Memories and Social Media

Social media has transformed how we communicate with one another, but it has also altered how we remember.  This is problematic for those whose bad choices or youthful indiscretions are forever memorialized online for anyone to find.  However, it also has the potential to hold great value.  I can compare my life of five years ago with my life of today.  It can help keep me accountable to myself for goals I set and fail to obtain.  It can also bring comfort and joy when I look back and see when my children were small and how they progressed.

One of the other interesting things it can show us is patterns.  Earlier this year, I had noticed that May 23 has been the day that my iris first bloomed three of the last six years.  Maybe flowers do have internal clocks!  But, as interesting as I found that, today's FB trip down memory lane was far more thought provoking.

First, FB showed me something which I already knew--last year today, Patrick had his second open-heart surgery.  He did so well, and the surgeon was pleased, and our world was filled with hope.  Two years ago today, we were in the OB-GYN's office and found out we were having a boy.  Just two years--it feels like so much longer than that already.  What floored me, though, was looking at the flippant comment I had made that day:

At doc's office for the anatomy ultrasound.  Any guesses on boy/girl?  We're just hoping for 2 pulmonary arteries.  ;)

It was a joke.  And, even now, I still get the light-hearted way I meant it. But my brain, the irrational, judgy part that thinks I control the universe, stuck in its two cents.  "Did you do this?" it quietly accused me.  Did I?  Did my imprecision and failure to say two "normal" pulmonary arteries do this?  My rational brain assures me it did not.  Of course not.  My irrational brain, however, points out that I said we just wanted two pulmonary arteries--and we got that--they just weren't connected properly.  "Well," my rational brain shoots back, "If we're talking about getting what we asked for, we asked for no heart problems, and we didn't get that."  The sneaky, guilty part says slyly, "God doesn't grant every wish.  You should be more careful what you wish for."

It's a horrible "game."  One that, I imagine, we all experience at one time or another.  In talking with others who have suffered miscarriage or had children with CHD, we have all spent at least some time fixated on what we could have done differently, berating ourselves for how this must somehow be our fault.  And, as well as the doctors do to convince us otherwise, new research undercuts their assurances.  Indeed, a new study into the causes of CHD suggests that for older moms (read, "like me"), the chances of your child developing a CHD are decreased by exercising.  Crap.  So now this is my fault.  And since there seems to be a genetic component to it, I--that is to say my genetics--bear some responsibility for the outcome.

Without belaboring the point (too late), I love the ability to go back and see memories on social media.  I just have to beware of the traps that lay therein: 20/20 hindsight; and the belief that I was ever in control in the first place.  Go, and do likewise--and have fun out there :)

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 Trial Run

Last night, we received a reminder that we are not in control.  Around 6:30 p.m., my stomach started feeling really hard and uncomfortable.  I wasn't really sure if it was contractions because it was just an uncomfortable tightness that slowly came and went; I couldn't really count or time what was going on.  Per the instructions from my doctor's office's website, I drank water and laid down on my left side to see if the feeling would go away.  It didn't.  After about an hour, we made plans to drop off Lil' Bit with her godmother and headed out to the hospital to get me checked out.  The sensations became more distinct to the point where I was able to identify two separate "contractions" in the 20 minute drive to the hospital.

When we got there, all the triage rooms were full, so they put me in a labor and delivery room.  This turned out to be a real perk because those rooms are way more comfortable than triage--more private, too!  They put me on the monitors and checked me for dilation.  I was roughly 1-2 cm dilated, which surprised me, but is apparently totally normal at this point for a second child.  Jellybean looked great on the monitor, an ultrasound determined he had plenty of fluid, and they didn't find any evidence of an infection or dehydration that might be causing the contractions.  However, the monitor made clear that I was having contractions, and the longer we were there, the more regular they became.  They didn't hurt, although they were uncomfortable, and they never got above 40.  By the time they discharged me, they were very regular, coming three minutes apart and roughly all the same strength.  I didn't know you could have regular contractions only three minutes apart and not be in labor.  Turns out you can.  They aren't considered Braxton Hicks because they were too regular and don't go away with rest, but because they didn't seem to be causing labor to progress, they were deemed "preterm contractions." 

We were at the hospital until about 11:30 or so.  They checked my dilation again before discharging me to see if the contractions had caused any further dilation in the 2-3 hours I had been there.  Because I wasn't any further dilated, they were sending me home.  I was surprised that they weren't going to do anything to stop the contractions, but given Jellybean's gestational age (34 1/2 weeks) and the fact that any meds they gave me to stop the contractions could cause issues for him, they explained that their preference was not to stop any contractions.  Generally, when the body goes into labor at this point, babies generally do just fine and most don't need ventilators or any special care and there's usually a reason for the labor, so they prefer to trust the body that it's time.

It was certainly odd to be discharged while still contracting.  My orders were to come back if they got worse and they gave me a method to attempt to gauge that.  At the same time, they didn't want me to wait too long if I thought they were getting worse because they hoped to be able to transfer me to Detroit if I was, in fact, progressing, but they couldn't do it if I was in labor.  So, we were left with this grey, fuzzy area to decide when and if we thought we needed to come back.  Fun!  On the plus side, I was already scheduled to see my doctor today, so the on-call doctor from last night left word to have them check my cervix again today and make there hasn't been any further dilation.

We picked up Lil' Bit and got her home, but getting her back to bed was extremely difficult--particularly given that it was 12:30 a.m. at that point and all three of us were very tired from being up way past bedtime.  By this morning, the contractions seemed to have stopped--yay!  Outside of two doctor visits (and writing this post), my goals for the day are sleeping and drinking water.  Ah, what a glamorous life!

What surprised me most about this whole incident was how calm I was.  On the way to the hospital and as they were hooking me up, I was more worried that they were going to put me on the monitor and tell me I was crazy because nothing was going on than I was that it would turn out I was actually in labor.  Once it was clear I was contracting, I was so relieved I'm not sure I ever processed what it would mean if I was really in labor.  Fortunately, I didn't need to.  And, we got the opportunity to test out our contingency plan for Lil' Bit and local delivery in the event we don't make it to the induction, which makes me feel a little calmer about that, too.

Still, it was a very real reminder that Jellybean is going to come when he wants, and all I can do is try to be prepared for whenever that is.  Even so, I spend a few minutes every hour or two singing the "Just Keep Swimming" tune from Finding Nemo to Jellybean, except the words I use are "Just keep cooking."

T-minus 4 and 1/2 weeks and counting...

Got Stress?

One of the things a fertility clinic will tell you when you are trying to get (and stay) pregnant is to avoid stress.  This is certainly a lovely theory, but the whole infertility gig does not lend itself to being stress-free.  Add in a toddler having surgery, a non-private room at the hospital, dental issues, and dehydration-induced bleeding and--VOILA!--you have my ridiculously stressful life.

So, let's go back to Sunday.  I had taken Lil' Bit to church as usual.  Somehow, during coffee hour, I broke a crown.  I called my dentist at home (one of the benefits of small town living!), and got an appointment to see him the next day to put on a temporary one.  Once I got slightly calmed down from that snafu, we worked on getting our ducks in a row to head for Detroit to take Lil' Bit in for her surgery.  My zen had not even returned when I discovered I was bleeding again.  After getting Lil' Bit to bed, I drank lots of water and put my feet up.  My mantra was--I can't control this; there is a plan to which I am not privy; but if I get a say, please stick around.  And, by morning, things seemed a little better.  Still, I called the fertility center to seek reassurance.  They told me there was nothing that could be done at this point and that they weren't worried, but I could call if I needed further reassurance.  I did my best to feel reassured by this, pulled up my big-girl pants, and headed out to Detroit.

Surgery on Tuesday morning went well and everything was copacetic.  Then, we discovered there were no rooms available for Lil' Bit, so we waited in the recovery area for several hours for a room to come open.  We were relieved when we got word she had been assigned to one, but it was another hour or two before we were sent up because they had to clean it.  We discovered we were sharing the room with another two-year-old who had just had the same surgery.  What we soon discovered, however, was that this child could scream and did not want to see any nurse, doctor, or anything of the sort and mom had no intention of holding said child to provide comfort--she just kept talking on her phone.  I mean, I know screaming.  I was a willful child who would scream to the high-heavens, but I had nothing on this toddler.  In fact, the non-stop, high-pitched screams and other activities by the child were such that the nursing staff finally came and "helped" mom take the child to another location because Lil' Bit (and likely the whole freakin' floor) was clearly being affected.  The charge nurse actually came in and apologized and, when I said the standard, "It's okay," her response was, "No, it's not."

Things got marginally better upon the return, although we heard overheard conversations that would make Teen Mom plot lines seem like Leave It To Beaver episodes (Phil tells me that the conversations overnight were even more "entertaining").  Needless to say, I forgot to take care of myself as I was working hard to console my child and *bam* significant bleeding and cramping.  I was certain I was miscarrying, wigged out, and started crying, all of which freaked out Lil' Bit even more.  Seeing her response, I worked hard to push down all that anxiety and sadness and pull myself together and then worked to console her and get her calm.  We finally got me back to the hotel where I drank tons of water and laid down with my feet up.  Again, by morning, things seemed okay.

After a rough morning at the hospital, Lil' Bit finally got discharged.  On the drive home, my temporary crown popped off.  The only good thing about this was that I was scheduled to get my new permanent one the next day.  On the downside, we were back up to 14 meds per day with Lil' Bit, most of which could not be combined and seven of which were liquid doses (her least favorite).  Needless to say, every day involves tons of screaming as we try and "do what's best for her," while I watch her be a little more traumatized each time.  Her regular med-taking has suffered to the point that, even once she's better, we have a long haul to get her back to where we were before all this.

Thursday arrived and I got my new crown.  It was unpleasant, but at least I got a little time away from the house such as it was.  By last night, things seems to be on the upswing.  I was feeling pretty good about the rest of Lil' Bit's recovery.  Thinking the day might end on a good note, I was disheartened, but no longer surprised, to discover I was bleeding *again*.  Worse, Lil' Bit didn't want to sleep alone (who could blame her), so I spent the night on the floor of her room.  Although I didn't get much sleep, I did manage to drink more water and get my feet up and got things stopped again.

That brings us to this morning.  After an okay morning, things went downhill fast.  I swear, it was like she was worse than right after her surgery. Now, I remember with my recent surgical recovery feeling like I was backsliding.  I don't know why I assumed that wouldn't happen with her, but I did.  Seeing her misery today hit me really hard.  And, even though Phil and his parents have worked very hard to try and provide me some downtime, my little girl just wants her mommy and my heart just can't say no.  However, I have managed to not be too far from water and have stayed well-hydrated, thus preventing the now diagnosed dehydration-induced uterine contractions/bleeding.

I know my previous goal was just to make it to the ultrasound this Thursday, but now, I am living hour by hour, minute by minute, just trying to make Lil' Bit as comfortable as possible and to get through this emotionally and physically intact.  There is no freakin' way I can stay stress free through all this.  Life is what it is.  But, I just keep telling myself:  I can't control this; there is a plan to which I am not privy; but if I get a say, please stick around.  All I can do now is wait.  And drink lots of water.

The Curse of the Two Week Wait

This week started with such promise.  I was living in the giddy glow that I was sure the procedure worked and the only real issue was how many we would have.  I started using hpts to see if anything would show up yet.  Nothing so far, which isn't really much of a surprise.  It would be really rare to see anything this early.  Only, with each negative result, my certainty that the procedure worked started to chip away.  Then, this morning, I got hit with the sads.  An overwhelming, I keep starting to cry out of nowhere, sad.

It took most of the day to realize that at least part of it is the upcoming anniversary of my miscarriage.  But, as I sat with it, I realized that another part of my problem is my control needs.  See, there's no way to prepare myself for every outcome.  It could be triplets, twins, a singleton, or none at all.  There is simply no emotional preparation that is appropriate for all of those outcomes.  Thus, the solution would be to not prepare and just go with the flow.  The whole "what will be will be" mantra.  Only, that's not me.  I'm a preparer.  Indeed, it's one of the reasons I keep using hpts.  I'm trying to prepare myself.  See, if I get an early positive, it's more likely to be multiples.  If nothing has shown up by Saturday, it's unlikely to be a positive beta and I'm not caught off guard by the results on Monday.  Still, my inability to know anything definitively and the continued negative results only feed my fear that this cycle has failed and that I will learn as much only days after the anniversary of the loss of Oliver.  Needless to say, I am an emotional mess.  Come Monday, all of this waiting and not knowing will be over one way or the other.  I just need to get through five days.  So, I try and comfort myself by looking at my picture.  And I hope.  Because, without control or knowledge, it's all I have.  Still, it's something.

Five days and counting...

Dayenu

With Easter approaching, and having just watched Prince of Egypt, I have been thinking about Passover--the celebration of the Exodus from Egypt.  As I have been working through my dark night of the soul  recently, I have been reminded that each of us has periods in our lives that feel like exile; when God does not seem to be present.

Less than three years ago, I was in a period of exile, angry at God and the world, struggling to understand my infertility, and wondering if and how I would ever have children.  God took me from exile by blessing me with Lil' Bit.  Frustratingly, exile returned as we coped with her medical condition and surgery, although we also felt many blessings during that time as well.  Blessings overflowed as she got better and we achieved pregnancy again.  Alas, exile returned with the loss of Oliver.  But, as I have mourned the loss of Oliver this last month, occasionally, I remembered to give thanks for Lil' Bit.  See, these last 16 months with her made it easy to forget that once I wasn't sure if I would ever have any children.

And so, as I struggle to reconcile my emotional need for additional children with the knowledge that, with Lil' Bit's needs, I don't know that I would be a good parent if I had more, I try to remember God's presence.  I remind myself that it is there, regardless of whether I can see it or feel it.  And, as frustrating as it is, I try to relinquish control; to let go and let God.  I try to let His will be done, whatever that is.  And I try to remember to give thanks for all that He has already done for me.

Which brings me back to Passover.  As I understand it (since it's not my tradition), at Passover, there is a song that is often sung called Dayenu, which means, roughly, it would have been enough.  Each of the stanzas of the song celebrate what God has done and are followed by "dayenu."  Any of these things would have been enough, but God did so much more.  And as I reflect, I realize that the same is true for me.  Which brings me to my own, personal, Dayenu:

It would have been enough...if He had brought me out of a bad marriage.

It would have been enough...if He had led me to Phil.

It would have been enough...if He had provided a full scholarship to law school.

It would have been enough...if He had led me to the job of my dreams.

It would have been enough...if He had granted me children.

And He did.  He granted me Lil' Bit.  And so, ultimately, if she is all I get, she is enough.  She is more than enough.  She is dayenu.

The Waiting Game

Well, hello, TWW.  We meet again.

And so, after my transfer on Thursday, I find myself with nothing to do but wait.  The worst part about the wait is wondering what every little cramp and twinge in your body means.  Sometimes, I wish cramps came with a little ticker/scroller with messages like:  no worries, it's just gas; get ready, your cycle's on its way; seek help, your appendix is about to burst; you're hungry, dummy; and so forth.  But, since nothing like that exists, I simply try not to focus on it, or, when I lose that battle, just breathe and know that I cannot change whatever is occurring and that I will accept whatever is to be.  Oh look, another lesson about lack of control.  SMH! (smack my head)

On the upside, the waiting is going much faster this time.  And do you know why?  Because I have a toddler!  Last time, it was me, Phil, and a long wait (not to mention daily shots!).  This time, there are meds to feed Lil' Bit, doctor's appointments, milestones to note, baths to give, books to read, snuggles and cuddles to enjoy, and time to share (and no shots!).  That doesn't meant the wait isn't bothering me.  Just that it's bothering me less this time around.

As for the hpt issue from my last post, I have decided to poas (that's short for pee on a stick) three times, max--most likely Friday, Saturday and Sunday.  My best tests are scheduled for the 13th and 15th.  The one from the 13th is to see if we're pregnant and the one on the 15th is to make sure the numbers are doubling appropriately.  If both tests go well, we go in March 1 for an ultrasound.

I also have a very different attitude about things this time around.  First, I'm more relaxed because, if the cycle isn't successful, it doesn't mean I'm not a parent; just that Lil' Bit doesn't get a sibling.  Already having one child makes a huge difference.  Second, I realized that I'm already pregnant.  Think about it.  In any natural cycle or IUI, there's a chance you don't ovulate, or that no fertilization takes place, or whatever.  We don't have that problem.  I know that there are two little embryos inside of me growing away.  Thus, to the extent that anybody is considered pregnant at this point, I am as pregnant as they are.  What the blood tests will tell me is whether I was able to sustain the pregnancy.  This perspective also recognizes that, if a cycle is unsuccessful, there was a loss of a child that did not come to be, the same as with any pregnancy loss--whether by chemical pregnancy; the lack of a heartbeat come first or subsequent ultrasound; a miscarriage; whatever.

So, this TWW, I am waiting for either the bloodtest or hpt to confirm a continued pregnancy.  And, in case you're wondering, don't expect the news right away.  Similar to last time, we'll probably keep the news to ourselves until both betas have been performed.

Lessons From the ICU

Tom Petty said it best--the waiting is the hardest part.

Here I sit, a full week after Lil' Bit's open-heart surgery, and we still don't know when we'll go home. With her first birthday coming this weekend, and Thanksgiving next week, I am more than ready to be home. But, as with most things related to Lil' Bit, I am not the one in control; she is. Surgery went extremely well and she was on track to go home yesterday. However, over the weekend she couldn't keep anything down, including the meds she needed to keep her heart pressures in line. So, she's still in ICU, while they try and get those pressures in line.

 Making matters worse is that Lil' Bit isn't drinking much of anything (she is a great eater though). This is, ironically, a problem of my own making. She never took to drinking juice or water, and I never saw much reason to force her since she ate well and drank lots of milk. I had managed to pump enough to almost make it to her first birthday. Sadly, I didn't quite make it; we ran out--just before surgery. So, Lil' Bit wakes up at the hospital and all there is to drink is stuff she's never had before. It never occurred to me that my pumping & freezing plan would have such a major flaw. On the plus side, she's making progress with whole milk, and today she drank strawberry Pediasure, so they won't have to stuff it down a feeding tube. Still, if we ever needed more evidence that's she a stubborn one, this is it.

Not surprisingly, I can't control the doctors, or Lil' Bit's response to the meds, or make her eat, or make her nap.  So, I am really struggling. Xanax has become my new best friend. It really helps keep the edge off. Text and Facebook support, calls from my mom, and my in-laws' continued presence all help too. Still, there are days I am ready to cry, scream, or both, at the drop of a hat.

The waiting isn't fruitless, though. In waiting and learning the stories of other families, I am grateful that Lil' Bit is otherwise healthy. So far, she has had 6 roommates. Among them, an asthamatic; another cardiac patient who had surgery the day after, but has already been released; and two neuro patients--one 7 years old, and one 5 months old who has already had 4 surgeries. Elsewhere in the ICU are cardiac patients only months old, babies with RSV and whooping cough, a baby with double pneumonia and MRSA, and myriad other conditions. But, severity and longevity in ICU don't matter. What I discovered is that I am now a member of the club. Because all of these parents get it. Whether their child is in for a day, a month, or longer, they have all felt the tedium of waiting. They have all gotten tired of doctors and labs and tubes attached to their children. They all know that they cannot bear to eat another bite of Subway, Wendy's, Quiznos, or Biggby. And yet, we all cheer when someone graduates to go home. And we all grieve when a child is lost. And we all support one another as we wait. This support is sometimes all it takes to get through one minute, and then another, and another, until you look up and, finally, it's your turn to go home. It is an amazing experience of grace and love and community, and I am humbled to be a part of it.

 But, in case you were wondering, it doesn't make waiting any easier.

Doing the Job

Last week, Lil' Bit got sick.  We took her to the doctor who said she had (yet another) ear infection.  He put her on antibiotics and we raced against the clock to get her better because if she's sick within 2 weeks of her surgery, they could move or cancel it.  We took her back in to her doctor today, and he gave us the all clear.  Phew!  I breathed a sigh of relief that we didn't have to rearrange all the plans we had made, but put in a call to the surgeon to let him know what was going on.  I spoke with one of the nurses and she assured me everything was fine and they would just make sure to give her a good once-over when she came in for the pre-op testing.  All was copacetic.  Sure, Phil and I got put on antibiotics (because we got whatever Lil' Bit had), but otherwise, everything was fine.  Or so I thought.

Part way through my day of napping and recovery, I discovered that I was super hungry and my stomach was upset.  I found this odd, particularly since it was last week that I was on the steroids that generally cause increased appetite.  But no.  The hunger came today. Not helpful.  Why?  Because I started Weight Watchers about 2 1/2 weeks ago.  It's been going very well; I've already released 10 pounds.  (In my family, we try not to say that we "lost" them, because generally you try and find things you have lost).  Anyway, I was surprised to discover that I had nom, nom, nommed my way through my points for the day by 2:30!  What the heck was going on?! And what about dinner?!

It took me a while to realize that the hunger and the upset stomach were my body's way of telling me my stress level is out of control.  I didn't think I was stressed.  After all, I spent the day recuperating and being told all my plans were still in good order.  It wasn't until dinner that I finally figured it out.  I was washing dishes while Phil fed Lil' Bit her dinner.  She was doing really well, but had some fussy moments.  And in those fussy moments, I knew I was "done."  "Done" is a magic word in our house.  It means that it is time for the other parent to come to the rescue because whoever is "done" has run out of energy/patience reserves.  The thing was, I wasn't the parent on duty.  Phil was taking care of Lil' Bit.  Why was her fussiness driving me crazy to the point I was "done"?  It hit me.  I was done because I had run out of minutiae to worry about and plan.  There's nothing left to do but wait.  In calling the surgeon's office, I had to acknowledge that Lil' Bit's surgery is less than 2 weeks away.  The hunger (my long-term coping mechanism of eating when stressed), the stomach ache (putting all my stress in my stomach), and being done; they were all signs that I'm finally having to accept that Lil' Bit's surgery is going to happen, and soon.

I can cry.  I can scream.  I can shout n't fair!  None of it will change the fact that I have to take my daughter to the hospital and let them cut her open and operate on her heart if I want her to be healthy.  I feel like Dr. Seuss's Grinch--it doesn't matter how much I hate it or try to avoid it, I can't stop this surgery thing from coming.  And it doesn't matter that it's the right thing to do.  And it doesn't matter that she'll be okay.  There is nothing reasonable or rational about how I feel.  I am a mother.  It is my job to protect my daughter, but I can't.  I can't protect her from this.  I can't keep it from happening.  I can't control it.  I can't fix it.  I want to rage at the world.  I want to rage at God.  I want to hold my daughter tight and never let go.  I want this not to be happening.

But it is happening.  And my world is out of control.  So, I want comfort.  I want to eat a pint of pumpkin cheesecake ice cream.  I want an entire bag of barbecue potato chips.  I want a dozen Tim Horton's doughnuts.  These are the patterns that have always brought me comfort (hence, the need for Weight Watchers).  But I won't.  And do you want to know the crazy reason why?  Because I can control that.  I can control what I eat.  I can control not letting my weight loss goals get sabotaged by old patterns.  I can control me.  And I'll do it.  Not just for me, but for Lil' Bit.  Because she needs me to be strong enough to get through this, so I can help her get through this.  She needs me to "be the mommy."  And I remember that I signed up for this job.  I fought for this job.  I paid good money for this job!  So, it's time to pull up my big girl pants and do this job.

Riding the Roller Coaster

Although I haven't shared this on the blog yet, Lil' Bit has had some health issues.  Beginning in April, she contracted RSV.  This led to the discovery of a VSD (ventricular septal defect--a hole in the heart).  Based on some difficulties they had when imaging her heart with the echocardiogram, they wanted to send her for a CT scan of her heart.  She had that test a few weeks ago and we had heard nothing back.  Today we received the results.  It's not necessarily good news or bad news, but it was important news.

Turns out, the reason they couldn't find her left pulmonary artery is because she doesn't have one(!).  Also, when they thought she had pneumonia and then thought maybe it was her thymus glad and other things, it turns out that her left lung is smaller than the right.  So, they may well have been seeing the thymus glad, as opposed to her having pneumonia, as her lung may not go up that high.  As a sidenote--it would make sense for that lung to be smaller since it is being fed by smaller arteries.  The up side in all of this is that she doesn't show any symptoms of these issues causing any problems.  She is growing, healthy, quite active, and developing normally.  Her screaming attests to a wonderful lung capacity, as does all of her jumparoo time.  She's working on crawling, can feed herself puffs she picks up with the "pincer grasp," babbling, and doing everything else either on or ahead of schedule.  So, nothing really to worry about.

And yet, it's extremely hard not to freak out about it.  We are doing our best.  And I find myself repeating a new mantra--there is nothing I did or didn't do during pregnancy that caused this.  As a recovering control freak, it is hard not to blame myself.  But, along with accepting that Lil' Bit is doing fine, I am also accepting that this is just how she is.

Ironically, all of this information comes as we are discussing whether we want to try another round of IVF to have another child (or, given the increased incidence of twins, additional children).  Just more information to add to the equation. Yay!

I am reminded, at times such as these, that I am still getting precisely what I asked for with children--opportunities to go with the flow and remember I am not in control.  I am just along for the ride.  And what a wild ride it has been and, apparently, will continue to be.  Wheee!

Being Human

I am a creature of habit.  I love routine.  I can eat the same foods every day for weeks on end without getting tired of them.  I have no doubt that one of the comforts of a schedule is my ability to feel in control.  So, it comes as no surprise that, as Lil' Bit gets older and begins to establish something of a routine, I began to feel more comfortable as a mom.  Phil and I have also done fairly well at making sure we each get some time to ourselves for relaxation or catching up on sleep.

However, I have discovered one giant snag in all of our well-laid plans.  Phil's job.  See, back when it was just the two of us, although it was inconvenient for him to be called away for church stuff or a fire page, it was no big deal.  I had things I go do, people I could visit, naps I could take, etc.  It may have crimped our plans on an occasion, or four, but I knew what I was getting into when I married him (with the exception of the fire chaplaincy thing), so I managed to take it all in stride.  Now that Lil' Bit is here, I find myself reacting much worse.  See, today was supposed to be my day to sleep in.  Phil has a busy weekend full of church things, but we had carved out a few hours for me to get some stuff done.  All that ended with the 3:00 a.m. phone call.  Phil was needed.  Did I understand?  Yes.  Not just because it is Phil's job, but because our parishioners are more than that, they are our friends, and I want to be able to help when my friends hurt.  I love that Phil has the ability to be with people and comfort them.  It is a gift, and one that is worth sharing.

I am, nevertheless, human.  I'm going to let you in on a secret.  Neither pastors, nor their spouses, are anything close to perfect.  They have the same problems and feelings you do.  Thus, I get angry and resent that my alone time is gone.  I am frustrated that I now have to figure out how to juggle our morning routine by myself.  I recognize that this is not the first or last time that this will happen, and it's not as though it's some giant surprise.  Phil's job has always been this way.  It's just that I find myself wishing, on occasion, that my husband worked a job with "regular" hours.  One that didn't involve late meetings multiple days of the week, or being on-call, or always working on weekends, thereby preventing quick weekend getaways.  There are many, many days when I feel like a single parent.  Coming home after a day at work, picking up Lil' Bit, feeding her, trying to cram down food for myself at the same time, giving her a bath, a little playtime, and getting her to bed, all (hopefully) in time to pump and head to bed myself.  It is in these glimpses of single-parenthood that I am grateful that I have a spouse who can and does help me.  I just find myself wishing he could help me more.  But, things are what they are.  We get by.  We make do.  We adapt.  And through it all, I learn that I am a stronger, more capable person that I previously thought.  And the truth is, on many other occasions, I wouldn't change Phil's job for anything.  I love the community and the support it provides.  It is a blessing in so many ways.

But I am human.  And no matter how rational I can be about all of this, I will, in all likelihood, still get angry or feel resentful at times.  The trick, I think, is to own it for what it is-grief over my lack of control-honor it, and get on with living life the way it actually is.  After all, I expect Lil' Bit to roll with the curves I toss into her schedule.  Why should I be unwilling to do the same?

The Power of Permission

I'm the kind of person who doesn't like being told what to do. I like to do things my way, in my own time.  I also like to beat people's expectations.  If someone said I couldn't do something, I would do it, just to prove them wrong.  Unless, of course, I got the feeling that they were challenging me just to get me to do the opposite.  At the same time, I hate giving up. I don't like thinking that something beat me.

Taking all of these traits together, it isn't difficult to imagine the internal connundrum I experienced when breastfeeding wasn't working.  What was worse was that, shortly after my milk came in, the supply was suddenly much reduced.  I panicked.  Both my first and second choice for feeding my daughter seemed to be denied to me.  I was angry.  I wanted to stubborn my way through, but there wasn't much I could do if my body wouldn't cooperate.

One night, after a long pumping session resulted in little milk, I was done.  My hormones were raging and I was sobbing.  I didn't want to have to feed my child formula, but I was short on sleep and the pumping wasn't going any better than the breastfeeding.  In my exhaustion, I went to Phil and asked if we could talk about our options.  I explained that I didn't want to do formula, but the pumping made feedings take twice as long and wasn't producing much for all the effort.  Phil looked at me and gave me the best answer.  He said it was up to me. He would support me if I wanted to keep trying, or he would support switching to formula.  He gave me permission to quit.

Once I had received permission to quit, I wanted to try harder to make it work.  And, as previously noted, pumping ended up working quite well.  But, what I discovered is that granting permission can be an amazing thing.  It makes it easier to do what you know you should, but don't want to.  It's like when I would diet.  If I thought I couldn't have something, it was all I wanted--even if it was something I wouldn't want regularly.  Being allowed to do something made it easier not to do it.  Much like the child who only wants the toy that is being played with by someone else, it is that which we are told we can't have or can't do that motivates us.  Receiving permission can allow us to sit back and evaluate if that is something we really want, or if we were just pushing against being told "no."

I hope to remember this as I raise my daughter, particularly since she already appears to have inherited my stubborn and doesn't like being forced to do anything.  Perhaps a little permission can go a long way.  It certainly works for me.