Goodbye Joy, Hello Truth

It's New Year's Eve, and I could not be more ready for this year to end.  To be honest, I feel like I have been dealing with ever bigger struggles since we first started having trouble conceiving in 2008 and I am terrified about the year ahead.  Meds and surgeries in 2009; IVF and rough pregnancy in 2010; CHD diagnosis, hospitalizations, heart caths, and open-heart surgery in 2011; miscarriage and failed IVF in 2012; IVF, rough pregnancy, CHD, rough delivery, surgeries, deaths, and hospitalizations in 2013; surgeries, hospitalizations, depression, and Patrick's death in 2014.  Six years of increasingly difficult experiences.  I am tapped out.  I don't know if I can handle any more.  I know that I said that last year, and that this year was much worse and I'm still standing.  It has become obvious that each time I have said enough, the universe has tested me and pushed me and showed me that, in fact, it could give me more and I would survive.  I'm also well aware that there are many worse things that could be sent my way.  I don't want them.  I am trying desperately not to challenge the universe.  I don't want to know how strong I can be.

At the same time, I don't want to focus on the negatives.  I want to focus on something positive, under the theory that we manifest those things on which we focus our energy.  As 2015 has approached, I began the task of figuring out my word for the year.  Let me back up--in my family, instead of make New Year's resolutions, we pick a word or attribute that we want to focus on, work on, or manifest in the year ahead.  I have previously picked words like discernment and abundance.  One year, I picked patience, before I knew better.  Last year, having had such a crummy 2013, I picked joy.  I wanted to manifest joy in my life.  Hahahahaha!  What I got was lots of opportunities to find joy in the rough and tumble world of hospitals and death.  As a result of the experiences this year, I've been (I think reasonably) scared of picking my word for 2015.  I felt like it needed to be "perfect"; that, somehow, if I could just pick the right word, I will have an easier year in 2015.

I thought I had finally managed to narrow it to three:  miracles, release, and connection.  Then, this afternoon, I read an article by someone else who was picking a word for next year.  The article included a list of questions to ask in formulating said word.  In asking myself those questions, I came up with a few other thoughts, including success, family, truth, comfort, and insight.  As I tried to decide which of these words would be the best one to select, it occurred to me that I was picking my word out of fear.  Fear that it would be hard.  Fear that it would bring more struggles and grief.  I was, once again, trying to outsmart God--as though that were actually possible.  So, I tried my best to get my head out of it.  I wrote the words on paper, folded them, put them in a hat, and picked one.  The result was unexpected.  Of all the ones I thought might come up, this wasn't it.  Maybe that's why it came up.  Who knows.  For good or ill, my word for 2015 is:

Truth

And as I thought about the word, I was reminded of a line of a covenant from a church I attended in my youth:  to seek the truth in love.  So, I wrote my own covenant for the year, to help keep me on track with my word:

Love is the spirit of my life,

And truth shall be its law.

I will seek the truth in love.

I will speak my truth with love.

And I will help others find their truth.

This is my covenant.

So, goodbye #Joy2014 and hello #Truth2015.  See you next year.

Children and Grace

Confession time:  I cut church on Sunday.  I didn't feel like going, but Mira really wanted to, so I got up and got us ready, and off we went.  When her godmother and friend showed up, she ran off to be with them, so I slipped out and went to go visit Patrick.  Turns out, it was probably better that way.  Not sure I could've handled what came next.  The details aren't exact, since I got the story second-hand, but you'll get the idea.

So, at Storytime, Phil called all the kids up.  Once they arrived, he said something innocuous like, is everyone here?  One little boy, whose little sister was in the nursery, said, "No.  My baby is in the nursery."  Mira then says, "My baby's dead."  *oof*  Just hearing that as a story kicked me in the stomach; it's probably good I wasn't there.  Anyway, whispers ran through the congregation and people tried to find out or confirm what she said.  Phil said something like, "Yes.  And that makes us sad," and then managed to get thing back on track.

But then, a beautiful thing happened.  The kids were dismissed to Sunday School, and Mira and her friends went/ran to the toddler room as usual.  One of her good friends, who just turned three, ran into the room, grabbed a doll, ran back to Mira and gave it out to her, saying, "Here's your baby, Mira.  His name is Patrick."  Mira hugged the baby and apparently it was just what she needed at the time.

How is it that a four-year-old's truth can cut us to the quick and a three-year-old can know just how to bring comfort.  It was a moment of Grace.  I'm just glad I only heard about it--I would have been unable to function if I had witnessed it.

I Am Not Wonder Woman

Truly, I'm not.  And it's hard to admit.  I wish I was Wonder Woman.  I *want* to own that mantle.  It took me forever to accept the label when people first started using it.  And, I think, maybe I was for a while.  But, not anymore.  Now?  Now, I'm just broken.  I don't care that I haven't showered in days.  My alarm goes off, but I can't bring myself to get up.  My mind tells me I need to get up and go to work, but I can't manage to convince my body.  My poor husband, who is also overwhelmed with his own grief, and who doesn't get a pass on the holidays what with being a pastor, is now shouldering the burden of caring for a wife who is succumbing to her grief, and a 4-year-old who is struggling with things much too old for her, as well as the normal 4-year-old stuff.  He's Superman--at least to me (I dunno--maybe he doesn't want a mantle either?).  Still, somehow, he can drag himself out of bed to take care of church things--big church things like funerals, and small church things like a weekly bulletin.  Me?  I am forcing myself to type this in the hopes it will help me get my stuff together and get my butt back to work where I can earn money.  

It doesn't help that I feel guilty because I gave in to the need to fill the hole inside me by buying "stuff," thinking I was eligible for disability pay while I recovered from my surgery.  Nope.  GUILT!!  Phil takes Mira to daycare in the morning while I stay curled up under Patrick's frog blanket--my ever present friend since he died.  GUILT!!  To my credit, I made it to my mental health evaluation this week. They will have some counselor recommendations as well as any other services they think might help me next week, but in the meantime, I seem to just be sinking further down the grief hole.  When the counselor asked me if I could *briefly* describe why I was there, I told her the short answer was the death of my 10-month-old son in September, but the truth is, I have been swimming upstream since 2008 and just can't seem to catch a break.  Have there been moments of joy and fun?  Absolutely.  But, if I were to take one of those stress inventories, I imagine I would create a whole new high score.  I watched as the counselor maintained her outer professional facade, while her mind tried to figure out how I was still standing.  Even as we spoke, and I kept remembering other things to mention as we talked, even to me, it sounded like a joke.  Like, truly, no one could possibly have to deal with all that crap in a 6-year period.  Up until now, I had managed to avoid most of the addictions to which people succumb when they are finally overwhemeled (except food, of course, but that one is socially acceptable).  But, the spending thing scares me.  

I grew up without, so when I finally got access to a credit card, I went whole hog.  By the time Phil and I married, I was 24 and $60,000 in debt, only $25,000 of which was student loans.  We worked hard to get ourselves to a comfortable place--more than comfortable, really.  Even though we financed it, we were able to do four rounds of IVF.  Four!  But two medically-needy kids and lots of time away from work to care for them blew through what we had.  Friends, family, even people we don't know, have been extremely generous to us.  And we were making it.  We had enough to get by until my scheduled return to work.  Then, I let myself "comfort buy."  Please know--we're not currently in danger of losing our house.  We put things on a credit card with a high interest rate that we had intended to pay off without interest, and now have to pay the interest.  We're ok.  For now.  But if I can't reign this shopping thing back in--if I can't get my grief under control to the point where I can get back to work, we could get there.  And it scares me.

So, no, I am not Wonder Woman.  I am not *coping*.  I am broken and falling apart.  And you, my friends, my readers, my support people, you deserve to know that.  Or rather, I deserve to let you know that.  So, when you ask how I am, and I say "fine," know that I'm lying to you.  I am not fine.  In time, I may get there--I sure hope so.  But, I'm not wonder woman.  Not right now anyway.  Hopefully, with time, meds, and counseling, I will be again.  But, if I'm really lucky, life will get easier, and I won't have to be.

Getting the Rage Out

I previously blogged about my difficulty with tantrums when I was younger.  The truth is, I was a pretty emotional kid.  I cried pretty easily also had difficulty with rage and impulse control.  At least twice, I got angry at the taunting from the kid sitting in front of me and took my 3-inch-thick textbook and hit them on the top of their head with it.  (Needless to say, I am very lucky the world was not as litigious back then).  I finally managed to get my rage, and indeed most of my emotions, under control, but at a cost.  I pushed them all down and got lots of stomach and digestive issues as a result.

Even worse, I haven't ever really figured out how to get them back out.  They come out now and then when I'm completely overwhelmed, or too tired to stop them, but most of the time, they stay stuck way down.  So far, I've managed to do a pretty good job teaching Mira constructive ways to "get the angries out."  I just haven't been able to do it myself.

I've also been struggling recently with the discovery that I have a lot of rage and guilt inside of me.  I am angry that Patrick died and feel guilty for causing his problems.  Oddly, I'm not second-guessing our decisions with respect to hospice.  No, I'm second-guessing our decision to have him in the first place.  Was I being greedy?  Was my determination to have another child worth it?  Should I have just been happy with Mira and not tried so hard?  If I could have accepted that, he wouldn't have had such a difficult life.  This is not to say I wish I hadn't had him.  He has given me so much, and I would not trade the good memories for anything.  I just worry that he made the best of a bad situation and that he wishes he hadn't been here.  I wish I could talk to him and ask--make sure he's okay with everything.  Part of me believes that he signed up for it--that he knew how it was going to be going into it, but I worry that I only tell myself that to make it easier on myself.

Bigger than the guilt, though, is the rage, the anger that he is gone.  My head knows that being angry isn't going to change anything, but I still have this rage boiling inside of me that needs a way out.  I know this isn't fair.  I know I've been dealt a crappy hand.  Screaming, "It's not fair," and tossing breakable items will not change that, but trying to think my way out of having the emotions isn't working.  I've realized that pretending the rage isn't there isn't going to fix it.

I remember some years back seeing a morning news show talking someone in California started a business where people could buy plates and glasses and smash them.  I wish someone had a place like that around here; I would totally go.  I want to do something like this, but I need some place where I won't scare anyone.  I can't just grab some plates and smash them in my driveway without raising some eyebrows.  I thought about asking my friend if I could come to her woods and beat some trees with sticks to get it out.  I don't know.  I'm not really sure what to try.  I just know I need to do something.  I need to get this rage out of me so I can move forward and not do any more damage to myself by holding it in.  What say you readers--any suggestions?

Learning to Be Flexible With the Rules

I'm pretty much a rule person.  They keep the world tidy and orderly.  I believe in consequences for breaking rules, and I believe that we need to teach our children that there are consequences to their actions when the costs are small, rather than continuously bail them out and make their first experience of consequences come at a large cost.  I am also a pragmatist who also understands that pretty much every rule needs an exception because there will be circumstances that require it.

Parenting requires a fluidity and a balance between rules and exceptions.  Indeed, one of the reasons I said I wanted to be a parent was to learn flexibility and how to go with the flow.  Yes, the rule is generally "x," but because of "y," you can do/have "z" this one time.  There are times to hold fast to the rules, and times to bend (for some reason, I have Kenny Rogers' The Gambler running through my head), and parenting styles tend to dictate which rules we are more flexible with and under what circumstances.

Phil and I have been very lucky that we are pretty much on the same page about things.  We've been even luckier that the few times we have disagreed, it wasn't over anything big, and we still backed each other up in front of the child, and waited until later to discuss and reach consensus on whatever it was.  One thing which we agreed on before Mira was born was that she would sleep in her own room from the start.  And, except for when we were on vacation and there was only one room, we held pretty fast to that.  Even when she was in our room, we had her sleep in a separate pack-n-play.  We both held the line on this rule, with few exceptions.  Even so, there were some.  When she was scared on the cruise to Alaska, we let her sleep with us, and we all shared a bed for nap times during GenCon one year.

When I was pregnant with Patrick, we decided that it had been a pretty successful rule and planned to implement it with him as well.  In many ways, it was easier with him--no sleep training was necessary, as he was used to sleeping in his own bed away from us after a month in the hospital.  Moreover, he had too many tubes and wires to allow us to sleep with him even if we wanted to.  However, once we started being gone to Detroit for long periods of time, it was clear Mira needed reassurance, and we began to let her sleep with whichever parent was at home.  It was a rough time and making her feel safe was more important than holding the line.

When we brought Patrick home, we tried having her sleep in her own room, but she is scared of shadows and noises.  More than anything, though, she is scared she will wake up and we won't be there.  Scared of being taken away to live somewhere else.  Knowing the number of times she went to bed and I ended up taking Patrick to Detroit so she woke up to no mom or brother, and the multiple times she was taken by her grandparents for extended periods of time to Tennessee, these are not really irrational fears on her part.  So, we have allowed her to continue sleeping with us.

It's been difficult, to be sure, but there are some lovely moments--when she rolls over, drapes her arm over my shoulder, and says, "I love you, mommy," or when she scratches my back or smooths my hair with her hands in a soothing motion.  There are heartbreaking moments, too--when she wakes up crying because I am not there (I have been sleeping in the guest room so I don't get kicked in the stomach by her while I am recovering).  Each night, we let her choose where she wants to sleep--her room, our room with daddy, or the guest room with mommy.  Last night, she picked sleeping in the guest room with me.  I could tell she really missed me because she ended up putting a blanket over her face so she could not see the shadows made by the headlights of passing cars; she was willing to brave shadows to stay with me!

And then, there are the moments when I know I can't force her back to her room.  When she reaches out, multiple times, every night, to make sure I am still there.  If I have gotten up to go to the restroom, she wakes up to figure out where I am.  Once, she went walking through the house in the dark to find me and, when she did, she climbed up in bed and snuggled in next to me.  When Phil woke up and she wasn't there, he went on a search and found her snuggled up with me.  I love that she loves me, and wants me near, but it breaks my heart that she feels so scared, and her world feels so unstable to her.

In October, we had talked with her about having her start sleeping in her room every other night in November, and she was really excited about the plan--until it was time for the first night away.  Then it wasn't fun; it was scary.  Phil and I talked and we agreed that we would rather her feel safe and secure than rush her back to her room and potentially make things worse.  After all, it's only been since April that we've been allowing this.  Even if it lasts six more months, one year--even two--isn't long in the scheme of things.  We would much rather figure out how to make her feel secure enough to go back to her room willingly than force her to go back there now.  The world is scary enough when you are three--it's even scarier when your parents disappear at what seems like random, and your brother comes and goes and then is gone forever.  I can't even imagine.

So we bent.  Our firm "no co-sleeping" rule had to adapt, because, when we made it, we never anticipated the current circumstances.  None of this is to say that there are no more rules.  There are still rules, expectations, and consequences.  She figured out pretty quickly that people would treat her differently and let her get away with things if she said, "I'm sad because my brother died."  She discovered the words were a magical incantation that, once uttered, changed how the world worked.  We reigned that in pretty quickly (we think), and she is doing amazingly well for all she has been through, particularly given her age.  But things like this remind me that good parenting is a moving target.  There is no one single set of rules; no one perfect way that everyone should do it.  We learn; things change; we adapt.  It drives my type-A, OCD brain crazy, but I am learning when to be flexible, in hopes that it will keep me from breaking.

Why I'm Pro-Birth Control Access and Pro-Choice

I previously blogged about my thoughts on birth control and why it was medically necessary for me.  Now that I've had a hysterectomy, I no longer have to worry about those issues--for myself, anyway.  Unfortunately, I find myself confronted by an even larger worry looming on the horizon--how birth control options and access, and abortion restrictions will affect my daughter.  Yes, I know, she's only 3 (almost 4).  I can hear your incredulity.  However, I want to talk about this because I want to provide another perspective to the social discussion on sex, birth control, and abortion--one that highlights why this issue is much more complex than many of the people making the decisions about it are considering.

So, why am I talking about birth control and abortion with respect to my preschooler?  First, because I started menstruating at 9, so we are easily a mere five years away from her being able to get pregnant.  Do I anticipate her having sex at that age?  Heck no!  But, I am a realist and know it happens--my mother taught a 7th grader with three children!  I will do what I can to educate her and impress upon her that the repercussions of this decision is even more weighty for her than her peers.  Nevertheless, I cannot control the world, so I have to consider that she could be sexually assaulted, like I was at age six.

I imagine you are thinking, "But that's true for everyone.  What's the big deal?"  The big deal is, for most people, pregnancy is not a death sentence.  Given her unique anatomy and PAH, a pregnancy will likely kill my daughter.  Her body won't be able to handle the increased blood flow and lung function necessary for a baby to grow, let alone tolerate labor and birth.  And, even if she somehow survived pregnancy, the medications she takes for her heart condition are contraindicated for pregnancy; indeed, one of them is a black box drug that causes severe birth defects.  Unfortunately, it also cannot be used in conjunction with hormonal birth control.

Given that most states are passing abortion restrictions that don't include rape or health of the mother exceptions, I cannot simply hope that it won't happen to her.  Under these conditions, I feel I must take a proactive approach to keep her safe.  So, how do I protect my daughter?  Since hormonal birth control is out, and most of the other forms require reliance on the other party or aren't effective enough, in my opinion, when death is the alternative, I will likely get her an IUD.  The only other more effective alternative would be to sterilize her and that's not going to happen--medicine advances all the time, and it's possible something could change in the future that would make her able to safely carry a pregnancy.  Given my own struggle with infertility, I am not going to do that to her.

I get how crazy it is to be talking about getting an IUD for my child.  Still, I can't think of any other acceptable options.  Not when the alternative--whether by mistake or violation--is a death sentence.  I'm not telling you all of this to get you to change your beliefs or your position on these issues.  Instead, I'm simply offering you the background to understand why my position is pro-access, pro-choice.

On the Oddities of Grieving

Grief is strange.  There is simply no other word to describe it.  It hits at odd times, in ways you do not expect.  Sometimes, the things that set you off make sense, but other times, there is simply no rational explanation for how you are feeling.  Every day is different and you really can't prepare because you don't know what is going to happen.  Sure, you expect sadness and difficulties on the "big" days--birthdays, anniversaries, etc.--but there's no way to know what will set you off, no way to know what things will make you feel as though, without them, you cannot function.

I have been going through Patrick's things and have had no trouble deciding which clothes to keep and give away--except for a few things.  Oddly, the things I can't deal with right now are things that were 24-month clothes he was given but never had a chance to wear, so they still have the tags on.  In theory, there is no sentimental reason to keep them--they aren't family pieces Mira wore, and he never wore them.  So, why can't I part with them?  Also, his bedding set--comforter, sheet, bumpers, bed skirt, diaper holder, curtain, clothes hamper--I have no attachment to any of it, except for the comforter.  Why just the comforter, when Patrick never even slept under it?  Whatever the reason, my current dilemma is whether to give all of the rest of it away without the comforter, or hang on to it until I am ready to part with the comforter so I can donate it as a complete set.

At the same time, Phil and I easily decided that we will turn the nursery into a playroom/family library.  We have had no trouble giving away car seats and strollers and bouncy seats and various other bits of baby paraphernalia.  I cannot fathom what the difference is, but I am trying to honor my feelings and just putting aside those things with which I am not yet ready to part and, hopefully, in time I will either understand why I need to keep them, or be ready to let them go.

Then there are the grief triggers--things that set you off that you weren't anticipating.  Things like the crinkly paper at the doctor's office that Patrick used to love to roll on and tear up to hear the sound.  The smell of a different deodorant than I usually use, which I bought in Detroit because I ended up there without my kit bag.  The party supply catalog that comes in the mail advertising all the necessities for Patrick's first birthday party.  The Amazon.com recommendations to purchase baby items because I have purchased them in the past.  I have no doubt that Mira's trip to the cardiologist in two weeks will back tons of memories and feelings because we were last there only days before Patrick went back to Detroit for the last time.  When you are grieving, life is like a Michigan road after a rough winter--full of potholes you don't see coming, can't avoid, and might put you out of commission for a few days.  And it's not going to get easier.  Next April, and indeed at least once a year for the rest of her life, we will have to take Mira to Detroit for a cardiology visit and will have to experience the hospital and see all of the doctors and nurses again.

Even so, there are things that bring me comfort--like sleeping curled up under Patrick's fleece froggy blanket, listening to "Happy," reading through the notes people left at the visitation and funeral, watching the videos of him on my phone, and looking at the amazing picture of him and his sister above the fireplace.

I don't understand and certainly can't describe or explain how my heart can feel so full and so empty at the same time,  All I know is that I love my baby boy.  My life is both brighter for having him in it, and duller for his having left it.  I will forever be caught in the duality of gratefulness for our time together and frustration and anger at how short that time was.

I am also caught between wanting to shy away from all things CHD and knowing that I have to keep fighting because I still have a child with CHD.  I find myself crying myself to sleep at night, fearful that her next trip to the cardiologist will reveal that her pulmonary pressures are increasing, meaning that the medications aren't working, which means a long, slow trip toward right heart failure and the eventual need for a heart/lung transplant.  I reach over and stroke her hair, snuggle her close, give thanks for our time together, and try not to borrow trouble.  But, with the wounds from Patrick so fresh, the trips to the doctor so frequent, and the medication reminders every day, it's a struggle.  Like everything else, all I can do is take it one day at a time, one hour at a time, one breath at a time.  In that way, grief seems a lot more like everyday life and feels more manageable.  Here's hoping.

Coming Full Circle--How My Hysterectomy and Complete Infertility Made Me Pregnant Again

Almost five years ago, on October 28, 2009, I wrote a note on my Facebook page that ultimately began this blog.  This date sears my heart as I read it.  All I have been through in less than five years:  the struggles to get pregnant, miscarriage, failed IVF, two children, CHD diagnoses, open-heart surgeries, and the death of my baby boy.  We are 11 days away from what would have been his first birthday--the same day that will begin year six of our journey: October 29, 2014.

These past five years have altered my life, and me, in ways I had never imagined.  Back when we started, I honestly believed that just fighting to become pregnant would be the hardest thing I would ever have to face.  Instead, it's moving forward as a family of three after having been a family of four.  I am physically and emotionally exhausted.  I was not prepared for this journey.  I have been lucky for the support of friends, family, and my spouse.  I know that each one of these challenges has tested and destroyed other marriages.  That mine has survived all of them is something of a miracle, for which I am eternally grateful.

Speaking of miracles, we have been asked whether we believe in miracles and why we think Patrick didn't get one.  Here's the thing.  God did not look down and say, "Oh, it's the Hobsons, this can't happen to them, we'll fix it right away."  That's not how it works.  God does miracles in His own time for His own purpose, not on demand.  And the truth is, we had tons of miracles already.  Two successful rounds of IVF--miracle!  Our daughter's health in spite of her serious CHD diagnosis and open-heart surgery--miracle!  Patrick's birth--miracle!  The surgeon's ability to unifocalize Patrick's pulmonary arteries without a patch during the first surgery--miracle!  Ten months with the most adorable, cuddly, smiling boy--miracle!  That Patrick died is not evidence of a lack of God's presence or the lack of miracles.  It is not evidence that we did not believe hard enough, or that we sinned somehow.  It is not evidence of failure or inadequacy.  Patrick's death is proof of life.  To paraphrase Braveheart: Everyone dies; the task before us is to truly live.

I am still figuring out how to do that.  I am coping with survivor's guilt.  There are so many things we are going to be able to do now that we couldn't do if Patrick had lived--like my return to work.  But it's important that I find a way to move forward; to make my life meaningful.  Because maybe, just maybe, Patrick did me a great honor.  Maybe he sacrificed his time here so that I would not have to give up my career to become a full-time caretaker for him, so that we wouldn't have to split up the family, or potentially destroy the family we worked so hard to create.  Figuring out whether this is true is not important.  What is important is to figure out how to live authentically and honor Patrick's life as best I can with mine.

Which brings me back to my hysterectomy.  I am now wholly and completely infertile.  There will be no more children.  That part of my life is irrevocably over.  But I am not sad.  I am completely at peace.  Not only am I finally free of the physical pain and suffering my conditions caused me, I am free of worry, free of monthly reminders, free to take all of the energy that has been tied up in these other things and channel it into--or birth--something new.  Maybe a new me.  Maybe finally start to turn all of this into a book.  I am using this recovery time to try and figure it out.  What I do know is that I am excited to find myself pregnant again--not with child, but with possibilities.  And, as sad as I am, and will continue to be, about the loss of my baby boy, I can be excited about what is ahead; excited to move forward in this new phase of life; excited to figure out how best to honor Patrick's memory.

My New Theme Song

Lying awake at 2:00 a.m., feeling equal parts exhaustion, pain, and insomnia, I find my thoughts once again turn to silly songs and parodies to make light of my situation.
So here, without further adieu, is my latest creation:

(Sung to the tune of "WKRP in Cincinnati")

Baby, if you ever wondered
Wondered, whatever became of me
I'm lying on a bed down in the guest room
Recovering from a hysterectomy

Got kind of tired of pain and medications
In the store, up and down the aisle
Babies were the best thing my womb gave to me
The rest I will forget after a while

I'm recovering now from a hys-ter-rec-to-my.

(Goodnight everybody!)

Holding the Line, Part II

I have often wondered whether Lil' Bit has learned the lessons I intended her to from our punishments/consequences.  From this morning's actions, it appears Lil' Bit learned an entirely different lesson than I thought from yesterday.  We woke up this morning and she was all sunshines and rainbows.  She pops off to the bathroom (she was dry all night!!), and while she's going potty she says, "Mommy, what day is it?"
"Tuesday."
"What does that mean?"
"Another day-care day."

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than she flung her legs to kick off both pajama pants and pull-up in my direction.  She stretches her legs wide, pushes herself backwards again the toilet seat, and grabs hold of it, giving me a look that says, "I dare you to take me off here" and "Let's see you put this in the car" all at the same time.

My first thought was, "Oh goodie.  Another stand-off."
My second thought was, "Well, at least she learned something from yesterday's encounter."
My third thought was, "Hey.  Maybe I did too!"  Rather than escalate the situation and demand answers from her, I tried something different.

I began by says, "It looks like that made you really upset.  Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"  Silence and glares.  "Well, if you decide you want to talk about it, let me know."  Silence.  "Would you like to put your pull-up back on?  I see it's still dry.  Way to go!"  Silence and glares.  "Ok.  Well, when you're done, you let me know."  And I left.  I went to my bedroom and began going through my closet to look for something to wear.  I would occasionally hear noises from the bathroom--flushing; washing hands; pulling the shower curtain.  After 10 minutes, she shows up in my doorway wearing the pull-up and pajamas.

Score one for me! I said inside my head.  Outloud, I asked, "Are you ready for breakfast?"  We went to the kitchen, got her her "hero cookie" for going potty, and settled in for some Bubble Guppies.  I asked her what she wanted to wear, and she told me.  I got the clothes for her, along with her breakfast.  I brought her meds and she took them without blinking.  I am so awesome, I thought to myself.  Ooops!  Never a good idea.

When it came time to leave, I waited for a good stopping point and paused the DVD.  Cue BIG FRUMP.
"Time to go."
"But I want to watch it."
I was willing to negotiate and let her finish the episode, so I asked "Will you be ready to go when it's over?"
*shakes head no*
Well, no reason to let her watch anymore of it, then.  I turned off the television.  "Are you ready for your gummies?"  (Vitamins, but they are a special treat because she can only have one per day).
"Yes, please!"  She hops off the chair and heads upstairs.  Halfway up, she remembers she's mad and stomps the rest of the way up.
Ok, I think.  She's angry, but still doing what I want.  This is good, but maybe we can do better.
I stomp after her.  "Oh, that's great stomping!  I'm gonna stomp, too!  Stomping is so much fun."
Lil' Bit stopped stomping and turned around to look at me with another glare.  I cheerfully got her her gummy and some crackers for the car rise, and she happily walked out to the garage, got buckled in, and we left.

Part way there, she starts telling me that the trees are making faces at her.  I told her to smile at them.  She said, "No.  They have to smile at me first."  I said, "Well, I'm going to smile at them anyway.  They can't being me down.  I can be happy no matter what the trees do.  Haha trees!  You can't bring me down.  I'm gonna smile at you even if you don't smile back."
After about 30 seconds, Lil' Bit says, "Mommy!  I smiled at the trees, and they smiled back."
"Oh good.  Your smile always makes me happy.  I'm glad it made the trees happy, too."  Te remainder of the drive and drop-off had happy Lil' Bit.  Yay!

Phew!!  I'm really glad I used non-engagement and redirection to get us through to a fairly happy morning without the drama from yesterday.  Still, I'm a little afraid of what she's going to try tomorrow.

Holding the Line

Today was Lil' Bit's return to daycare after being gone to her relatives in Tennessee for a month.  Last night, she was quite excited to return.  This morning, not so much.  When I asked her what she wanted to wear, she sat down on the bathroom floor in a frump and refused to speak.  I brushed her hair and gave her choices on what to wear.  She said no to everything.  I told her that if she didn't pick, I would pick for her.  Receiving no response, I went in search of an outfit for her.

While I was looking through a pile of clothes, she came downstairs and sat on a kitchen chair.  I held up the outfit I had selected for her and told her she would wear it unless she picked something else.  She declined to pick anything.  I attempted to put the kort on, but she pulled her legs back under the chair and gave me a look that dared me to try to put it on her.  Because I want "no" to mean "no" when it comes to respecting her body, and I told her that she is the boss of herself when it comes to her body, I refused to get into a physical fight.  I placed the clothes on the table and told her that she could wear the outfit I selected, or I would take her to daycare in just her pull-up.

Receiving no response, I packed her clothes, along with her meds and put them in the car.  As I was making trips in and out of the house to get my purse, I noticed she had turned around backwards in the chair.  By the time I was done, she had her arms wrapped around the top, her legs through the back, and she was hanging on.  It was clear she was anticipating me trying to pull her off the chair.  Rather than fight her to pull her free, I wordlessly picked up the chair with her hanging on and carried it to the garage door.  I moved my car so I could get her and the chair into the garage, came back into the house, picked up her and the chair and carried them out to the garage.  I placed her--still naked--and the chair to which she was clinging into the back of the car.  I placed the clothes on the back seat next to her car seat, started the car, backed out of the garage, and sat in the driveway.

I heard occasional cries for attention, but nothing serious.  I watched as she attempted to lay down, but there wasn't enough room in the back with her and the chair.  I rolled down the window, parked the car, and told her that her options were to get dressed and go to daycare, or to stay in the driveway all day.  I told her I would stay in the car with her, so she wouldn't be alone, but that I was going to play Frozen games on my phone until she decided what she wanted.  I asked her a few times if she was ready to get dressed, but my question would prompt a defiant look, a vigorous head shake, and it was clear she wanted to "win."  I would nod, say, "ok," and go back to my phone.

I finally quit asking anything and, after a 15-minute period where I never said anything or looked her way, I heard her moving around.  Watching in the rearview mirror, I watcher her climb out of the back into the back seat and begin to play with some toys she had left back there.  I turned around, picked up the shirt, and tentatively began dressing her.  She did not fight me, so I continued.  She began to cry, so I pulled her into the front seat and sat her in my lap and just held her while she cried.  She helped me finish dressing her, but continued to cry.  I asked her if she could use her words to tell me what was wrong, but she was crying too hard.  We snuggled for a while, and when she would quiet down, I would try again.  At best, I got a few "no" headshakes, but no words.

After a long, quiet period of snuggles and hugs, where I just spoke to her reassuringly about anything I could think of that might be bothering her, I told her that if she could talk with me, maybe we could reach a solution to her problem.  I told her that I needed to get work done and that I couldn't do it without her going to daycare, but that I would come pick her up when it was over, and we would get her a movie and pizza for dinner.  She nodded "yes."  A breakthrough!

I asked if she was ready for me to put her in her seat and didn't receive any objections, so I held her close, got out of my seat, opened the back door, put her in her seat, and buckled her in.  She answered me when I asked what kind of music she wanted.  I got in, put on the requested tunes, and we drove off.  She didn't say anything the whole ride, but she wasn't crying and didn't have the angry look in her eye.

When we arrived, I asked her if she wanted to walk in, or wanted me to carry her.  She said "carry," so I did.  When we sat down, her friends were happy to see her.  She smiled and volunteered the names of some of the other kids by way of introduction for me.  She sat in her chair, began to eat her donuts, smiled, gave me kisses goodbye, and told me she was ready for me to go.

It took an hour, but I think I held the line.  She ended up dressed and at day care.  I never issued any threats, but just gave her choices and consequences.  I probably could have done things differently earlier in the process that would not have escalated us to sitting in the driveway and necessitated the stubborn-off, but I did my best to manage the situation as I had helped create it.  Hopefully, I reinforced that there are choices she gets to make--what she wears, etc--and choices I get to make--whether she goes to daycare, etc.  Since she was ultimately happy shortly after arrival and there was no yelling, no physical altercations, and no idle threats, I'm calling this one a win.

Catching Up

Dearest Readers,

I apologize for the radio silence.  Life got quite complicated, quite quickly.  We have been in and out of the hospital with Jellybean since March--a few weeks here, a month there, soon you're talking about real time!
I have been updating at our fundraising page and on Facebook, and have failed to keep you in the loop.  In an effort not to duplicate too much, you can find a few updates on Jellybean's feeding issues and hospitalizations at our GiveForward page.  (And if you feel like donating, please do!)

Anywho, the last update there indicated that Jellybean had gotten a G-tube.  We were home about a week from that stay when I received a call from Jellybean's heart surgeon that he wanted to do Jellybean's "full repair" sooner, rather than later, and we scheduled it for June 20.  We had barely adjusted to the idea of surgery being a mere weeks away when, five days later, Jellybean had a crappy night.  He vomited up an entire feed and became inconsolable--a very difficult thing to watch, particularly when he's such a happy guy all the time.  A trip to the local ER, an ambulance ride, and back to Detroit we went.  We arrived at CHM at about 6:30 a.m., and Jellybean had been screaming pretty much non-stop for almost 9 hours by that point. There was quite a flurry of activity upon arrival.  I repeated my story more times than I can count to goodness knows how many people.  One of the doctors with whom we had become familiar on Jellybean's first stay, Dr. K, was the one in charge, and Dr S, who did my fetal ultrasounds, performed Jellybean's echo to rule out a clot in the shunt.

I remember standing by the wall, watching everyone, and feeling comfortable because "our" docs were there.  I heard a phone ring.  Dr. K answered, and I heard him say, "We have a sick kid here."  I kept waiting for everyone to rush off to take care of the sick kid.  I saw Dr. K talk with a nurse, who then left, so I assumed she was off to take care of things.  When his phone rang again, and he said again, "We've got a very sick child," I don't know what it was about how he said it, but it suddenly sunk in that Jellybean *was* the very sick kid.  I was so used to taking him to the hospital, having them put him on oxygen, and just waiting, that I had no idea.  Having been unable to get his oxygen saturations where they needed to be, they intubated him and discussed taking him to the cath lab to see what was going on.  I signed paperwork and waited.

Suddenly, I noticed a large group of people down the hall, most of whom I recognized.  Physicians, residents, nurse clinicians.  There must have been 20 people or so gathered there.  Realization dawned on me--it was a massive discussion between cardiology and cardiovascular surgery about what course of action to take Jellybean.  I was floored.  Just as quickly, I noticed Dr. W, Jellybean's surgeon, and Dr. T, who did both his angioplasty caths, walking swiftly down the hall towards me.  Dr. W sat down next to me and indicated that he felt they should not do a cath, but should just move his repair surgery forward.  Three days later, Jellybean had his shunt taken down and his heart "repaired."  Surgery took all day, but when we saw him before they wheeled him up to the room, he was pink!!

It is now 20 days post-surgery. He's a tough, but fragile, little boy, wrapped in an adorable smiley package. He has had some ups and downs, but is improving overall.  Phil and I have been living bifurcated lives as he mostly stays at home with Lil' Bit while I stay with Jellybean in Detroit (what with being the food source and all).  We have experienced enormous amounts of support and unexpected moments of grace throughout all of this, and we are so grateful to everyone who has played a part in getting us through this.

Last weekend, I took a mini-vacation to get in some mommy/doodlebug time and attended a CHD symposium in Indianapolis.  It was so amazing, and soon, I plan to write a whole separate blog post just about it.  But, one of the things it reinforced for me is that I want to turn our experience into something more.  I want to help advocate for those CHD kids yet to come, as well as those already here.  I want to use my writing ability to communicate and transform my experiences into more than just a story; more than just another set of obstacles I have managed to overcome.  I want it to be meaningful and useful.  I want to use it as a catalyst for change.  I haven't figured out exactly how, but am taking baby steps in that direction.  I have started creating a website that will house this blog and, once up and running, will be the future solitary place for updates, as well as my platform for advocacy.  I have also started trying to turn the blog posts, Facebook updates, and memories into a cohesive story that can someday become a book to guide and support others on their journey.

Having limited free time as it is, I will now have even less.  So, please be patient with me, dear readers, if I am away more than I am here while I try to sort all of this out.  I hope you'll stick with me.  But, either way, thanks for having been here so far.  It's meant the world knowing that I am having a conversation with you, even if it has been mostly one-sided.  It has helped far more than you know.

Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day, and I will mark it the same way I have for the last two weeks--sitting in Jellybean's hospital room, worrying about his oxygen levels and heart function.  And I've been thinking about how much of a representation of motherhood that is.  Giving up "my" day for my children.  Certainly my mother and mother-in-law have done it for me.  College graduation and law school graduation were both on Mother's Day, and this year it was going to be Jellybean's baptism (turns out he made other plans).  But they both gave up, and were willing to again give up, their day to share it in celebration with me.

Still, I think celebrations are easy to share; it just means a bigger party.  As I sit in the hospital watching all the other moms (and all of this is certainly true of dads and Father's Day), I am reminded of the sacrifices we make as parents.  The very thing that makes tomorrow "my" day--my reason to celebrate--is the exact same reason I don't get to celebrate.  None of this ever crossed my mind.  Not when I was fighting so hard to become a parent.  Not when I knew my kids needed surgery. 

I have spent Halloween and Thanksgiving in the hospital with my kids.  I spent numerous Easter mornings in the ER with my kids.  I have spent my birthday on bed rest, trying to save my pregnancy.  But not once did I ever think I would have to give up Mother's Day.  Why, I can't say.  And why it matters is even harder to pin down. This week will see my 15th wedding anniversary, but missing that to take care of my child at the hospital doesn't phase me--I missed the first one for my grandfather's funeral, and we have missed many more since.  Phil and I have celebrated numerous occasions on alternative days because of crazy schedules or other various reasons.

So I admit to being flummoxed.  Why Mother's Day?  Why a moving holiday manufactured to sell greeting cards?  Why does it matter?  The pre-mom me would be shaking her head and ranting that I should be grateful just to be a mom--and I am.  I am humbled every year that I am able to label myself mother, when that label is denied to many.  And maybe that's it.  I didn't fight for my birthday, or my wedding.  I didn't struggle and wrestle and rage and weep to earn any label as much as I did to be called "mom."  So maybe I don't want to spend Mother's Day in the hospital watching over my baby because being in the hospital means I could lose the very thing that makes me a mom.

And I know that I will always be a mom, regardless of whether I outlive my children, but having two kids with heart issues keeps the reality of that happening ever present.  I am reminded daily of the fleetingness of human life and how precious it is and how important it is to make the most of every moment.  And I struggle and berate myself when I get angry or frustrated with my children because I don't want to regret those moments when my kids do pass.  But I have to balance that guilt with the reality that I have to rest.  I have to give myself permission every afternoon to leave Jellybean's room to go take a nap because self-care is important.

Moms are very bad at self-care.  We feel selfish when we do nice things for ourselves, or put ourselves first.  But Mother's Day gives us an excuse.  No one will begrudge us nice things, or time for ourselves, on that day.  Viewed in that light, it's easier to see why losing the one day society tells me I can loaf off on my motherly obligations is frustrating.  But the solution isn't in the holiday.  The solution is in changing to dynamic.  What if I took 30 minutes a week for self-care?  I would get roughly the same amount of time as the 24 hours of Mother's Day, but spread over the year.  I could have guilt-free me-time that would make me a better mom/wife/employee/self all year round.  I'm not sure how it would work.  It will take some time to refine the idea, but I think it's a good jumping off point.  A place to begin the conversation with myself.  Maybe I can work on it tomorrow, as I sit in the hospital, holding my precious, snuggly, sleeping Jellybean in my arms.  Because, you know, as a mom, I can multi-task. :)

Happy Mother's Day to all moms--but especially to those of us spending it with kids in the hospital.

The Million Dollar Question

Part of human nature is to second-guess ourselves.  We spend a great deal of time wondering "what-if."  We look back with the knowledge of today on decisions made when we were less informed and berate ourselves for the choices we made or opportunitites missed.  I thought about this a lot this week while I was at the hospital with Jellybean.

This time last week, I was barrelling down the freeway, headed for Detroit to take Jellybean to the ER.  He had been lethargic all day and started to have difficulty breathing.  During the wee hours of the morning, they admitted him and, ultimately, determined he had bronchiolitis.  He was placed on oxygen while they assessed him.  His cough got worse, and he began vomiting worse than usual.  With the vomiting came dehydration, so they hooked him up to an IV to make sure he had enough fluid to keep his shunt working.  

Over the course of the next four days, Phil and I both caught a horrendous stomach virus.  FYI:  Juggling one healthy child is hard enough when you are sick--two, one of whom is in the hospital, presents more challenges.  Trying to pump and get milk to Jellybean when I was queasy, dehydrated, and not allowed to visit in case I was contagious--that was a whole new level of difficulty I didn't need to know about.  Fun times!  Ultimately, he got released once he was off oxygen and holding feeds down.  Of course, since his first feed home, he's been vomiting again.  We can't seem get enough food in him to keep up his calorie count, but at least we get enough in to keep him hydrated.  I have struggled this weekend with whether to take him back, but I worry he is more likely to catch something else at the hospital, so I am erring on the side of keeping him at home.

Of course, this week is Holy Week.  Having entered what is arguably the busiest week in the church calendar, finding time for all the doctor visits we already had scheduled, plus those we missed last week that need to be rescheduled, and new ones to check up on how he's doing, is not easy.  I totally understand how parents end up quitting work.  Taking care of special needs children is a full-time job.  And that's been frustrating for me.  I worked hard to become a lawyer, and I would like to use the degree I'm still paying for.  But more than that, I LOVE my job and my coworkers.  Even if, financially, I could give it up, I don't want to.  And so I struggle to do it all.  My house isn't as clean as I would like.  We eat way too much junk food, which is catching up to me (but that's a story for another time).  My life is one big ball of chaos.

So, as I sat in the hospital, holding a restless infant who was hooked up to dozens of wires in one hand, I surfed the internet with the other.  I don't remember where I saw it, or who wrote it, but I read a blog post written by a parent who was asked by a friend if having children was worth it.  It reminded me of back when we were first discussing whether we wanted children--long before we knew about the infertility, the CHDs, or anything else.  Back when we weren't sure if we even wanted run-of-the-mill "regular" kids.  I closed my eyes and asked myself the million-dollar question:  If I could do it all again, knowing what I know now, would I?

The joy of watching my children grow; watching them learn; feeling that first hug; hearing that first "I love you, mommy."  Experiencing all of those beautiful moments, knowing the joy and strength they give me, my heart says "of course I would."  But, at the same time, if I am being honest, I can tell you that, if I had been told at the outset that I would have two children who needed open-heart surgery, I would have opted for a child-free life.  I would not have known that I had it in me to survive this stuff.  I would never have believed it of myself.  But, making the decision with the knowledge I have now would require me to balance those disparate things--the joy and amazement with the extreme difficulties--and I have no idea, even with hindsight, how I would have weighed those experiences against each other and what decision I would have reached.

What I do know is that I love my children with all my heart, and I will be the best mother I can to them, for however long I get to have them.  And, I am grateful that we don't get to know everything before making big decisions because I might have decided not to have kids, and I would have missed out on some amazing moments.  What I learned from the million-dollar question was not whether children were the right decision.  I learned that a life worth living is a life with risk.  Without risk, there is no challenge to overcome, and, without challenge, there is no growth.  I don't like it.  As a risk-averse person, I will probably always struggle with it.  It doesn't make it any less true.  I will try to remember it, the next time I "wish I had known..."

My Miracle

I talk about my miracle children all the time.  They are miracles because we were able to conceive them with IVF, because they both survived in utero even with crazy heart conditions, and because they are both thriving and don't look like heart patients.   Every minute of every day is a miracle with them.  But, when I call Jellybean my miracle child, I am referring not just to those things, but to an amazing moment of grace--when I asked for a very specific miracle and got it.

Last November, when we were at CHM waiting for Jellybean's surgery to start, we were talking with our support people--Phil's mother and one of our very dear friends.  As we typed blog posts and Facebook updates, we talked about the frustrating OB I had had who kept insisting there was nothing wrong with Jellybean's heart and kept inferring that once he was born, we would see there was nothing wrong.  Obviously, that was not the case.  We also talked about the well-meaning people who had said similar things, not from the perspective of medicine, but that God might give us a miracle and heal Jellybean's heart.  And as we sat at the table waiting--I will never forget--I said to them:  My miracle would be if there is enough of his own tissue to reach between the left and right branch pulmonary arteries without having to use anything artifical or homograft.  If I could have a miracle, that would be it.

Fast-forward to our meeting with the surgeon hours later, once the procedure was over.  He said that when he went in to detach the LBPA from the truncus, he discovered that there was an extra pouch of tissue on the side of the truncus and that he was able to take a long flap of that to make a "tounge" that reached all the way across to the RBPA, which he then covered with Patrick's own pericardial tissue (the sack around the heart).  The benefit of this was twofold.  First, because it was all his own tissue, there was no chance of rejection.  Second, because it wasn't artificial, but live, growing tissue, there was a good chance that it would grow with him and, thus, wouldn't need to be perpetually replaced the way the artifical parts that will be used for his complete repair (whether truncus or HLHS) will need to be replaced.

There it was.  My miracle.  Not exactly as I had imagined--I was picturing a really long LBPA that would reach across--but it was still what I had asked for.  I was amazed.  Blown away.  For a brief moment, I had the thought, "Maybe my prayer was too small.  Should I have asked for more?"  "No," I answered myself.  Sometimes we get miracles because we what we ask for is the right size.  After all, there is no way the medical community, or the world at large, is ready for healing of that magnitude.  It would result in forever making Jellybean the subject of research.  No, what I asked for and received was a small way for Jellybean's life, and mine to some extent, to be easier.  A mini-miracle, if you will.

From the moment the doctor told us about the wonderful surprise he encountered that allowed him to do the PA fix without any artifical material, I knew Jellybean was being watched over and protected.  I sometimes imagine God sitting at a bench, like a judge, looking down on us, saying, "Asked and answered, counselor."  It makes me smile.  Phil and I have spoken about the fact that maybe all of the people who passed away just before and just after Jellybean's birth and surgery went when they did to help him from the other side.  I can believe that; that my grandmothers helped make my miracle happen; that Phil's mentor helped smooth Jellybean's recovery and is helping with his growth and development.  I can feel the truth of it deep down.  Loss and joy intertwined, creating my miracle.  Thanks be to God.

Cleaning My Way Calm

When I was younger, I had a very messy room.  If I was forced to clean it, things got shoved under the bed, or into the closet, or into drawers.  I know it drove my mother crazy.  As I got older, I began to keep a tidier room--much easier to find things that way.  Still, I was not the most organized person.  Somehow, as I grew older, my need for order increased, and I began to do crazy things like organize books, tapes, CDs, and videos, alphabetically within specific categories.  I became something of a neat freak, but only in certain areas.  Clothes could still pile up, and mail might make a big pile on my desk before I got around to looking at it.

When Phil and I were dating, it became clear that he didn't care much for organization.  His apartment and office at work looked pretty cluttered.  I figured I could live with it, and we figured out how to share space fairly well over the last 15 years.  Initially, we managed it by having separate offices and making his side of the bedroom the one away from the door.  As children arrived in our lives, I spent the first year of Lil' Bit's life trying to maintain order.  It was very hard not to undo all of her "work," which just looked like destruction and disorder to me.  Still, I read that kids get frustrated and stop trying when you keep cleaning stuff up, so I curbed my tendencies.  And, honestly, the addition of a second high-needs child has really allowed my cleaning and organization to slide immensely.  

Over time, I have gotten more accostomed to the clutter.  Still, there always comes a time, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, when I *must* clean.  I've never really understood the trigger for when it must occur--until today.  As Lil' Bit was bouncing on the exercise ball and Jellybean was screaming through another tube feed, I had suddenly had enough and began tidying the room a little.  Lil' Bit asked what I was doing and, in a frustrated voice (although I managed not to yell), I said "Cleaning up because I can't take it any more."  In true three-year-old manner, she asked, "Why?"  I took a deep breath and tried to think of something to say.  Phil managed to fill in, "Because we can only take so much chaos."

And there it was.  The answer to when I can't take it anymore.  If I am calm and having a reasonably easy time, I can handle more clutter.  Once I get stressed, I *must* have order and the only thing I can control and bring out of chaos (at least to some degree) is my house.  And, once things are cleaner, I feel calmer.  You should have seen how zen I was--for weeks--after my kitchen and refrigerator got cleaned.  I don't know if my mom feels this kind of zen when her house is clean, but, if so, I totally get why she was always doing it.  I knew my organization was tied to my need for control, but I never thought my cleaning was.  But, it is.  Cleaning is my way to stave off some of the chaos in my life and bring some needed order in to usher in some calm.  Now that I know that, I think I will try and find more time to keep the house clean.  It's hard to find the time, but given how much better I feel after it's done, it's probably one of the better uses of my time I can invest in.

Now I just have to work on not losing the zen when Lil' Bit wants to "help." :)

A Letter of Complaint

Dear Mr. Snow Miser,

I have never made any secret of my disdain for your specialties--snow, cold, ice, etc.  The only ice and cold I like are contained in beverages during summer.  Neverthelss, I am aware that I moved squarely into your territory a decade ago and, therefore, have been (not so quietly) tolerating your antics lo these many years.  However, this year is really testing my patience.  Whatever fight you and your brother, Mr. Heat Miser, have going on, it needs to stop.  It's not just the huge amont of snow, ice storms, and bitter cold that have me irritated (although, they are certainly high on my list of things I could do without).  Rather, it's these hugely radical shifts in temperature.  You two need to come to some kind of understanding.  I would put you on notice, but the truth is you would call my bluff.  I love my job, Phil loves his job, we love our community, and we have amazing care providers for two small children with unique medical issues.  Thus, the chances of us leaving, even if you don't stop, are minute.  Even so, I wish to register my complaint.  After all, if enough of us get upset, we might just get Santa to call your mother again!  Please, enough is enough.

Sincerely,

-One tired midwesterner