, went in on her first try.  I should have known that things were going too easily.  I kept remembering all of the kind words of my friends and thinking of all of the faithful prayers going up to heaven for me and my baby.  This kept me calm and unworried for the most part.

I was led into the operating room where I met my awesome doctor.  He told me that he would like to try to remove the stitch without any pain meds… that if he could do it quickly enough, the pain wouldn’t last long and I could recover much quicker.  I agreed that I was up for trying that.  ~Mistake.

The room filled with all sorts of people in blue scrubs.  I was introduced to each one.  A resident, a med student, the hospitalist, the surgery technician, a couple of nurses…. and someone else who wanted to observe, maybe another resident, but it’s blurry to me now.  I just remember thinking “Lovely, all of these folks are here to stare at my ‘hoo hah’.”  In reality, I know they were there because my stitch was to be the “hard case” of the day.  The one to educate these young docs on the difficulty of a complicated cerclage removal… and I did not disappoint! 

The procedure began.  Severe pain from the start.  A pulling/ripping/stabbing/tearing sensation ensued.  I tried to breathe, go to a happy place, pray, yell, moan to get through it.  They stopped periodically to discuss how to proceed.  The stitch would not budge.  The knot was sticking out, but they couldn’t find enough stitch (shoestring) to snip.  The stitch had become very very tight around my cervix and no amount of pulling was loosening it.  I felt like they were ripping my insides out with pliers.  Not good.  After 20 minutes or so of this and me finally giving in to tears and one “Oh Mother!” … my doc decided it was enough torture for one day.  He announced that he couldn’t put me through any more pain and what they needed to do next was going to hurt way too bad not to call in the anesthesiologist.

A girl of 18 came into the room and introduced herself as my anesthesiologist.  And you know what?  I didn’t care… just make this awful pain go away!  She did a ‘saddle block’ which is like an epidural, but lower and a little more concentrated in the area they needed to work.  They work fast and well.  My legs went dead within 5 minutes.  I couldn’t move or feel anything at all. 

The group of onlookers filed back in.  Walking around down by my fully exposed girl parts.  They circled around staring.  Nice.  This is so surreal, I was thinking.  Who gets to have 10 people in a room staring at their crotch with avid curiosity? … don’t answer that.   That’s not me at all!  ick.

Now that I couldn’t feel anything, I thought it was going to go a lot faster.  Not so.  My doc struggled for another long period of time.  People from the group were chiming in with ideas on what might work.  Finally they got out this tool that I can’t remember the name of… but the nurse said “Woah, good thing you can’t feel anything!”  … and a few moments later my doc stood up with a bloody shoestring in some pliers and showed me the miracle that has kept my baby growing … and the curse that just caused me torturous pain and incalculable humiliation.  I wanted to burn it.  Destroy it.  Yet at the same time, I realize that I must also acknowledge that shoestring was my path to motherhood.

I started feeling funny.  Dizzy, my vision bliry.  I could hear on the operating room monitor, my heart rate slow way down, then speed up.  Nobody said anything and neither did I.  I just wanted out of that room no matter what.  They transported me back to my room.  I began shaking, and started feeling like I couldn’t breathe well.  The monitor started beeping and looking over, I could see that my oxygen saturation was going down pretty low.  All of a sudden I felt sick and like I was going to pass out cold.  My mother in law called the nurse and I proceeded to puke over the side of the bed.  A couple of nurses ran in.  My mother in law said I was white as a sheet.  I kept throwing up, couldn’t stop.  Things were a blur for a bit and it was explained to me later that my blood pressure bottomed out from the spinal.  Something that can happen I guess.  My bp went down to 80/48 for a while.  I felt that I might be dying.  They ran lots of fluids really fast into my IV, elevated my feet and changed my position a few times before it finally started coming up.  They were concerned with the baby for a little bit, because low bp affects the baby.  The little guy was a champ though and didn’t go into distress at all. 

After that, I was monitored pretty closely for a while.  When it was apparent that I was doing fine, they allowed me to eat.  It was my first meal in 24 hours!  I was so hungry!  The food was total crap, but I didn’t care and ate it all!  It took something like 5 hours for me to regain feeling in my legs… and not completely, but enough that I could hobble to the bathroom and get dressed.  They allowed me to go home sometime after 6 pm I think.  I’m fuzzy on the exact time.

I am home now and in a moderate amount of pain.  I am not dilated and am 50% effaced or thinned out.  I go in to see my new doctor tomorrow morning bright and early.  They will check my dilation then as well.

The kids had a wonderful day with their Auntie at OMSI.  They completely wore her out I’m afraid!  But I am very grateful that she was there for them.  My mother in law was very supportive and I was very glad to have her there.  It was sad to me that Che was not able to be there because he is so new in his position, but when I arrived home, he had completely cleaned and organized the kitchen!  He said it was his gift to me so that I don’t have to worry about cleaning it tomorrow.  That was so sweet!

I am blessed.  I see this clearly.  I am so glad this is over and never to be repeated!  Now it’s just waiting on this little man and when he will decide to make his appearance!

Thank you to everyone who kept up on fb with me today!  Thank you so much for your prayers, thoughts and love!  I am so lucky to have such a wonderful, devoted group of family and friends!  I am a blessed girl!

Zombies.  Why is it that grown men seem to fall into this conversation?  You must have heard it or at least participated once.  “Dude, wouldn’t it be cool if Zombies invaded?”  …. the conversation continues to the logistics of eliminating the mindless, staggering corpses, survival and repopulation.  What weapon is best… where to hide out.  It can be a fascinating subject, I admit.  I’ve been drawn into this conversation more than once. 

The subject of survival and escape is very close to some of the conversations I heard growing up.  Usually conversations had over Sabbath lunch or potluck at church.  The SDA church, or to narrow the spectrum a bit, the SDA church I grew up in, seemed to focus on the “End Times” of Revelation and Daniel quite obsessively.  To the point that when purchasing a new pair of shoes, my mother would be sure that the tread was of “good hiking/running” material.  So that when we had to run for our lives up into the hills, I would be sure to have the proper shoes for that activity.  My aging father even mentioned the hiking boots he bought a few years back as being “good and sturdy” for a quick escape if the “Sunday Law” is passed.  *If you don’t know what the “Sunday Law” is, don’t worry.  It’s an SDA thing   Nevermind that he was oh… 80 years old at the time and in slightly failing health.  I’m thinking a good hike is not out of the relm of possibility….. but…. uh.  “Okay dad, good for you.”

I’m not saying that I don’t agree with some of the churches stands on the ‘end of days’ , but I would rather focus my energy on my relationship with my father in heaven, than to worry about the proper foot wear.  I would rather allow the spirit to work in me and reflect the light of Christ, than come up with the best woods to try to survive in.

I am not doing a great job of reflecting right now.  I have been stuck pretty deeply into some sort of funk.  Depression.  Call it what you will.  I am grieving the loss of my plans… and trying to praise the Lord for His plans.  I am having such a hard time being happy to have this next baby.  Not that I don’t want him.  I do.  I just don’t want to give up my sanity, sleep, etc etc.  I’ve been pregnant for 18 months out of the past 2 years.  I. am. done.  I feel like the life is being sucked out of me by a leach.  … and if you consider for a second, it is.  Some women would welcome having lots of kids close together… not I.  I like to shower, eat food, have time to exercise and care for myself.  I am selfish in that way, I admit.  God’s plans are bigger than mine.  Praise Him for His patience with me as I stomp my foot and yell “I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”  Newborns are hard.  Newborns, one year olds and gifted 7 year olds all together… add in a pinch of a husband who works his tail off and often works late…. what do you get?  A married yet also in some ways single mother.  I know a handful of women who handle this same situation with grace and a very positive attitude.  I am not them.  Although I do know that God is working something out in me.  Squeezing out the selfishness, pride and arrogance.  Like juicing an orange.  Probably painful, but amazing, sweet juice in the end.

Well, enough random thoughts for tonight folks.  I have to try to sleep… even though I will probably not be successful.  Love and peace to you all.

~Heidi

I left home when I was 17.  Unnanounced.  AWOL.  I was aided by some adults who saw my life for what it was.  I got as far away as I could.  Literally.  I didn’t call home until I was quite near 18… for fear that I would be forced to go back.  I turned 18, became an adult… but was so very very nieve.  Innocent. 

It is such an unfortunate thing that there are predators out there who prey on girls like me.  I made some bad choices to be sure.  Only, the bad choices one makes at 18-21 years old are far worse than the ones that I should have made as a youngster at home… learning to be independent.

I have to take responsibility for my choices, regardless of the setting events in my life, but it’s hard sometimes not to look back and yearn to do it all over.  I wish things had been different for me.  I wish I had the wisdom and knowledge and boundaries when I set out into the world.  The tools to make good choices.

I am pondering all of this today.  I had an old friend who I hurt terribly.  We were all in our early 20′s.  I had very little self-respect and no boundaries.  I did what I was told by those I found more powerful than myself… which was everyone.  Her husband fell in love with me, asked me to run away with him.  Kissed me.  I knew I needed to exit it right away. I was living with them and I did the only thing I knew how to do… I ran away.  He confessed to her of his feelings for me and the indiscretions.  I never confronted any of the issues with any of the parties involved for years.  I just kept out of sight.  Once, she showed up at the shop I worked in.  She hugged me and said that she forgave me.  The only stupid thing I could say was “I never slept with him”.   I had some chances after that to talk with her… and didn’t. 

Fast forward to present.  I found her on facebook.  I friend requested her.  I expected her to not accept.  She did accept.  For one week… I was praying for the words.  They never came.  A week later, I found that she deleted me and blocked me.  Meaning that I can’t even search for her.  I immediately prayed and heard a voice saying “Wait”.  It’s been about a month and I keep thinking about her.  Replaying it all.  Guilt and this enormous need to make amends is consuming me.  Not that amends could be made… but I would just like to say I am sorry.  I would like her to know that her pain has not gone unknown.  That I hate myself for my part in hurting her.  That I am not proud of myself, my life or my choices at that time. 

I hope that someday I will have the opportunity to say those things to her.  I praise the lord for forgiving me and for bringing me through those years and into more maturity and wisdom.  I praise the Lord that I have learned proper boundaries.  I cringe when I think of all of the rotten things I was party to… simply because I had no backbone.  Things I knew full well were wrong, but did anyway for fear of upsetting someone. 

I have a daughter now, and she reminds me a lot of me. If nothing else, she will benefit from my path through the ugliness of human nature.  I will give her a voice.  Teach her that her opinions matter and that her voice needs to be heard and respected.  Give her the tools to learn how to make decisions.  Catch her when she falls.  Pick her up from her mistakes and support her to learn from them.  Home will be a safe place, not a prison.

I am thankful that, for my daughter’s sake I have walked a rough road and learned many lessons.  I am thankful that through it all God was with me.  His hand visible the entire way.  I am thankful for the forgiveness of my father in heaven and of the poor humans along the way whom I have hurt and made amends.  I am thankful that I am now closer to living up to the meaning of my name.  Heidi~ Honor.  Ann~ Grace.  I took the long road and am most certainly still a traveler… but have found a better path.

Brynn and I always go to the same spa to have our pedicures.  We go once or twice a year… splurging on a wonderful spa experience.  We go to the Coldwater Creek Spa, where we are pampered from beginning to end.  Lavender eye masks… essential oils, reclining chairs with warm blankets, soft music.  We pay for this experience mind you… and $45 ends up being $55 when you add in gratuity.  $110 just wasn’t going to happen at this juncture… so Envy Nail it was.

I drive by Envy Nail daily.  It’s in Silverton and right on the way into town from my house.  It’s in a nice area… has a nice store front, so I just assumed it must be fine.  I knew it would not be the same pampering experience exactly, but hoped it would be fun for us regardless.

The evening started off with a lovely misunderstanding with my husband.  After ** clears throat, working that out… Brynn and I drove the 6 minutes to the shop.  Walking in, we were greeted by a very strong odor.  Brynn immediately looked up at me and crinkled up her nose.  We walked forward.  An asian lady, who was doing someone’s nails and had a mask on, said something to us… however, for the life of me, after asking 3 times for her to repeat it.. I gave up and nodded.  Walking in the direction she pointed, Brynn and I found ourselves at the door to the restroom.  We did not question why we were ordered to go to the bathroom… we just walked in and shut the door.  Standing there staring at each other in confusion… I ask Brynn if she understood any of that.  She confirmed that she did not.  We stood in there for what seemed the “right” amount of time and then walked out.  We walked back to the front of the shop, looked totally confused I’m sure.  Another asian lady came up to us and pointed towards the bathroom again.  This time with some insistence… so we followed her.  Turns out that the nail polish colors were mounted on the wall next to the bathroom door.  Perfect.  Brynn and I giggle and pick out our colors.

We are directed back to these really tall chairs with tubs for your feet.  At 6 months pregnant… I am still pretty agile, but it took a bit of maneuvering to get myself seated up so high.  An asian man came over and seated himself in front of my feet.  I have never had an asian man do my nails… hmmm.  interesting.  He did not speak a lick of english, nor did the older asian woman doing Brynn’s feet.  Brynn and I exchange glances… she looks uncomfortable, leans over and says “mom, this place stinks, what’s that smell?”  Realizing that she meant the fumes from the fake nails being applied a few feet to our left, I began to obsess on something I read about those fumes being bad for pregnant women… or more specifically the babies.  Great.

The tall chairs we are seated in begin to vibrate and massage us.  The jets come on in the tubs for our feet.  I begin to relax just a bit.  The man picks up one of my feet and begins working.  I am pretty observant when it comes to people.  I watch him.  I quickly notice that he has a finger that bends in the wrong direction.  I have to give him credit though… as he uses this to his advantage while scrubbing, filing and painting.  My eyes try to find a place to rest… somewhere to look where I am not staring at a rogue finger.  My eyes fall on the TV.  The volume is not up very loud.. but it takes exactly no time for me to figure out what is on.  WWE.  What?  Why?  These folks don’t speak any english… so they are totally missing out on the characters witty dialogue and even better insults to one another.  Then there is the feud between the 2 “hot” chick wrestlers… one of them goes into a rampage, grabbing a weight belt and wrapping it around the other woman’s neck.  The drama is so realistic.  It’s hard to believe they are paid actors.  I notice that Brynn is also watching this… and am brought back to mama mode.  I’d really rather she not be exposed to the fascinating world of WWE at 7 years old, so I try to engage her in conversation.  We are drown out by the chatter of all of the spa employees.  They are talking in their native tongue and laughing.  I am brought back to a time when my best friend from my early 20′s dragged me into one of those places in the mall.  It had a neon sign out front… some weird combination of adjectives and nouns that made exactly no sense.  Walking in, there were pictures of hands holding random objects in strange positions, illustrating some hideous nail designs from the 1980′s.  I had protested having my nails done… but my friend was getting married and insisted that I have my “nasty, chewed nails fixed”.  I never returned to any of those places.  I even have retained a bit of PTSD… as I shudder each time I walk by one in the mall and catch a whiff of the surely cancer causing fumes.  Yet, here I sit again. 

The man gave a mean pedicure… I will give him that.  He scrubbed and filed my heels down to the bone.  He trimmed, snipped and jammed cuticle’s into place.  And finally, he perfectly painted my toes.  I probably sighed some relief when he got to the painting part… the pain was over.  But, what’s this?  something felt sharp as he was cleaning up the paint around my toe nails.  I look down and notice a VERY long thumb finger nail on this man.  It was like he purposely grew that nail out so that he could use it to scrape off the excess polish.  Dedication!

The woman working on Brynn, had moved on to her finger nails.  I immediately blushed.  I realize that I had not trimmed her nails in a long time… and she is notorious for letting them grow out and get all snarly and gross.  What would this woman think of me?  Of my ability to take care of my daughter since I allowed her nails to become so disgusting?  As I am pondering all of this… the man motions me over to this wall where he set up a chair for me to sit in.  All fine, except that the chair is facing the wall.  What?  I’m supposed to face the wall?  Then I notice that there is a flourescent light under a shelf in the wall.  Oh! Okay, I remember this from the mall.  He wants me to put my feet under the light to help them dry.  Okay.  Problem.  The ledge is really at hand height.  I have always been limber… so I sling my pregnant feet up and on the ledge.  Ugh… uncomfortable.  And my pants are falling down because my legs are all jacked up on this ledge.  I can hear the giggles.  I take my feet down and notice that there is also a lower shelf~ at foot height.  Ha!  This is my life.

As I’m fumbling around with flourescent lighting, another woman goes over the help finish up Brynn.  They ended up hand painting some snowflakes and putting sparkly jewels on Brynn’s toes.  She got the works!  She was smiling from ear to ear.  We sat for a bit, then the man came over and put our sandals on for us.

I paid, tipped and thanked them all.  Brynn and I rode home… she was so excited about her snowflakes.  She was also plotting some practical joke on her dad.  One involving the pumice and scrubber we were sent home with.

I’m not sure if we will return… the WWE was admittedly tasteful, our nails were beautiful and the people nice.  The price was about half that of Coldwater Creek…. but the spa experience was missing for sure.  Brynn and I go as much for the pampering as the pretty nails at the end.  Maybe Aveda next time?  … somewhere in between Envy Nail and Coldwater Creek would be wonderful to find.

9:30pm-awake, crying. Feed bottle.

10pm- I am finished with my duties and retire to bed.

11:30pm- Asher awake, crying~ writhing around really.  I pick up, hold rock.  Back asleep half hour later.

12:30am- Asher awake, crying.  I pick up, hold, rock~ doesn’t work.  Make a bottle.  Back asleep half hour later.

2am- Asher awake crying like in pain.  I pick up, rock, soothe… doesn’t work.  He’s wide awake.  I change diaper, keep the room dark, continue to rock.  Try to feed.  He’s not hungry, but wide awake.  We remain in this state for 2 hrs.  4am-back asleep.

5:30am- Asher awake.  Hungry.  I feed a bottle to him.  falls asleep fairly quickly.

6am- Asher awake.  It’s morning.  Good morning world!

6:30am- Brynn and Che awake.  I get up with Asher to assist in morning duties.  Making lunch, helping Brynn with spelling, getting her dressed, doing hair. 

7:30am-Brynn and Che leave.

7:35am- I feed Asher and eat a banana myself while cleaning the kitchen.

8am- clean Asher up from breakfast.  Start some laundry, fold laundry and put it away.  All the while keeping a crawling/nearly walking baby alive by the skin of his teeth.

8:15am- Asher appears sleepy.  Jackpot!  I give a bottle and snuggle till he falls asleep.

8:40am- my phone rings.  I decide not to answer it.  Then reconsider when I realize it could be about my dad or Brynn at school.  It’s my sister, so I ignore (sorry Kim). 

9:15am-Asher awake.  Nap over.

The rest of the morning is a series of misadventures inevitable for a severely sleep deprived mama and mildly sick boy.  The past 3 weeks have been repeats of these events.  varying some during the day, but not at night.  I estimate that I get about 4.5 hrs of sleep in about 1 hour stretches.  Prior to 3 weeks ago, Asher was not sleeping well either, but maybe going 2-3 hours between wakings.  I’ve taken him to the pediatrician twice in 3 weeks.  He is currently on strong probiotics because of diarrhea for the past week.  I know he is not feeling well.  There might be something more I could do if he was healthy and feeling fine.  Not to be.

Bed rest you ask?  hahahahahahahahahaha!!! oh sorry, I got carried away.  I’m back to pretty much full housework, minus scrubbing the floor or toilets.  I drive around, grocery shop, get on the floor to play or rescue Asher.  Lift, carry, squat, bend, reach, pull, jog to rescue either child from disaster. 

I’ve lost weight in this pregnancy where I have not yet gained anything.  I don’t feel like eating anymore.  I forget for half the day and only remember because I’m feeding one of the kids.  I keep getting asked if I’m okay.  HA!  Yeah, I’m okay.  I’m nearly at the “on the roof with a high-powered weapon” phase… but yeah, I’m okay.

I feel like I’m robbing the baby growing in my belly, to care for the other 2 I already have.  Why am I doing this?  This feels like too much.  I want to go away.  I want to go somewhere where I can be alone to sleep.  I feel like I just want to sleep and not wake up.  I think I need to up my antidepressant dose, and see a good Therapist, join a support group.  But really, all I need is some sleep.  The one thing I can not have.

I’ve been surviving by isolating myself.  Rarely leaving the house unless I must go to the store, pick Brynn up from school or some other chore/duty that calls me.  I have some friends who bravely make the trek up the Silverton hills to visit me, but otherwise, I see no one… rarely talk to anyone.

I rationalize that I need to try to sleep when I can and if I’m running around town, Asher sleeps in the car and I miss my opportunity… I am drowning…. slowly.  Losing sight of myself.  I am nothing but a nanny, babysitter, housekeeper.  None of the good parts of motherhood are happening now, and all of the things I might like to do for myself are gone.

It’s taken me 2 hours to write this.  I felt that I just needed to get the words out.  I am sorry for whoever reads this and has a bad day as a result.  But thank you for hearing me.

The week following the procedure was very dull.  My mother in law came to stay with us to help me with Asher while I was unable to be up.  The week went alright.  She is a great cook and an easy person to get along with.  She did however, drop a bomb about not being able to come stay with us M-F as we had planned.  While I am in bed, we will need someone to care for Asher mostly, but me too with meals and such.  She had told us that she was going to move in with us during the week, and we counted on that.  Well, bomb dropped and we should have expected it really.  She gave many reasons as to why she couldn’t help.  I’m trying to wrap my brain around it still.  I know it isn’t my place to judge someone, but it is a bit hard not to be angry when a very important commitment is broken.  I don’t know what we will do still.  She has decided that she will come Tue-Thurs.  So I just need to find help on Monday and Friday.  I seems easy enough… except that I now live a town away from where I used to and all of my friends are very busy women.  God will come through.  I am praying for an answer. 

I had my post OP checkup last week.  It went great.  My cervix is measuring 4cm… which is very good.  The perfect number really and one by which the rest of the pregnancy will be measured.    My doc said that for the next 3 weeks, I should be okay to be up a bit more.  Meaning, I can care for Asher at home…I can have some outings as long as I don’t lift or walk very far.  I have been so happy to be able to be up and be able to care for my baby.  I hate being a burden on others.  It was so different last time.  Now, I must have someone here all day for Asher.  Before, I could just stay in bed and have food close at hand.  Well, I knew this was not going to be easy.  God has some big plans I’m afraid.  I say that with trepidation because the big plans usually involve some degree of character growth which is not always fun.  But regardless, here we go.  I will trust.

The baby already appears to be a boy.  We will know for sure in a few weeks.  I guess Asher needs a good buddy

So that’s it folks… the last couple of weeks in my life.  Sorry this post was not as exciting or funny as most. I have been in a funk lately, but am finding my way back.

Thanks for all of your encouragement and prayers!

It was July.  I had not seen any of my friends since the end of May.  I was lonely beyond belief.  The phone was locked away.  I had to sneak calls to friends in order to speak to anyone my age.  I did not leave the house except for church… and a very close eye was kept on me there.   Once in a great while, I was allowed to attend a youth event at our church…. but not without stern warnings and usually my stepmom very close at hand to watch.  I’m not totally sure what I did to warrant all of this.  Mostly I’m pretty sure it had to do with my dad’s extreme fear and radical ideas.  I had some strong beliefs of my own.  I was not going to do any drugs, drink or have sex before marriage.  But nevermind that…. Obviously I was a “bad seed”.  Or at the least, treated like one.

So one day in July, my dear friends mother called my stepmom and asked if I could come with their family for a picnic the next day.  I guess my parents could not come up with a good reason why I couldn’t… so they said I could go.  I was ecstatic! So excited to be getting out of the house and having fun with my friend in the summer.  I loved her family too and was eager to see her older sister, younger brother and mother.

Next morning came.  I woke up so happy.  I should have known.  I came out of my room for breakfast.  My parents announced that my stepsister and I had a chore to complete before I could go with my friend.  They led us outside and pointed to the huge amount of white garden rocks that suddenly needed to be washed.  Not a bucket full mind you.  Something like 20 buckets full.  We were given a tooth-brush and dish soap.  At first I thought “Okay, I can do this.  I just need to figure out a quick way”.  So I began by pouring out a quarter of the bucket into the wheelbarrow, pouring soap and water in and swishing it all around.  One thing we found was that the rocks were impossible to rinse off.  They were so soapy.  Once we had the first batch rinsed, my stepmom came out to check on our progress.  She could see right away that we were not following “procedure” and had come up with a short cut.  She reported that the rocks were not clean enough and we were to scrub each with the toothbrush before then rinsing it and placing it on the tarp to dry. 

It didn’t take me long to figure out that I would be unable to go on the outing with my friend.  I sat down on the ground and cried.  Then, determined to not give up.  I got up, wiped my face and started to clean rock by tacky, dreadful rock.  They sparkled.  Tears ran during the process… I continued to wipe my face and scrub-rinse-repeat.

I had gotten through maybe 2 buckets when my friend and her family drove up.  They all got out of the car and came up to me looking quite confused.  Through my dirty, tear-stained face I thanked them for coming, but told them why I could not come.  Almost without missing a beat, their mom… a larger woman, rolled up her sleeves, took my toothbrush and started scrubbing.  The older sister found another scrub brush lying around and began scrubbing as well.  Soon, all of us were scrubbing and rinsing nasty white garden rocks. 

Not long into it, we all were laughing, telling stories and having a good time.  My parents came out of the house to see what was going on.  Once they noticed we all were washing the dumb rocks, they shrugged and went back inside.  It was late afternoon before we were finished.  Too late for the picnic.  When they hugged me and left to return home, I found that I was not angry or sad anymore.  It did not matter that we were scrubbing disgusting white garden rocks… we were enjoying each others company. 

I learned a little about compassion that day.  My friends could have turned around and had their picnic without me, but instead they all jumped in my pit with me.

My situation today is not much different.  My friends and family could easily turn their backs on me… go on living their lives like nothing is happening.  Instead, my friends and family are ready to jump in my pit and help me. 

I am so grateful for friends who are so devoted as to roll up their sleeves and wash rocks with me.  Who are graceful and compassionate enough to clean my bathroom when I can’t.  To cook a meal when I am in bed, to care for my children.  You all are the arms of Christ.  Reaching out and serving.

I thank God daily for you!