tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18096777995361843242024-03-19T03:36:23.101-04:00My Life After LossLearning to breathe again after the deaths of my twins, Nicholas & Sophia, my son, Alexander, and 6 miscarriages... and finding joy on the journey with my sweet preemie twins, Bobby & Maya, and our miracle TAC singletons, Michael, Lucas, and Ana.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.comBlogger1380125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-43415245260775585412024-02-01T12:21:00.003-05:002024-02-01T12:21:35.128-05:00Happy 16th Birthday, Nicholas <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wQ98d3zWEolKtFIu814HYn3bx25bl0R6IVP_hMg5RdVe9elABGJdXQWN2iqfAb3ElfAXuzRoYnvseN16NPZabXfpq9wUjPQPLzDhERicsGOzfQzjoxu9ZJFJ0v1IpeBfJqZV0FY5H8eh2vkLrupLT7DP4TYMR8aR9KDUpCOMdJeOqIRNmfGiE6OW3rkh/s1202/signal-2024-02-01-11-40-28-092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1038" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wQ98d3zWEolKtFIu814HYn3bx25bl0R6IVP_hMg5RdVe9elABGJdXQWN2iqfAb3ElfAXuzRoYnvseN16NPZabXfpq9wUjPQPLzDhERicsGOzfQzjoxu9ZJFJ0v1IpeBfJqZV0FY5H8eh2vkLrupLT7DP4TYMR8aR9KDUpCOMdJeOqIRNmfGiE6OW3rkh/s320/signal-2024-02-01-11-40-28-092.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p dir="ltr">The writing myth of Hemingway's saddest story, "<b>baby shoes, never worn</b>," can be summed up today as "16th birthday cake, uneaten". Ana told me on Monday that her oldest brother really wanted a cookies and cream cake, so here we are. Another year, another cake made with love and holding candles that won't be blown out. Memories of a baby boy so little and wiggly, with tiny fingers that wrapped around my pointer finger... But no matter how tightly I held him or how much I loved him, he couldn't stay long in this world. Instead of giving him car keys and taking him to get his driver's license, I'm clutching a blanket that my mind tells me still smells like that sweet little guy and looking at the few photographs that serve as a reminder of his short little life.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The next two weeks in time are a blank in my brain, that in between time that I was still pregnant with his twin sister while mourning that she would never get to grow up alongside him. I was too young and naive then. Even though I knew the odds were against her survival, I still held onto that hope. In this life, these weeks only serve to remind me that I'll soon be repeating this birthday grief and memories, only this time for my oldest daughter instead of my oldest son.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Today, hug your children tight. Call your people and tell them that you love them. Know that life can change in a split second and everything you know could be destroyed. You will rebuild. You'll never be the same. Who you could have been will be gone forever. But you will be able to pick up the pen and continue writing your journey. Sometimes you can only manage a blank page... Sometimes you manage book upon book. I like to think that while his book was thin, my sweet little guy's story is woven into the life we've made and continue to make.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Happy 16th birthday, Nicholas. </p><br /><p></p>Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-40211129181269743602018-11-25T20:21:00.000-05:002018-11-25T20:21:14.191-05:00Rescued? No. So yesterday was supposed to be a great day. Peter's birthday treat from me was a day away, up to Bethlehem, with a walk on the strip and stopping at the shops, then dinner at a restaurant we'd never been to but was highly rated. In August, life got in the way and we had to reschedule ... It got pushed to yesterday, in conjunction with our monthly "date night" and kids sleepover with Peter's mom.<br />
<br />
Disaster.<br />
<br />
Yesterday was nothing short of a disaster.<br />
<br />
It started off okay. I could feel that I was more edgy than I have been because of the excitement of our plans, which were shortened due to life and a lot of kids but still had the potential to be awesome. We were due to drop the kids after lunch (so 12:30ish) but, due to poor behaviors that resulted in me losing it and yelling (which kills me to admit because I could have held it together, I was just so frustrated ), we ended up not leaving for Bethlehem until almost 3. Then, not even fifteen minutes out, Peter's mom texts that Michael threw up (phlegm thankfully ) and Maya was complaining her ear hurt. But not to worry and to keep going. By the time we were forty minutes out (and not there yet ) the second contact, this time a phone call. Things were finally settled but Maya was getting worse and could we just do dinner and come back.<br />
<br />
At this point, I was barely holding it together. Why would we drive almost an hour for dinner? At like 4 o'clock? Peter decided to keep going and we had barely parked when we were called to come back. He canceled the reservations and we went back to the car.<br />
<br />
While I know it didn't help the situation at all, I cried. I couldn't help it. First off, date night is about the only way I get through the month. It's the one night where, for 3 hours I don't have to be someone's mom and I can just enjoy time with my husband. Second this was supposed to be a birthday getaway fitting for a 40th. I worked to scope stuff out and find things I thought he'd love . To have it ruined once was tough but life is life. But twice. I was literally sobbing against the car door.<br />
<br />
Finally, I pulled my shit together as we arrived and got Maya. After two misses with urgent care, our third was successful and she was found to have the start of an ear infection and was prescribed antibiotics . She wanted to go back to sleepover so she did but the date evening was a bust, since Peter dropped off Maya only to collect Ana. At this point, neither of us had eaten because we had planned on eating away so we went to a meal restaurant that is notoriously easy to get into on Fridays and Saturdays with decent food. While Ana proceeded to make it the farthest thing from enjoyable, Peter and I ate . Then, he dropped us off at home and went back to do bedtime with the older four.<br />
<br />
All in all, yesterday sucked. A lot .<br />
<br />
Before taking the kids to my MILs, I took a rescue dose of the CBD. It did not, however rescue me. It actually caused me to turn inward and made me unable to let go of the sadness that hit because of losing my cool and the day going to hell. I felt tired and lethargic and just really, really sad and noncommunicative. Peter's thought is that the doses were only about 5 hours apart and that may have been the issue.<br />
<br />
On the up side, my joints feel a lot better, which is great, and my accidental encounter with gluten on Thanksgiving resulted in only a tiny rash and minimal swelling, verses the leg and arm rash and joint swelling I'm used to.<br />
<br />
But, here's to today being back to the new normal and, hopefully, better days this week.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-66546263048045287912018-11-23T21:01:00.000-05:002018-11-23T21:01:03.651-05:0010Ten years sounds so long. But, just as it did in February when we were faced with Nicholas and Sophia's tenth birthdays, it feels like yesterday. It feels surreal.<br />
<br />
How?<br />
<br />
How has it been 10 years since I saw his beautiful face? Since I kissed his forehead? Since I held him against my chest? How has the world continued to circle the sun, ten times over For me, wasn't this yesterday?<br />
<br />
I went to a tiny, gourmet kitchen shop to find the perfect, decorative bundt pan and made a dark chocolate hazelnut cake dusted with powdered sugar and served with a chocolate hazelnut Irish whiskey sauce. The kids sang "happy birthday" and had seconds on the cake. As I was snuggling Michael tonight, he told me that Alexander loved his cake. It was all I could do not to break down as I hugged him close.<br />
<br />
Happy birthday , sweet cuddlebug... May all your moments be beautiful until I hold you again.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-79107701798393062672018-11-22T14:47:00.000-05:002018-11-22T14:47:37.919-05:00Thankful 2018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you know me in real life, then you most likely know my feelings on Thanksgiving. (Spoiler Alert: It's not a holiday I dig.) You'll find me much more in tune with the "Day of Mourning" that many Indigenous People hold to on the fourth Thursday in November in lieu of the typical Pilgrims-and-First-Persons-let's-all-sing-Kumbaya-around-the-fire-with-a-turkey-Hallmark holiday. My mom is a tribal person and, while we made turkey and all got together on Thanksgiving, in my home growing up, it was the day after Thanksgiving that was the big deal: she would make chicken and dumplings (sometimes turkey sandwiches, too, if there was enough turkey leftover) and eggnog and we would trim the tree and our house for Christmas. Being "thankful" was supposed to be a daily thing, not something we relegated to a Thursday dinner where we stuffed ourselves beyond recognition. Good food and lots of cooking, yes. But the holiday itself... No.<br />
<br />
When Peter and I married, his mom loved to cook Thanksgiving so it was something that became our tradition. She does Thursday and then Friday, folks come to my house for leftovers (tomorrow, they will be transformed into a leek, gruyere, turkey quiche and salad!) Yet, today, I feel especially thankful.<br />
<br />
It's been 9 days since I lost my cool with the kids. 9 days since I've felt that familiar anxiety that eroded our home with its rage and frustration and anger and sadness. 9 days since I've felt like I'm not the mother I wanted to be. It's been 9 days since I woke up feeling like "Oh God... Another day to get through", feeling like I'm already behind before I've started, wanting to just hurl through the hours until it's over and I'm laying in bed again, awake, wondering how to ever make it better. For eight mornings, I have woken up with hope. <br />
<br />
I don't know that I have believed the people who touted how amazing CBD was or how it literally changed them overnight.<br />
<br />
But it has. Things are different. And while I fully expect to fight or to argue or to have issues arise, the person who is facing life is different. <br />
<br />
I knew that I would be off from teaching this week for the holidays so I had said to Peter that I wanted to take the kids on a field trip. They've been begging and, since I teach in the afternoons, it's a bit tough to try and figure that out. Not to mention, he now works 40 minutes away from home and we still only have one car, so trying to figure everything out is hectic and stressful. And I hate field trips. So there's that. But I digress. I knew that I needed to and that I should. And so, preCBD, I decided to suck it up for the team and plan one, even though I knew it would be the same way it always is: a near miss disaster that usually involves a frustrated mom barely holding her shit together as she tries to convince herself not to cry while driving home at the end of the thing, spent and useless.<br />
<br />
Peter had a work happy hour and so we loosely laid out a plan. Someone we would get him to work and I would do a field trip to central PA, then (since I would drive by his exit anyway) we would stop and join him for dinner after happy hour, then drive him home. Because I'm me, I had a full fledged plan on how this day would schedule in my head.<br />
<br />Which meant that, on Monday, when life threw a monkey wrench in to the plans, I would have an utter meltdown because now what? My plan was useless! I.COULDNT.POSSIBLY.DO.THIS.WITHOUT.A.PLAN.<br />
<br />
Instead, I calmly told Peter what I needed at a minimum to be able to functionally do a field trip. He listened and told me what he needed to do that day. We came to a loose format and, although I couldn't plan for the multiple contingencies that I needed, I was able to wake up feeling positive about the proposed outing. We dropped Peter off at work and decided to go to a local McDonald's with an indoor playland (this is our typical field trip "treat"; for some unknown reason, the kids love McDonald's pancakes and this has been their field trip breakfast for the last few years.) <br />
<br />
Just as we are approaching the McDonald's, not five minutes after dropping Peter off, awful happens: Lucas throws up. All over himself. All over the car. Everywhere. He's crying and all I see (and smell) is vomit. And I'm driving, so I can't just stop. I can see the McDonald's and I pull in.<br />
<br />Now the me of two weeks ago would already be melting down and probably talking to myself about how pointless even trying to have a good day is and how things always go wrong- you know, being extraordinarily unhelpful because the poor kid did something he had zero control over. <br />
<br />
Instead, I'm calmly talking him (and the other kids) through the mess and the parking. I don't have anything to clean up, but I figure out a plan on the fly, dumping a bag of Peter's to-be-dry cleaned suit into the back so I can use the bag, getting as many wipes as I can, and starting to clean Lucas and the mess, getting him stripped, cleaned, and dressed and cleaning up the puke, all while the other kids are now laughing and joking (and I'm contributing). We get everything squared away and I get all five kids out and we walk into the McDonald's...<br />
<br />Where we are greeted by a giant sign on the playland saying it is closed for renovation. Something that they neglected to mention on their website when I was searching for indoor only playlands. The next closest one? No joke- it's near our house. 40 minutes away. And in the opposite direction of where our planned field trip was.<br />
<br />
The kids did not want an alternative and since I was trying to make this a fun day for them, we loaded back into the car and proceeded to the McDonald's- 2 miles from our house. We listened to Minecraft parody songs, sang, laughed, and finally, over half an hour since we planned, the kids were playing while I ordered enough pancakes to feed a small army.<br />
<br />
We ended up having a blast of a field trip (and I can honestly tell you that I don't remember the last time I didn't have a panic attack on a field trip trying to keep up with 5 kids in 5 different directions). We went for ice cream afterwards at a dairy. Again, no issues. We drove back to meet Peter but I got there too early; he wasn't even leaving for happy hour. So, instead of lamenting what I would do, we went grocery shopping to pick up a wreath for our front door and to get a few things for the desserts we were making (together no less) for Thanksgiving. <br />
<br />
5 kids.... A busy Wegman's at rush hour... The Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Can you picture this? I'll give you a second.... Are you seeing it?<br />
<br />
It was fine. We got what we needed. We picked out a wreath for the front door and a hanging for the side door. The kids got ingredients for our baked goods. We checked out. The woman next to me actually commented on how laid back of a mother I am (ME??? SERIOUSLY???) and how she isn't that calm and collected with her 2 kids, let alone "Oh-my-is that...3-4-5?"<br />
<br />
We got into the car, where Ana proceeded to cry because she was DONE with the car, and then fight rush hour to go a mile or so to where the happy hour is. We get there, get inside, and get dinner going. Which meant everyone needed to go to the potty and there was a spilled drink and people wanted then didnt want their meal. You know... Life with a bunch of little people.<br />
<br />
It wasn't that big of a deal. It turns out when you are calm and polite and you don't escalate the situation by adding your own anxiety into the mix, you are able to keep them relatively calm. Who knew? (Peter swears he knew... )<br />
<br />
The couple with three kids next to us commented on how well behaved the kids were as I was double checking the booth after Peter paid the tab and started taking them all to the car. They asked how we managed to keep the entire family so pleasant when they were struggling with their 3 and couldn't imagine what life was going to look like as people got older.<br />
<br />
I can tell you, two weeks ago, they wouldn't have asked because I wouldn't have been approachable. After dinners out with the average disasters that are likely with little people around a table, I tend to throw off a "leave me the hell alone" vibe.<br />
<br />
On the way home... Lucas puked again. All over everything. About 5 minutes from home. <br />
<br />
No freaking out. I pulled over in the dark and cold. I got him changed while Peter cleaned up as best as he could on the side of the road. And, instead of negative thoughts running through my head, do you know what I thought? "At least there's a second pair of hands. It makes this a lot quicker!"<br />
<br />
We got home, got Lucas a shower, and I snuggled him while Peter helped get the other kids squared away for bed.<br />
<br />
Another example of how I can see a mega change: cooking. I love to cook- ALONE. It is my happy place and my solace and, although I've smiled at times when the kids ask to help, inside I'm screaming NONONONONONONONO. WHY DO YOU HAVE TO TAKE THIS ONE THING FROM ME????????<br />
<br />
Maya and Bobby love to help and they want to cook, both with me and on their own. In the last few days, I've let them help. I've encouraged them. I've done nothing but given them praise (even as I'm cleaning up a mess). Today, as I baked cookies that didn't come out, I wasn't thrilled that they were too thin, but it was a shrug as I plated them and moved on. As the kids cooked desserts, I smiled and laughed with them and helped as needed. There wasn't frustration or anxiety, about the process or the outcome. It just was.<br />
<br />
And it was good.<br />
<br />
There have been some physical differences too. My RA pain is lessened, although I've read that I would need double my current dosing to see hardcore differences. Right now, I've noticed less swelling and less pain, although my joints are still not in a great place. I've found that menstrual cramps are greatly reduced. Since Ana, my periods have been really awful. Like 600mg of ibuprofen and constant hot water bags pain that is barely touched by either but they are enough to get me through the day. Not to mention the bitchiness and frustration. This period, which started a few days ago, has had one day of uncomfortable crampiness that were easily mitigated by hot water bottles and a lower dose of Advil. And I've been sleeping better.<br />
<br />
I feel so incredibly thankful for the last week and a half. The house is a warmer, more cheerful place. We have laughed more. We have cried less. It's been more peaceful. We've been enjoying our time together.<br />
<br />
And so, today, I want to sit around the dinner table and tell my family how thankful I am for them- for being able to enjoy them and for not having these moments slip by in a haze of anxiety and frustration. I'm thankful to have found a way to find myself again and I'm enjoying the family that I'm so blessed to have. <br />
<br />And I'm so thankful to say that I am looking forward to my days again.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-38786335389410273102018-11-19T10:33:00.001-05:002018-11-19T10:33:30.605-05:00Mind ManipulationWe've all seen it. The "game day socks" or the "special pen". Those little crutches that, through fate or luck have been with us with "IT" has happened, so we decide that, every time we are faced with "IT", we have to have that thing!<br />
<br />
When Maya was younger, she was upset with me before I didn't let her wear her Giant's jersey to church. The last time the Giants had played on a Sunday, she hadn't worn their jersey and they had lost. She was convinced the two were related. When they lost, there wasn't much I could do to convince her otherwise! It was all my fault! (Not those interceptions... Not at all!)<br />
<br />
We all have those little things that put our heads in the right space.<br />
<br />
Guess who has had a smoothie every day since starting the CBD... Even before coffee.... Yeah. This girl.<br />
<br />
When I bought the CBD oil from the co-op, they had a smoothie ready to go in the cold case, so I grabbed it. I like green smoothies; it was good. Basic: just water, kale, spinach, apple, banana, and pineapple. I decided to pick up the ingredients from the store. You can always use a good smoothie, right?<br />
<br />
Well, now it's become some sort of a "I've had one every day since I started and I've kept my cool under fire and things are good so.... Maybe I should have one today."<br />
<br />
I know. It makes zero sense and, consciously, I know that having a smoothie is just that: having a smoothie. But subconsciously??? Maybe I should go pull out Maya's Giant's jersey for Sunday's game...Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-22541416653158512642018-11-17T07:04:00.000-05:002018-11-17T07:04:23.809-05:00How Indeed? I read this is an <a href="https://themighty.com/2018/11/anxiety-mean-mom/">article</a> today: "<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: lato, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">They don’t listen and I have to repeat myself, and I snap. They argue, and I snap. They make a mess, and I snap. They don’t help clean up, and I snap. I am living in a state of anger. How unfair is this to my children? They aren’t allowed to be kids..."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: lato, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: lato, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">How indeed? When kids are penalized for being children, how do they learn to mature through their immaturity? Are they rushed through, forced to grow up early? Are they forever trapped in that place where they just want to be a child, regardless of age? What lasting effects do situations like this have?</span><br />
<br />
The scenario weighs on my mind. While I had my struggles , up until Lucas was born, things were pretty good. It was harder after Michael, once we started homeschooling. The emotional impact of feeling like there was no place for us and homeschooling wasn't just the best option but the only one was really hard and it was magnified because I was still coaching cross country and was leading a Girl Scout troop. I could see all that we were missing. But by the time Lucas came along, with the stress of homeschooling, special needs, another baby on top of a toddler and two six-year-olds... Then the <a href="https://www.scarymommy.com/i-almost-lost-everything-ppd-now-im-getting-my-life-back/">PPD</a>... Man... That changed everything . Even after climbing back from that ledge, there was Ana's pregnancy and then more devastating news... It's been a rough go of it, culminating most recently in the death of my father-in-law. The last few years have just been epic - and not in a good way.<br />
<br />
During this time, my anxiety and frustration have grown... And grown... And grown. Alongside that, my plate has gotten heavier with task after task. These don't make for a happy household.<br />
<br />
It goes without saying that a house full of kids (at this point: 9, 9, 5, 3, 18 months) is going to be loud and messy and chaotic. Add in the fact that all of them are home all day , every day and you can add the word "VERY" in front of that. Add in a mother who teaches every afternoon from 3-7, who runs a very emotionally impactive service organization, who writes and publishes (and needs the time to research and edit), who volunteers for about 15 hours a week in various functions... And you now have a built in recipe for disaster. Welcome home!<br />
<br />
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As I begin my new path (and , so far life after CBD does feel new) I am left wondering how much damage the last 3-4 years has caused my kids. How much my anxiety, frustration, and anger has scarred them. Hope much their witnessing of the stress and pain of these last years has impacted them. How I can undo any damage that is there. More than anything in this world, I love them and want the universe for them.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-26436590340873215342018-11-16T21:22:00.001-05:002018-11-16T21:22:20.191-05:00Snowed In<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The northeastern U. S. (and down into the southeastern as well) was slammed by a fall snowstorm yesterday, our first snowfall of the season. Sitting here with my hot coffee, I'm watching the sun start to melt through the pristine white that covers my deck and lawn. It's beautiful. It feels apropos.</div>
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I'm on day 3 of the CBD oil each morning. Already, I've noticed positive differences. The things that trigger my anxiety aren't. The last few days, I haven't yelled. I haven't sighed written the kids asked to help me do something that I simply needed to get done and didn't really need to delay. I haven't gotten frustrated when something outside of my plan has happened; I've articulated my feelings and gone on about the day. I'm here, taking a few minutes to just write and reflect.</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Yesterday , caught in snowstorm traffic, I was almost in an accident due to careless driving. I didn't yell at the other car or shout obscenities from the hidden universe of my own vehicle. On the way back from the store , traffic was crawling Ten minutes took over twice that. I wasn't my typical , annoyed self. It just was.</div>
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As the kids want to snuggle at night and pick the television programming (usually while I'm decompressing study a stressful day ), I've found myself not really caring about what's on the TV and, instead, just soaking in the time with them before they fall asleep. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Michael looked up at me the other night as I held him while we watched a football game and said, "You're the best mommy ever.". He hasn't said that in a long while. And it's because I haven't been. I've been barely breaking even, trying to stay afloat.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I know that part of it is my stress load. I have to start saying "yes " only to the things I truly need or want in my life, giving everything else a "no". There will be someone else to step in. <br />
<br />
I only have this one life I want it to matter in the right ways. </div>
Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-76021131399133003472018-11-14T21:16:00.000-05:002018-11-14T21:16:46.888-05:00Digging for Hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Gh7odXf6dH8_7t_Yd9c7HRzU9Q0C0kgChyphenhyphenGj77g8bX-3o4Wi5FRqaWj9YVV-uNm3c_uXHf8w3bxky7MhhuHVOulyb14u3OBDe91vynBxUnuBiBLNz2LCWCSffSL4Ltp_kgg9kde9GcaP/s1600/signal-2018-11-08-115211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="762" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Gh7odXf6dH8_7t_Yd9c7HRzU9Q0C0kgChyphenhyphenGj77g8bX-3o4Wi5FRqaWj9YVV-uNm3c_uXHf8w3bxky7MhhuHVOulyb14u3OBDe91vynBxUnuBiBLNz2LCWCSffSL4Ltp_kgg9kde9GcaP/s200/signal-2018-11-08-115211.jpg" width="95" /></a></div>
There comes a time where you have to accept that you aren't being your best self - that you aren't living up to who you are supposed to be. When you look into your own eyes and cannot find anything you seem worthwhile that day is the now. For me that day was yesterday.<br />
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The last few months have been a struggle. In the fall, I began working 4 hours each afternoon in a community classroom, working with local 3rd graders on math and ELA skills. While I can honestly say that I love it (and I really do), it is 20 hours each week that aren't going to other things. It's great to get out of the house, it's great to make a difference, and it's great to feel like I have a real financial contribution to the family. But it's hard because it's another pull on time. </div>
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Starting the job coincided with Peter transitioning into a new position within his company, but at a site 30-40 minutes away . He changed his schedule to accommodate my hours; in addition, my MIL is amazing and comes each afternoon. It also hit at when our homeschooling year (g5 for the twins, g1 for Michael , gPK3 for Lucas, and g "I'm a PITA" for Ana) . Needless to say, stress has built a permanent seat at the table. </div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The fall hasn't been easy. We are really settling into our "quaint farmhouse (which feels like 3500sqft of renovation projects most days!) and my FIL passed away in early October from cancer. It's been tough. Add to that the growing pains of five very unique kids, 2018 being the 10th birthdays for Nicholas & Sophia (February) and Alexander (November), and all of the volunteer obligations that church and scouts bring to the scene, and it feels like so much.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrufLSl2P5KGrkxIYzZbsviOcwqXuSqVKwKhJW0d9BfeElhjRLZg6p2qfmNRoeVuAks9ZSIEAZnMmoWBNRScA6d3JVDPeoNufG0N9KjWeh0RW71_NoaDbxTg_0q9ASKWXa4X5KMEV4e63s/s1600/signal-2018-06-24-202010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1075" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrufLSl2P5KGrkxIYzZbsviOcwqXuSqVKwKhJW0d9BfeElhjRLZg6p2qfmNRoeVuAks9ZSIEAZnMmoWBNRScA6d3JVDPeoNufG0N9KjWeh0RW71_NoaDbxTg_0q9ASKWXa4X5KMEV4e63s/s320/signal-2018-06-24-202010.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
Peter and I hit the big 20 in June and, while I'm enormously proud of our relationship , it, too, has had to cope with the added stresses and issues. (Monthly date night is a wonderful and needed help.). We also have been working through individual personal issues which, while truly a gift is also hard at times.</div>
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Which brings me to yesterday... </div>
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<br /></div>
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A day from hell... Really .</div>
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<br /></div>
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My anxiety and frustration have been really banging the gong recently. The kids are driving me batty and I have found myself turning inward to my eating disorder to regulate my emotions when things are especially bad which, of course, leads to nowhere good. (As part of my personal mental work, I've been seeking to deal with the underlying issues and causes of my ED , but that is another post for another time...)</div>
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<br /></div>
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So yesterday ... I'm fighting a cold and not feeling well... Trying to get meals done ... Cleaning up mess after mess... Unable to get school started because of the chaos.</div>
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AND</div>
<div>
I </div>
<div>
LOST</div>
<div>
IT. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I mean screaming at the top of my lungs, nasty voice lost it. The kids had this look like the banshee had been unleashed, Maya starts to cry - trust me when I tell you it was horrible and no amount of apologizing made me feel better.</div>
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In the afternoon, as I got ready for work and looked at myself in the mirror, the ghost staring back wasn't me. It wasn't the survivor, the writer, the marathoner. It wasn't the singer, the helper, the mother, the wife. It was this empty, lifeless shell. It was this memory of who I was. It was a corpse, cold and dead.</div>
<div>
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<i>Give me one reason why the world would be better with you in it, </i>the voice in my head demanded.<br />
<br />
And I couldn't <br />
<br />
In that moment, I couldn't think of a good reason.<br />
<br />
I finally thought about the families I've helped cope through the worst moments of their lives: pregnancy losses, infant deaths, eating disorders, affairs... I have made a positive difference in their lives. But in my own , it seemed, positive differences seemed just out of reach. <br />
<br />
The panic attacks, the anxiety and rage, the crying... The lack of joy in the every day, traded instead for the stress of all that has to be done. One thing compounded on another, until all that I had was the weight of the tasks breaking my back and eating into my shoulders .<br />
<br />
When I texted Peter that my epitaph should read, "She helped others but couldn't help herself", something snapped I finally broke down and told him that I needed a change. The yelling at the kids... The always being frustrated and upset... My RA flaring... Those "the kids /Peter would be better off without me" feelings rearing their ugly head. I needed to take my own advice--the advice I've given to numerous clients and friends - and take control. <br />
<br />
To find a way.<br />
<br />
That led to me sitting outside of a local Co-op, having just bought a month's supply of Charlotte' s Web CBD. Between teaching part time, homeschooling, the five kids going through their different kids things, Bobby's special needs, running MHB and working with families (which is my soul work but is emotionally tough, too; this month alone, I've had three pg losses and another couple who are expecting their child to not survive long after birth- as we go into what would have been Alexander's 10th birthday). <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_GPbEN88qW0-nB4POMUPSPHrGuapubs1kAUL9lNrdj0nayqZyW8A_sf7JXJFrqiEALdL9O8GirciIiWUjsldxWz1YPm0C8jTPxMHty9Vpchc0fLXhJnAmLX4tlqR-n-kHO8r30-Id5k7/s1600/signal-2018-11-07-104905.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="760" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_GPbEN88qW0-nB4POMUPSPHrGuapubs1kAUL9lNrdj0nayqZyW8A_sf7JXJFrqiEALdL9O8GirciIiWUjsldxWz1YPm0C8jTPxMHty9Vpchc0fLXhJnAmLX4tlqR-n-kHO8r30-Id5k7/s200/signal-2018-11-07-104905.jpg" width="95" /></a></div>
So... I brought home my extra strength bottle home and took the first dose, hoping that this will be the secret to letting go of the weight of this anxiety and stress. That feeling it fade will return me to the parent I used to be and free me to start saying "no" to all of the things I need to not fill my limited time with while saying "yes" to the life I want.<br />
<br />
Life is too short and we only get this one chance. I don't want to look back and think I let everything slip away when I had a chance to be better </div>
Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-73202018341700443662018-08-03T22:14:00.003-04:002018-08-03T22:14:39.824-04:00An Overdue UpdateThis space remains as a memorial to my babies who have died, as an homage to my living children, and as a reminder that we are far stronger than we think we are. <br />
<br />
Bobby and Maya will be 9 in a month. It's crazy to even write that. (It was crazier to celebrate Nicholas and Sophia's 10th birthday and to know that Alexander's is mere months away...) Michael turned 5 last month... Lucas turns 3 in 6 weeks or so... Ana hit her first birthday at the end of April. It dawned on me as I checked in here that I didn't even write a birth story for Ana.<br />
<br />
So much stays the same and yet... So much changes.<br />
<br />
This place is so dear to my heart and yet my time is so limited that I rarely can update. I can promise to do better, but all I can really say is "I will try". It's not that I don't care. It's not that my pain went away. It's not that life is all sunshine and roses. But a life not trapped within a confined wall of grief is my new normal; there are too many children and too much going on for it to be otherwise.<br />
<br />
You will notice that the web address to this site has changed. It's no longer <a href="http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com/">http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com</a> (although typing that will get you here). As part of the revamping of Mending Heart Bellies (more to come on that in a second), this space now resides at: <a href="http://blog.mendingheartbellies.org/">http://blog.mendingheartbellies.org</a>. It's my hope that, not only will it reach more people who will be helped by my journey, but that also by integrating it into MHB, I will find a way to update it more regularly.<br />
<br />
MHB initially started as a way for me to work with bereaved families who were trapped in a nightmare and needed someone to hold their hands while they navigated a place they had never dreamed existed. As the years have gone by, it has morphed and grown. I am proud to say that MHB is more than just a place for bereavement, but that it is also a place to grow. We provide a variety of services now, even though my heart is still very much with the loss and bereavement community.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPM1jD93z4T9QcawWad3Qmj-oiuUb7f09jTNAUxRv8rHjs4pu4gX5yFNcll1gPwo53upezDvvbl-jjK6M7_yC-3RMvNefpBrxLwCoMPC1HY-Y_-Xyyh_d8-z7LWx02YhFbn6meKUlI4mO/s1600/MHBmain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="645" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPM1jD93z4T9QcawWad3Qmj-oiuUb7f09jTNAUxRv8rHjs4pu4gX5yFNcll1gPwo53upezDvvbl-jjK6M7_yC-3RMvNefpBrxLwCoMPC1HY-Y_-Xyyh_d8-z7LWx02YhFbn6meKUlI4mO/s320/MHBmain.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mendingheartbellies.org/">www.mendingheartbellies.org</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Life is full and yet there is still that hole in my heart that finds solace in memories and the dreams I had for my children who have predeceased me. I hope that time gives me the change to share more of this life with you as the road ahead unwinds.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-81383027170329022242017-02-20T10:11:00.000-05:002017-02-20T10:11:04.960-05:00Stories from the Storm: Call for Submissions<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mothers who have lost children: I am currently working on a nonfiction project called "Stories from the Storm", where mothers (in their own words) will share their stories of miscarriage (including ectopic, missed miscarriage, blighted ovum), losses related to poor prenatal diagnosis, stillbirth, and neonatal loss from live birth at any gestational age through the first year of life. I can't guarantee that every story I receive will be included, but if you are willing to share your journey through loss and life after, I would be honored to consider your submission to this anthology devoted to memorializing your children and helping parents as they navigate their lives after loss. (You are also welcome to share your story anonymously, if you don't want your name used.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
I have received numerous responses to this request through <a href="http://www.mendingheartbellies.com/">Mending Heart Bellies</a> and via <a href="https://www.facebook.com/michele.haytko">Facebook</a>, and am grateful for the support for this project. <br />
<br />
Please <a href="mailto:mendingheartbellies@gmail.com">submit</a> your stories with the <a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B-TnwAOhWUMwc2FObWhoWGRObmM">submission form</a>.<br />
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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(I'm looking to begin edits on this anthology in the Fall, so submissions are due by Summer 2017.)</div>
<br />Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-48981378509326784512017-01-31T09:59:00.004-05:002017-02-20T10:02:56.690-05:00Writing Through MotherhoodThis article was written and abridged for the publisher, Crosshair Press. You can click <a href="http://crosshairpress.com/2017/01/growing-mother-writer/">here</a> to read their published version. (And, for what it's worth, abridging an article is hard work. I think they did an amazing job of keeping the spirit of the article while fitting it into their space.)<br />
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----<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Sit down.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Computer on.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Open file.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Deep breath.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Cup of coffee.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Quick reread.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Fingers over keyboard.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Type-</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Mommy, can I have a banana?”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">It’s the three-year-old.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>He can reach the bowl where the fruit is
stored, but he hasn’t quite managed the art of peeling the banana yet.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I get up and grab a banana, ripping through
the skin to get him started, and sit back down.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Another swig of coffee.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Another deep breath.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>And go-</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Nanananana!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">The one-year-old has now seen what his older brother
has and he’s not amused.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>He casts his
glances between the bowl on the counter that he’s not yet tall enough to reach
and me, sitting at the table.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I get up
again and get a banana; this one, I peel, slice, and put into a bowl.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Sit down.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Deep
breath.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Reread the same section I’ve
just read and think about what to write next.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Fingers hover and-</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Mommy, can I play on my tablet now?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I’ve finished with my reading.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Seven-year-old.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>She’s a crazy fast reader and, although she told me that she was reading
three chapters of her higher-than-grade-level fiction book (which I thought
would buy me a tad more time), she’s done already and lingering by the
table.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>She reads through the paragraph
on the screen.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>“What’s that word mean?”
she says, pointing to the name of a demon.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Nothing, it’s- yes, yes, you can tablet for a little
while.”<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I try to shoo her away without
being annoyed.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>She bounces to her room with
a smile and, in moments, I hear a Minecraft tutorial video start.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I exhale a deep breath.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can
totally do this.</i><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I’ve promised
myself that I’m going to try and write 250 words throughout my day.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>That’s about a page- surely, I can get that
done.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I rub my temples which, now, are
starting to throb to the beat of the catchy tune playing on the Signing Time
DVD that I thought would keep my younger two happy for twenty minutes (before
the banana eating began) so that I could write those 250 words.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I take the familiar position of a writer at
their computer and, for the third time, reread a paragraph that now I’m
starting to think I can quote by heart.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">“Mommy?<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Mommy?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Mommy?”<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">It’s my other seven-year-old; while his twin sister
was working on reading, he was working on handwriting and spelling.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>As a child with autism, he tends to be very
routine oriented and once his script starts, I know that I should settle in to
make the correct responses.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I close the
computer and vow to try again later.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Writing as a mother to young children has its
challenges; writing as a homeschooling mother adds a new layer to the work-life
balance.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>While I am secure in the
knowledge that home education is the correct choice for our family, I also feel
as though I am in a constant battle between what needs to happen (schooling,
play, housework, etc.) and what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>need
to happen (writing, preferably with coffee while it’s still hot).<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The heart and mind are willing, but the flesh
is weak.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>If I had to select a piece of
my life that I struggle most with, it isn’t the sleepless nights but rather the
writingless days.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">All of this being said, I do get work done.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>My husband is a great source of support and
he will put in a long day as a scientist only to come home and, without a
break, move right into the role of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">World’s
Most Fun Daddy</i>.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>He will take the
kids to the playground or into the backyard, weather permitting, or downstairs
to our family room, where they can burn off that nonstop energy all children
seem to possess.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>While most weeknight
playtimes are enough for me to get dinner finished, those weekend <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daddy Times</i> have been the biggest help
to getting more than a few hundred words written during the daylight hours.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">My in-laws live close by and, for years, have taken
the older kids for two mornings each week.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Recently, my youngest started going with the older three, which has
given me a few hours to work on different tasks.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Writing hasn’t yet made the list, but I hope
to change that!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Last summer, I even hired a preteen mother’s helper so
that I could finish the final edits on my last two books.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Those eight hours each week were a godsend
and my children all benefited from their summertime big sister.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>When our newest baby joins us in late spring,
one of my first plans will be to line my helper up for some summertime hours.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Even with the additional assistance, I find that
writing takes a backseat to everything else going on in my life.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>While I feel an internal need to write every
day, there is a physical need to make sure that my family is fed, has clean
laundry, isn’t living in squalor, and that my children are educated according
to their strengths, weaknesses, and abilities.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>The two “needs” don’t compare and, when something has to give, it’s
writing that does.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">We have tried a variety of methods to combat this as a
family.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I’ve tried leaving immediately
after dinner to get writing done during the week, but if I’m hiding downstairs
or in my bedroom, eventually the kids find me.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Writing in their presence, even with additional adult help, isn’t
possible without the noise and interruption that young children naturally
create.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Getting out of the house isn’t
always feasible; while I love our local coffee shop, by the time I get there,
grab a drink, find a workspace, and get myself set up and ready to work, I’ve
lost at least a half hour.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Factoring in
that I need to be home an hour or so later, can make the entire process
frustrating.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Part of this is me and my personality.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I’m most comfortable working in my own space;
since having children, “my space” has become “our space”.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>In some instances, it’s become “their space”
completely.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Trying to recreate my
non-mothering writing life does nothing but continue to inspire my frustration
and yet, it is my fall back.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>If the
definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again while
expecting a different result, then I am the textbook image of a lunatic.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>However, I find my writing habits to be some
of the hardest to break.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">So, what’s a writing mother of young children to
do?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Is there any hope of balancing the
homeschooling of toddlers and primary aged children with the work and research
of writing?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Before I had children, I had a steady writing gig for
a tristate magazine and wrote a handful of articles for other publications
while working full time as a branch library manager.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Being a librarian had been a childhood goal
alongside writing and it felt like such an achievement to balance both.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Yet, it wasn’t easy.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I researched and wrote instead of spending time
relaxing with my husband; he had his own desires and tasks, so this didn’t cause
friction, but it was still a sacrifice.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>I was willing to make it, as was he, in the pursuit of a byline and a
paycheck.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>When my twins were toddlers, I
finished and published two books, thanks to part-time preschool; it took me
years before I had anything publication ready after that.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I struggled to meet my publisher’s desires and the
needs of my growing household and, by the time my now three-year-old was
starting to walk, I was wondering if I would ever write anything other than a sporadic
blog post again.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But it was when he was
a new walker that I began working on what would become the sequel to a previous
novel and I started the trilogy that has fulfilled me as a writer.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Was it easy?<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>No.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Did it take way longer than I
would have thought?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Yes.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But nothing worth having comes easy and, at
least in my life, it seems that nothing worth its weight comes without some
struggle.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Adding in another baby (and with his birth, a nasty
bout of Postpartum Depression), I once again was in the funk of the wordless
writer.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Everything suffered before I got
a hold on my life again, but it was that experience that birthed my most
popular article to date.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I have received
letters from countless women to thank me for sharing my walk through the
darkness of PPD that they, themselves, had tread.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Who would have thought that from that pain,
there would have been the solace that a writer can only find through writing?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">Adding children into my writing career has been
hard.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The needs for my time and
attention are multiplied while both are greatly diminished.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>My writing resume boasts fewer lines post
children than it did before and, in some ways, I suppose this can be viewed as
a failure.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>However, as I look at it, I
see something else.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I see six books, a
handful of articles, and a life well lived.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>I see a stack (albeit a small one) of things that I’ve created next to
the most beautiful, compassionate children- children that I’ve helped to raise,
shape, and love.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Children who have done
the same to me.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>We often think that it
is we who teach our children, but that misses the mark.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Without my children, I wouldn’t be who I am
today.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Without them, my best writing
would have never happened.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I never would
have written my most recent trilogy, if not for our family’s introduction to
the autism spectrum and all the beauty and pain it entails.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I wouldn’t have shared a journey through PPD,
had I not battled through eight months of hell after my youngest son.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>These are, quite possibly, my best works;
without the hardship of working through the challenges, they never would have
happened.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">As I write, my children play around me underfoot.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It is loud and messy.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>There are constant interruptions.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The part of my brain that longs for the quiet
of a library and a cup of hot coffee is annoyed beyond measure.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But the part of me that is evolving into a
homeschooling mother writer- an evolution that is over seven years in the
making and continues to be shaped daily- looks at the chaos with a smile.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>My daughter plays with my youngest son,
teaching him how to make melodies on a toddler piano.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>My three-year-old splits his time between
reading to his action figures and kissing my belly, telling his baby sister that
he can’t wait to meet her.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>My older son
is practicing sign language and singing to me, stopping to use his newfound “excuse
me” to show me something new every so often.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Is it ideal for working on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">great
American novel</i>?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Probably not; but
it’s still absolutely perfect. </span></div>
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-44379435385348615322017-01-23T11:06:00.002-05:002017-01-31T09:57:24.920-05:00Happy V-Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When I was pregnant the first time, at the very end of 2000, the idea that I would miscarry never crossed my mind... until I did. After what felt like forever, when I finally got pregnant around Halloween in 2007, once I crossed into the magical second trimester, the thought that I wouldn't see those beautiful babies open their eyes or cry their first cry was never a thought. I didn't even mark the 24th week on my calendar, because it was a no-brainer that I would get there and beyond. I mean, sure, I'd probably deliver preemies, but it wouldn't be <i>that</i> big of a deal. Multiples were born prematurely every day, spent some time in the NICU, and were fine. It would be fine. But then... it wasn't.</div>
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By the time I was pregnant with Alexander, the 24th week was well marked on my calendar. Mid-January was my line in the sand. January 11, 2009... We would make it. We were watched. There were no indicators that my loss of Nicholas and Sophia was anything other than a fluke. Right? But wrong.</div>
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By the time I was pregnant with Bobby and Maya, in March of 2009, I chanted that 24th week like a mantra. It was a part of every single prayer. August 15th. We just had to make it to August 15th. Peter's birthday was few days prior and the only gift I could hope to give him was still being pregnant. And finally, after TVC on board and month upon month of bedrest, there we were. <a href="http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com/2009/08/24w-day-24.html">24 weeks</a>. With all it's fear and relief. And then, one more day, just one more day.... September 10th, they were born with tiny cries and bright eyes, and things almost felt right in the world.</div>
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I never thought I'd have to consider another 24th week. But then came <a href="http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com/2013/04/24w.html">Michael's</a> and Lucas's (for Lucas, I didn't even write a 24 week post... I did one at <a href="http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com/2015/07/pregnancy-update-ending-2nd-trimester.html">27w</a>.) To say that life was different and busy is an understatement but, honestly, the 24th week, while something I knew, was something I forced myself to walk away from. I couldn't just want that anymore. I had to be okay with whatever happened. I needed to be. I knew that I'd be broken should something happen to one of the boys, but, I knew that, no matter how much I wanted to be, I couldn't be really broken. I had the twins. They needed me more than I needed myself.</div>
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And, as this pregnancy with Anna has gone forward from week to week, I have four little ones who need me to live for them, regardless of what could happen. And yet, here we are. 24 weeks. Viability day, If Anna were born today, a hospital couldn't turn us away for life-saving help.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOJSdBivTvJYoowWt7jk_dkIhT4lF1IBE1Jdw4Pvkfg21IgoE8hTpN8Kdv05Q3QdF2jse1OMfh9Z8HoV90LP7xB67KjiM13pJsoq49S7vMImLZTNY6PqucGdDEEPknsnKxpD4b1NkQ-H1/s1600/IMG_20170122_173422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOJSdBivTvJYoowWt7jk_dkIhT4lF1IBE1Jdw4Pvkfg21IgoE8hTpN8Kdv05Q3QdF2jse1OMfh9Z8HoV90LP7xB67KjiM13pJsoq49S7vMImLZTNY6PqucGdDEEPknsnKxpD4b1NkQ-H1/s200/IMG_20170122_173422.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8uwkBXH2kAL9N5oYKntw5KULfhanuZRdx8ySIBIznXy9zCZfsYbzitT2mKpF_UTLRRlSAjFd26EjYhDxp0BeG4dKipCgNoaucJC6nXKzZNbsXMtYLviJzQO55b4Hhgz0J1CidT4ri3RnS/s1600/IMG_20170122_173254298.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8uwkBXH2kAL9N5oYKntw5KULfhanuZRdx8ySIBIznXy9zCZfsYbzitT2mKpF_UTLRRlSAjFd26EjYhDxp0BeG4dKipCgNoaucJC6nXKzZNbsXMtYLviJzQO55b4Hhgz0J1CidT4ri3RnS/s320/IMG_20170122_173254298.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
It hurts to think that yesterday even, a hospital could have opted to not save the life of this bouncing baby girl who kicks and dances and responds to her siblings as they read to her and snuggle against my belly. But today, the game changes. Today, she is considered viable. The odds would be stacked against her, no doubt, but they would try.<br />
<br />
Less than 4 weeks from now, we will be where Bobby and Maya were born. Less than 100 days from now, she will be here. At this point, we are looking at a 38-39 week delivery. So, early May. I've already started clearing my schedule of things; most everything is over in April for me, just because, as much as I 'think positively', I also can't shake fully my history.<br />
<br />
But in many ways, I choose daily to let go of the fear. As Michael's pregnancy showed me and Lucas's reinforced, there is not much that I can do, outside of live. <br />
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And so live we do. Each day, every day, moving forward until the day that this very special little girl enters the next phase of her journey, here on the outside, with us.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-64715271554543488502017-01-11T23:05:00.001-05:002017-01-23T10:17:13.368-05:00We Need To TalkI am humbled by the emails and messages I've received from women (from all over) sharing their stories of Postpartum Depression. Over the last few days, I've read each one and have mourned for the months and, in some case, years, these moms have lost to the darkness. Some of the stories have haunted me and I've found myself crying for them and what they are suffering through. One mom shared that she was contemplating and arranging her own suicide when she happened to read the Scary Mommy article, and that she was writing me, in tears, because she knew she needed help but just didn't know where to turn. Several people, including friends, shared how their loved ones took their own lives due to their PPD struggles. And yet there are more emails from survivors, telling me that my words defined their lives for a period and that they are grateful to finally be on the other side, whether just stumbling forward into the light or basking in its warmth. Family members have opened up about their journeys- things that, from the outside looking in, I never saw, that none of us did. And perhaps that is the most telling. Friend after friend telling me how sorry they are for what I went through because they never knew... They never saw me struggling, that they thought I was doing a great job and had no idea that I was barely holding on.<br />
<br />
This, I think, is one of the saddest things of all. When we need help the most, we hide that from the world. We suffer in silence, alone, when there are those who would throw us the rope, drag us into the light, or even sit in the darkness with us, convincing us to walk forward. When you think of how much effort goes into the face we put on for fear that someone- anyone- might see the cracked façade and how much our PPD is destroying us, it becomes all the more sad to realize that by putting that effort into reaching out, we might be saved. But in the trenches, it is impossible to see. Now, I can say, "yes, I should have reached out. I had so many people who would have helped me." Yet, months ago, that thought was unthinkable. All I knew was that they would judge me, think I was weak, think I was an unfit mother, want to take my children from me. And, even though I felt worthless and not good enough for my kids, the idea that I wouldn't have them... that they would be taken from me... that thought was too much to bear. It doesn't matter that the thoughts were unfounded; those were the reverberating, echoing thoughts in the pit and, surrounded by that voice in my mind, there was nothing else. There was no choice but to soldier on, to struggle, to nearly lose both the battle and the war.<br />
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Another comment that I've received by more women that I want to believe is that they <i>did </i>reach out to their care providers. They called OBs and GPs; they told their doctors that they were struggling and wanted to self harm, and they were turned away. Let me say that again: these women went to their care providers with their PPD and they were sent home. They were told that, because they didn't want to harm their children and <i>only </i>wanted to hurt themselves, that it wasn't really Postpartum Depression and that they needed to take a break and get more sleep.<br />
<br />
This. This is appalling. It makes me sick to my stomach. What an everlasting failure- and not just to these moms, but also to their babies, their older children, and their spouses and partners. <br />
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I have felt enormously lucky to have an OB who follows up and calls to check in during the postpartum period, and that wasn't enough for me to reach out, even though I know that I could have and he would have helped me. We've been together nearly ten years now and, in addition to trusting him with my care (and that of my children), I have seen a doctor who really cares. He knows Peter and I- our interests, our likes, even our drink preferences. Seeing and talking to him isn't just another doctor's appointment, and it makes a huge difference, both in the level of care but also in the level of comfortability with my care and the decision making process.<br />
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I feel fortunate enough to be part of a community of wonderful midwives and mothers who care and reach out, not just to bring meals when someone is sick or to get together for playdates, but to be those hands that link together to pull you out of the black hole. Having a baby with the practice isn't just another day at the office; these midwives reach out over and over throughout the mother's postpartum and the monthly mother's groups give moms a time to come together, to share their happiness and fears, and to have a safe place to share the ups and down of motherhood, parenthood, wifehood, and life. These communities exist all over, and yet, for many women, they are nonexistent. <br />
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We are not meant to birth in a vacuum. We are not meant to be home alone, days after bringing new life into this world, trying to figure out how to exist with a completely dependent newborn and a body that is rapidly changing. We are social creatures, meant to be surrounded by loving companionship. <a href="http://www.uppitysciencechick.com/how_other_cultures.pdf">50% to 85% of new mothers in industrialized nations experience the “baby blues,” and 15% to 25% (or more) experience postpartum depression.</a> This article goes on to cite major differences in how mothers in other countries are expected to rest, to be secluded from and cared for by others, and how the postpartum period is recognized as a distinct part of womanhood that is meant to be restorative for the recuperating mother. In the U.S., however, we not only expect women to go home, usually to little or no help and, in some cases, to return to work right away, while also expecting them to entertain guests who come, not necessarily to help, but to coo and play with the new baby.<br />
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Now, I do think to argue that other countries have nonexistent PPD, as the above link describes, is unfair to the mothers all over the world who struggle with the hormonal crashes that are likely to blame for the initial step into Postpartum Depression. As we know from more current research, PPD is a <a href="http://www.postpartumprogress.com/is-postpartum-depression-non-existent-in-other-cultures-the-facts">worldwide epidemic</a>. Citing a <a href="http://apps.who.int/iris/bitstream/10665/43846/1/9789241563567_eng.pdf">report from the WHO</a>, the aforementioned site makes note that "Perinatal depression is one of the most prevalent and severe complications of pregnancy and childbirth."<br />
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What I do think is key can be summed up in <a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/witw/articles/2013/08/15/america-s-postpartum-practices.html">this article</a>, which states: "“A culturally accepted postpartum period sends a powerful message that’s not being sent in this country,” said Dr. Margaret Howard, the director of the Day Hospital for Postpartum Depression in Providence, Rhode Island. “American mothers internalize the prevailing attitude—‘I should be able to handle this myself; women have babies every day’—and if they’re not up and functioning, they feel like there’s something wrong with them.”"<br />
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I think that we have a serious attitude problem and it is one that is coming at the cost of new mothers and, in some cases, newborn babies as well. We are a country that has long forgotten the "lying in" or "mothering the mother" model that used to be present. We are a country that not only expects new moms to do it all, but we tell them that too- with our magazines and our commentaries on what they <i>should</i> be doing and how they <i>need</i> to do this or that. It isn't just the money making, have-the-baby-and-GTFU model of hospitals that's to blame; <i>we </i>as a society are to blame. <a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/witw/articles/2013/08/15/america-s-postpartum-practices.html">The problem is that no one recognizes the new mother as a recuperating person, and she does not see herself as one. For the mourning or the injured, we will activate a meal tree. For the woman who is torturously fatigued, who has lost one 10th of her body’s blood supply, who can scarcely pee for the stiches running up her perineum, we will not.</a><br />
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Did you know that <a href="http://www.postpartumprogress.com/maternal-mortality-suicide-postpartum-depression">death by suicide and homicide are more common than “traditional” causes of maternal mortality in the U.S., such as infection or hemorrhage</a>?<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Health/husband-speaks-postpartum-depression-losing-wife/story?id=42062268">A mother kills herself 3 months postpartum</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.seattlepi.com/news/article/Severe-postpartum-depression-leaves-them-without-1105206.php">A mother hangs herself while her baby sleeps</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.fxtribune.com/us/a-widowed-father-encourages-more-talk-about-postpartum-depression-suicide-h224699.html">A mother of two leaves behind a devastated husband and family</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.fxtribune.com/us/a-widowed-father-encourages-more-talk-about-postpartum-depression-suicide-h224699.html">Mom commits suicide four months postpartum</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/the-two-words-i-would-have-said-to-my-friend-who-died_us_5862fb6de4b04d7df167d1cf">Military wife loses battle with PPD</a></li>
</ul>
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I really could go on and on and on. That should be terrifying. These are just the 'mother only' top death stories in a quick search. These don't include the mother and baby stories, which seem endless, or the stories where mothers kill their children. Those mothers, especially, we want to throw the book at while completely missing the fact that they are possibly in need of serious help.</div>
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I don't know the answer, but I know that we aren't asking the right questions. A questionnaire before hospital discharge is a joke; perhaps it will pick up something (and for that, wonderful) but most cases of PPD don't start in the hospital. By the time the depression hits, moms are in their own space, often well before their standard 6-8 week FIRST postpartum checkup. By that time, it could be too late; by that time, defense mechanisms by mothers afraid their depression would cost them their babies could be well in place, all the while these moms don't realize this could cost them their very lives.</div>
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This is a conversation we need to have. It is one we <i>have </i>to have if we have any chance of getting these numbers down. Can they be eradicated? Probably not. But it is lunacy to accept the current statistic that<a href="http://www.postpartumprogress.com/maternal-mortality-suicide-postpartum-depression"> 2 in 100,000 births will end in maternal suicide</a>. To put this into perspective, <a href="https://qz.com/400530/american-mothers-die-in-childbirth-at-twice-the-rate-they-did-in-2000/">each year, around 1,200 American mothers die </a><i><a href="https://qz.com/400530/american-mothers-die-in-childbirth-at-twice-the-rate-they-did-in-2000/">in</a></i><a href="https://qz.com/400530/american-mothers-die-in-childbirth-at-twice-the-rate-they-did-in-2000/"> childbirth—meaning about 28 mothers die for every 100,000 live</a> births. That's death while birthing- 2 in 100,000 will die at their own hand <i>after</i> . </div>
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It's not enough to say "I won't be a statistic". We owe it to our daughters that they will not be a statistic. We owe it to our sons that they wont be mourning the mother of their child. We owe it to our grandchildren that they won't grow up without a mother who felt like she couldn't reach out for help. Our generation has seen a massive increase in maternal mortality; this is a talk we can have. We can reach out to the new moms in our community and, instead of telling them how great they look or how much they have it together, we can wash a load of dishes, bring a meal, soothe a baby so that they can shower and sleep- and then, perhaps most importantly, we can do it over and over again. We can ask "How are you? Really..." and mean it. We can look for the signs that something just isn't right and, should we see them, we can share our own struggles so that moms don't feel alone and encourage them to seek out help. We can assure them that no one will think poorly of them or take their children; that, instead, these moms will find love, compassion, and understanding. </div>
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If we are unwilling to do this, then we bear some of the responsibility every time we see an article of a PPD related homicide or suicide. We have lost the village; it's time to build it back.</div>
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<br />Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-28266364700326325692017-01-09T21:04:00.002-05:002017-01-09T21:04:21.919-05:00Thoughts on the DarknessMonths ago, I wrote <a href="http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com/2016/08/returning-from-dead.html">here</a> about my struggle with Postpartum Depression, a struggle that almost led me to commit suicide. It was a post that I found both difficult and cathartic to write, but it was something that needs to be said. I often hear people say that they can't imagine homeschooling or having a large family or ...fill in the blank... and how I seem to have my shit together. But in reality, I think that many of us are sometimes (maybe even often times) hanging on my a mere thread. And that's not just hard. It's terrifying. I feel enormously lucky that I have friends and a supportive family to create my "village", who make things like writing and marathoning (and just having a free moment to myself sometimes) possible, but even that wasn't enough when I was under the blanket of darkness that PPD creates. When I look back and think of what I almost lost... It sucker punches me to the gut. I shouldn't have felt that way for months. No one should ever, ever feel that way.<br />
<br />
Which is why I am beyond honored that <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/">Scary Mommy</a> shared an adapted and expanded <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/i-almost-lost-everything-ppd-now-im-getting-my-life-back/">article</a> based on my post <a href="http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com/2016/08/returning-from-dead.html"><i>Returning From the Dead</i></a><i>, </i>both on their webpage and with a link on their <a href="https://www.facebook.com/thescarymommy">Facebook feed</a>. The article, as well as the blog post, describe what PPD felt like to me and how I almost most an irreversible choice as a result. It also mentions that, in spite of knowing the symptoms, I didn't seek out help.<br />
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As I thought yesterday about the fact that my battle with PPD would be considerably more public by sharing it with SM, which has a massive readership of moms (and, from their Confessions page, dads and nonparents, too), I couldn't help but think about what my kids will one day think. Will they, especially Lucas, whose birth was the impetus for my PPD, think that he is to blame? Will he feel sad? Will he realize that it was his smile, his laughter, his being here, that saved me from the edge? <br />
<br />
More than that, my thoughts led me to ask "Why?" Why didn't I seek out help? Why, in my moments of lucidity, when I could see that I was falling fast, didn't I reach out? <br />
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Recently, my newsfeed has been full of articles of mothers who have taken their own lives after private struggles with PPD; some of them have killed their babies as well as themselves. A common theme from those left behind is how they didn't know, how they would have tried to help. So then why? <br />
<br />
I've read through the comments posted by readers and they break my heart. <br />
"I felt the same way." <br />
"I still feel robbed [of motherhood]."<br />
"No one would have ever known."<br />
"I look at photos but cant remember when they were taken."<br />
<br />
I've gotten comments in mom's groups that I'm a part of, on my own FB page, and from strangers via FB messenger, telling me that my story was their story. <br />
<br />
I am humbled by their words and kind thoughts for me, but more than that, I find myself deeply disturbed by the epidemic of hidden PPD by the "survivors". I don't want this for Maya or Anna, should they become mothers; I don't want this for my mothering friends. I don't want this for any woman. The stigma, the shame- those of us who have suffered through this nightmare and those of us who know someone who has must take a stand.<br />
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I watched the kids play in the snow the other day and I worried that they might one day find this article and think me weak or be ashamed. But today, I hope they find it. I hope they realize that their mother walked through her own private hell and made it back to them. I hope they see, in my sharing this publicly, that they have nothing to be ashamed of in their own struggles and that there is never, ever shame in reaching out for help. I hope they see just how close I came to the edge and that they always know they can reach out and my hand will be there willing and waiting to pull them back from their own ledge.<br />
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I don't only hope this for my own children, but for yours. And for you. <br />
<br />
Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Psychosis, Antepartum Depression... These mental health issues that impact women when they are carrying and delivering the future of the world should not be hidden. <br />
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We shouldn't be afraid to reach out for a helping hand or to seek medical treatment when needed. <br />
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We shouldn't worry that someone will take our children from us or think we are weak, unworthy, or unfit. <br />
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We have to realize that, in our darkness, we are strong- we are finding the light, pulling at it, refusing to let it go. <br />
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We are warriors. <br />
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We are survivors.<br />
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----<br />
<i>If you think that you might be suffering from postpartum depression or if you can't (or won't) put a name to how awful you are feeling, there are resources available. You can find anonymous help at </i><a href="http://www.1800ppdmoms.org/"><em><span style="color: black;">http://www.1800ppdmoms.org/</span></em></a><em> and </em><a href="http://www.postpartum.net/"><em><span style="color: black;">http://www.postpartum.net/</span></em></a><em>. Many hospitals also have lines that you can call to speak with someone. While my PPD didn't present as wanting to harm my children, if you feel that your children may be at risk, please reach out to a friend, neighbor, family member, or even your local police department, and find a safe place for your children until you are able to get help for yourself. You are not </em>just<em> a mom; you are </em>the<em> mom. You are worth more than you know, and not just because you are an irreplaceable mother. You are worthy in your own right; please seek out help if you need it. Don't wait until it's too late.</em> <br />
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<br />Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-16335710771079511342017-01-07T17:30:00.001-05:002017-01-09T20:35:41.414-05:00Mama DownWith a stomach bug, it's bound to happen. First, the kids fall like dominos, then the parents. In our case, it was Lucas then Bobby then Maya... Michael got skipped... and Peter and I fought with it off and on. Maya had the worst of the fever and uncomfortableness; Bobby had the worst of the puking. Then, Friday hit and Peter was sick to the point of taking the day off from work, which he rarely does for himself. Last night? Mama's turn. The last two days, I've been in bed until nearly 11am. Today, I didn't even get out of my bathrobe after my shower until, quite literally, moments ago.<br />
<br />
Yuck.<br />
<br />
Nothing says fun like dealing with the joys of a stomach bug while pregnant and trying to parent. God love Peter, he got Lucas to nap and then took the older three out in the snow for some playing (and shoveling), so I had a nice forty minutes of quiet and no touching. Since then, I've been covered in touching and have pondered the differences in being sick sans kids and being sick with them.<br />
<br />
Before kids, when I got sick, nothing got done. Now? Those dishes still need washing and people still need feeding.<br />
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Before kids, you could literally stay in bed all day. Now? Even if you are in bed, someone will be with you.<br />
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Before kids, you could watch whatever you want on tv, while lounging. Now? I'm on the couch watching Bee Movie while covered in one sleeping toddler and having another child who wishes he were toddler crawling on my legs. (In fairness, Bee Movie ended an hour ago and since then, I've been subjecting the family to the NFL Playoffs).<br />
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Before kids, you could not eat and not care. Now, you have to make dinner, no matter how crappy you feel, because other people depend on you to eat.<br />
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Before kids, your bathroom moments were private. Now, there is the enduring of puking and pooing while explaining to your kids that a) you are okay and b) yes, it's gross and c) yes, it stinks.<br />
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Before kids, you were blissfully alone when you felt like crap, with no one to care for. After kids, you are blissfully aware that your kids love you, as they snuggle all over you, tell you to get better (or, are like Michael, who demands that "YOU ARE NOT SICK!!!"), and try to take care of you while also taking care of their own needs that they can. <br />
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On the note of feeding the masses, I'm informed that people are hungry. Good times. Here's to hoping my cornbread lunch stays down!Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-16280797771135417082017-01-05T14:09:00.000-05:002017-01-07T17:19:24.017-05:00The StruggleI've made no secret of my eating disorder and weight struggles. After the twins were born, I tried to rope in my issues and completed my first triathlon when they were 11 months old. It took another month for me to choose to work on my eating disorder, but by the time they were 2 years old, I was in the best health of my life. I think that, had my life stayed the same, I may have been able to continue on that journey easily (at least I like to think that) but life doesn't stay the same. The only constant in change.<br />
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In 2011, I had my TAC placed and had a quick, 1 week recovery; in 2012, I ran my first marathon and was in the best shape I'd been in since high school. I was a size 6 and carried a muscular 160 pounds on my 5'7 frame. I felt great. I looked great. And then, I got pregnant. Very unexpected and quite the shock. I ran the entire pregnancy, completing my last race at 35 weeks. Michael was born 2 weeks later.<br />
<br />
I had put on about 30 pounds with his pregnancy, which wasn't considered problematic. No problem... I was breastfeeding, I was running- I even ran the NYC marathon when he was 4 months old! But the weight never came off, and that led me back down the dark spiral of disordered eating. In spite of running, teaching fitness classes, and logging my diet, nothing seemed to help. Everyone told me that breastfeeding would melt the pounds off but no... no melting. And then, I got pregnant with Lucas. <br />
<br />
Talk about being in shock and denial! I still ran and taught 4 fitness classes a week, but by 28 weeks, I was exhausted all the time and by 30 weeks, I resigned from my teaching position and became a pregnant couch potato. I had only lost 5 pounds of my Michael weight and then gained 20 more by the time Lucas made his 38 week appearance.<br />
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After Lucas, there was struggle. A lot of it. My eating habits went completely out of the window because I just felt like shit all of the time. By the time he was 4 months old, I found myself across from a doctor saying that I just didn't know what the hell was going on. My body was falling apart. My joints ached. I couldn't get out of bed in the mornings. Peter literally had to get up to help me go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. At 36 years old, I felt 96 and I just.couldnt.do.it.anymore. Testing revealed the antibodies for RA, which, in conjunction with my Hashimoto's was the culprit in making me feel like death made over. After talking to Peter about the current pharmaceutical options on the market, I opted to try 6 months of a GF/DF diet and see if I had any pain relief. It took 3 months, but I finally felt better physically. After 6 months, I was able to reintroduce sheep and goat dairy, and then (in limited amounts) raw cow (and now pasteurized also) dairy. I'm still GF and, in spite of attempting two different reintroduction attempts, that doesn't seem in the cards for more without a huge increase in swollen joints, pain, and hives. I'll pass on that. Oh, and then I got pregnant again!<br />
<br />
I've talked about my <a href="http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com/2016/08/returning-from-dead.html">struggle with PPD</a> post Lucas, so I won't rehash that, but suffice it to say, that didn't help with my eating disorder, and so, finding out I was pregnant with this baby back last fall, after having only lost about 10 pounds from my pregnancy with Lucas in spite of running and breastfeeding, continued the downward trend. I would throw up after each run, so after the second month, I gave that up. Thankfully, 20 weeks saw me able to run again and I've been able to knock out 2 miles at a time without feeling terrible. For a marathoner, I think the mental issue of "only 2 miles" is the worst of it. I'm finally just so happy to lace up again that I can beat down the negative voice. With the running came the ability to start regulating and logging my food again, although it's so much harder. Lest anyone think I'm trying to diet, it isn't about that. Eating disorders are a mental issue; I tend to self punish with food. Feeling like a crappy parent today? EAT. Crappy wife? EAT. Crappy in general? EAT. Sad? Angry? Frustrated? Exhausted? EAT EAT EAT EAT. Logging my food, regardless of calories or anything else, is a visual representation of my humanity. It causes me to see myself as a person worth caring about. Didn't eat breakfast and it's 10am already? Stop and eat something. Already eaten lunch and only an hour has passed but you find yourself in the kitchen because homeschooling is frustrating? Try a glass of water instead and reevaluate... You haven't drank enough (because the app shows that) and you might be dehydrated. It sounds like a small thing, but in the midst of the disorder you can't see it when it's there. And the simple activity of recording the data is a step for me; it's the therapy, the plan, the walk towards remission.<br />
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It's hard. It's so damn hard sometimes. But just as I looked at the twins when they were not yet one and noticed them watching me eat... picking up on those hidden cues and nuances....I see it now. I look at my kids and know they are watching. I know that disordered eating has a large environmental influence. For children with autism, eating tends to be a sensory stim and, with Bobby being so much like me in other ways, I worry about him. At 7 years old, he is a massive, 12 year old sized boy. He is proportional for his height and weight, and is built like a solid linebacker. But that is only part of the equation. I don't want him (or any of the kids) to see my disordered food relationship and think that is normal. For the other kids, they may question it; but I don't know that he would. Especially if the stimulation of eating was a pleasure (which we all know it is). I find that I struggle to take care of me for me but when it comes to trying to recover for my kids, it becomes a necessity. I can't let them see me like this, not if it means they will emulate it. They can see me struggle. They can see me fight. They can see me falter and fail- and get back up. But they can't see the demons win. If that happens, then they may feel like that's an option.<br />
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And it's not.<br />
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It can't be.<br />
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Not for them. And not, because of them, for me. <br />
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So, I will continue to struggle every damn day. Every second, I will fight the romance of the food and the sugar and even, at times, the gluten which sounds nuts but man, drop that from your life and all of a sudden it's all you want. <br />
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I will continue to get up and take the 20 minutes or the 30 minutes and do some sort of physical activity, even on the days when I'm too tired because kids were up all night or I don't feel good or I' swamped with crap to do.<br />
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I will force myself to make the better food choices even when the kids can't see me because true strength is created, not when others are watching, but when we know that only we ourselves can see.<br />
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I will be strong because they are strong. Because they need me to be strong. Because, even when I feel like I don't matter, they believe that I do. <br />
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Christmas rolled around this year and, as most parents (and moms, I think, in particular) know, the whole gift giving aspect is more about your kids. The tree was decorated, pretty packages were underneath the tree, and suddenly, one day, Maya appears with a little package she wrapped herself, complete with a construction paper card that she made. I had no idea what she possibly could have done, seeing as Peter hadn't taken them shopping (and, in truth, since this new laptop I'm using was my gift from the kids, knowing that he wasn't taking them out for other gifts). My mother-in-law told me that it was something Maya had asked her for, so I assumed it was some sort of heirloom but still... what in the world could it possibly be?<br />
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Come Christmas morning, I open this delicate card, slightly wrinkled from other presents being placed on top of it.<br />
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"For a very good mommy"... The last thing I feel most days is a "very good mommy". But something my good friend, Typheni, recently shared with me, is that our kids don't remember the struggles, they remember our snuggles. I think I need to take that to heart more. <br />
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She drew our living room, complete with the tree and her gift underneath. And what was the gift? <br />
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Action heroes. <br />
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She gave me circa 1970s Star Wars action figures that were Peter and Robert's when they were kids: Han, Chewbacca, and Yoda. Because they were my favorites. I can't remember when I told her that... maybe it was when we did our Episode IV, V, and VI marathon for NYE 2015... But somehow she took that to heart. Later she told me that Yoga is smart, Chewbacca is strong, and Han is tough- "just like you, Mommy."<br />
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Smart. Strong. Tough.<br />
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I keep them, along with the card, on my night table as an ever present reminder that not only can I do this, but I will.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-88067415987742631582017-01-04T14:09:00.001-05:002017-01-04T14:09:06.535-05:003 to 1So, Michael has, thus far, been the only child spared from the sickness. Around 3am, Maya started throwing up. As sad as the entire thing was, by that point, Bobby had been puke free for 2 hours and he got off the couch (where he had been since the last throw up session) and waited in the bathroom with Maya, then snuggled in bed with her. Autism has many struggles; empathy in general and a fierce love for his twin sister are not among them. When she went through her several hours of pukefest 2017, he was by her side. And, when she was awake and just hanging out, he was snuggling with her. <br />
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Lucas crashed for the most part during the early morning hours, thank God.<br />
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Michael crawled into our bed and I snuggled him off and on from around 2am-5am, when I finally went to sleep. He stayed with me until 9am; but no puking and he seems to be fine. So yay for that. <br />
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Peter slept off and on with Bobby as he slept from 10pm-1pm, getting up whenever there was puke, then he was pretty much up the remainder of the night, with some dozing here and there. I was on laundry and clean up duty, and laid down to snuggle Michael during the 2am time slot when he woke up, but didn't go to sleep until nearly 5. That being said, I did get to sleep until nearly 11 this morning. Michael was with me until 9am, and then my MIL took the three boys, who all were fine (YAY!) to her house. Maya came into bed with me and we slept until 11am. We went to the couch, where she put on football (a girl of my own heart) that was DVRed while I made her some soup that she didn't eat. She's the first to have the stomach bug with a fever (102.2, poor thing). <br />
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Peter actually went into work this morning because he's the biggest trooper I know. He came home around lunch time, brought me some Tom Yum soup (I love it always but when I'm pregnant, I could literally eat it all day, every day), picked up Lucas from his parents (Lucas is now asleep in his crib), and then snuggled Maya, who had been asking for him.<br />
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I hated to wake him up, but he had mentioned having stuff to do in the afternoon at work. I know he's exhausted. But he never fails to put on the "World's Best Dad" hat when the kids need him. Whether it's taking a long lunch to meet us on our field trip and catching up with paperwork late into the night, or slipping into the lab on a weekend so that he can take a day off during the week to celebrate a milestone, or something like this where he builds coming home to give his sick little girl feel better cuddles, he's a dad first. It's something that people don't always see about him if they don't know him, but it's one of the things that touches me most about who he is. The world could fall down around him and he wouldn't care as long as he could take care of the kids. <br />
<br />
So, three down, 1 still up.... three feeling good, 1 not so much. But, thankfully, all Peter had was some early morning queasiness and all I've had was some long lasting nausea with no puking. It could be worse. And, in spite of a cumulative 20 pukes over the span of 12 hours, I can say that my living room, dining room, bathrooms, and kitchen all got some cleaned flooring, so that's a win, right? ;)<br />
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Feel better, 2017. This isn't the way to start a new year!Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-1999034449198564522017-01-03T23:40:00.000-05:002017-01-04T13:53:39.740-05:00TrashedI'm so tired and yet, at 11:30pm, I'm still awake... waiting on the laundry to finish so that I can throw in yet another load.<br />
<br />
How much puke can two kids make? At 4pm, Lucas started throwing up out of the blue. He had been playing and then, poof! Puke. By 6pm, Bobby had joined him. Unfortunately for all of us, his puke happened on the way to the dinner table, hit the table cloth, two dining chairs, Peter's leather jacket, and a significant portion of the floor. Between the two of them, we are now up to 14 puke experiences, a half dozen showers, 5 loads of wash with at least 2-3 to go, and an empty bottle of Clorox spray. God only knows what the next few hours will entail. I'm alternating between praying that they are able to get some sleep and that the other two don't get whatever it is. <br />
<br />
In general, I'm not great with puke. I tend to be a sympathy puker and if there is one thing I hate, it's vomiting. Being pregnant isn't helping and I'm overcompensating by being a potty mouthed bitch. I nearly slipped on a pile of puke, to which I said loudly, "For F-s sake!". And, of course, being Mom of the Year over here, Michael promptly repeated me. Good work. In addition to being a swearing, order barking, all around jerk to be around because I'm alternating between wanting to throw up myself, being super hungry, and having my body ache from carrying around a sick 15 month old or a 3.5 year old who is desperate for some attention/cleaning up puke/cleaning up everything, I'm on the verge of crying at the drop of a hat because when Peter throws that shit back at me with his own stressed out responses, I feel like he's being mean to me. And so the cycle continues. In reality, we're just two trashed, exhausted parents trying desperately to care for sick kids, well kids, and the mess that happens from both. That's much clearer by the light of my laptop; not so clear in the light from the bathroom sink as you're cleaning up a vomit laced bathtub.<br />
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God willing, there will be no more vomit in the 20 minutes that remains of tonight and, if we are lucky, none tomorrow.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-58645993079516895912017-01-02T12:27:00.000-05:002017-01-03T23:33:23.499-05:00#8 at 21 weeksWe had our 20 week anatomy scan last week, which revealed a happy, healthy (and very active) baby girl. We knew she was a genetically healthy girl before Thanksgiving, when the result of my NIPT came back, but opted to do the 20 week to find out if there was anything we needed to be concerned with that the NIPT wouldn't pick up.<br />
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I'm happy to say all is well! Introducing.... Anna Maire! EDD is 5/15/17 but we will be scheduling our cesarean for 5/8/17 at 39 weeks and, God willing, I'll get that far.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TBSlhtHHExR0uvI8IpDqXpzqJu6pY5G0GAcEnPFn3LPN3VUlGQ8KNa8YclAW1-_zW_4IrIPRlkDOsafqTvVJAA9Ull4R0Q5Zfn1C33e8kD5vmOLteqiRTbl-bvPsIi-Zjhcwew0OCk3F/s1600/IMG_20161229_092755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TBSlhtHHExR0uvI8IpDqXpzqJu6pY5G0GAcEnPFn3LPN3VUlGQ8KNa8YclAW1-_zW_4IrIPRlkDOsafqTvVJAA9Ull4R0Q5Zfn1C33e8kD5vmOLteqiRTbl-bvPsIi-Zjhcwew0OCk3F/s320/IMG_20161229_092755.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anna Maire at 20w3d</td></tr>
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Anna, pronounced with a soft a, /ah-nah/, comes from the Greek which comes from the Hebrew, and is for St. Anna the Prophetess, whose feast day changes and falls between Nicholas and Sophia's birthdays in February. Maire, the Gaelic form of Mary, is pronounced /mare-ah/ and is for the Blessed Virgin Mary, as our daughter is due in May, the month for the Blessed Mother.<br />
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<br />Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-62460271923511781952017-01-01T12:27:00.003-05:002017-01-01T12:27:53.514-05:00HNY 2017I tell myself that today is new day in a new calendar year and that I'll write every day: here, on paper, on a novel, <i>something</i>. I tell myself that I'll do it because it's important, but I don't know that that is altogether true. I want to <i>believe </i>it's true. I want to promise myself that I'll write daily and mean it <br />
<br />
But.<br />
<br />
But I have so much on my plate.<br />
<br />
But I have so much to do.<br />
<br />
But there isn't enough time.<br />
<br />
But.<br />
But.<br />
But.<br />
<br />
I'm a butt full of excuses and buts. I'm tired. I'm still struggling with PPD and, now APD while pregnant. It's not awful. It's manageable. But it's still a darkness just waiting to be invited back in. Somedays I worry it doesn't actually need an invitation, but I tell myself it does, just to feel a bit stronger. I'm not just tired, I'm exhausted: mentally, physically, spiritually. This pregnancy, my kids, everything- they are kicking my ass. I'm swimming with my head above water, but it's not pretty most times.<br />
<br />
I find that I have less patience and I yell more. I lose my cool more. I have way less cool to lose. Peter and I don't really talk like we used to. There's simply not time and, when we steal it from somewhere, I find that the words I want to say (that I need to say) are elusive.<br />
<br />
But it's a new year. A time to start anew. To burn the old in the Solstice bonfire and to believe in the hopes and dreams of a new year. And I want to- I really do. I want to feel like I can make a plan and make it happen. That I can find the energy and the will and the time. That damn time that seems to slip away.<br />
<br />
So instead of saying that I'll come back to this space every day, I'll just say that I'm going to try. I'm going to try to make time to find myself again... Hopefully, that journey leads me to this space. :)<br />
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Happy New Year to you and yours. May 2017 be a year of goodness and light.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-70849395290073286842016-10-20T10:31:00.002-04:002017-01-01T12:15:29.033-05:00Just VoteToday, I finally entered politics on Facebook with this post.<br />
---<br />
Friends, I've stayed out of political chats and have avoided commenting on most posts. The one thing that this election cycle has shown me is that most people need far more than whatever Civics & Government class is required in American schools. Voting for a President is voting for your ideals; to make government truly work, you vote for Congress. A President creates no laws and, contrary to popular belief, doesn't stack the Supreme Court. The President signs bills approved by Congress and can utilize a veto power that can be overruled by Congress. The President brings a SC nominee the Senate, who then approves or not the appointment. Our government's power is meant to rest in the hands of the people, utilized via Congress. Don't use your vote as a "forced hand" choice. If you love and support Trump, by all means, vote for him. If you love and support Clinton, by all means, vote for her. But if you are voting for a candidate because you hate the other more... This is not what voting is meant for. You only waste your vote when you refuse to use it to send your own message of confidence in your government. Vote for Trump, for Clinton, for Stein, for Johnson, write in McMullins or Sanders. But vote your conscience. Vote your ideals. Vote what you hope this country is able to become. And care enough about this country to realize that your presidential vote is only one very small piece of the puzzle. Take the time to research your congressional choices and vote according to how you want our government to function. One vote matters little if we are all just voting "the lesser of two evils"; but if we utilize the power that people have fought and died for us to have, then we do make a difference. Someone will win the vote; it will likely be Trump or Clinton. But do not go gently into the night. Do not feel resigned and sad, as though voting is a pointless exercise in futility. If you cast your vote with dignity- no, your VOTES with dignity- then you are the greatest sign that our system can still work. #WeAreBetterThanThisMichelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-42420945837009216332016-10-03T08:00:00.000-04:002016-10-03T08:00:45.141-04:00EightEight.<br />
<br />
It seems like a good number.<br />
<br />
Like five.<br />
<br />
Right?<br />
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It's crazy to think that Nicholas and Sophia would be eight and a half... That Alexander would turn eight in November... It's crazy to think that baby #8 is due in May.<br />
<br />
Yeah... So there was this:<br />
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and this:<br />
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I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. But yeah... Wow.<br />
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We were getting ready to host a family dinner when Peter noticed my period app pinging that I was late. Since I've only had one real postpartum period and the second seemed like only three very light days, I wasn't overly concerned. It takes a bit to get back on track and I told him as much. But Peter, being a scientist, thought i should test, especially since we were planning on buying tickets to Whiskey Fest. I had tests from when I was pregnant with Lucas and thought I could quickly put to rest the notion of another pregnancy. Instead, this happened:<br />
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Talk about crazy! There may have been tears and explicatives. And shock... A lot of shock. Over the next few days, it sank in and I called Dr B, whom I saw last week. I see him again at the end of October and we will have a better idea of where we are, date wise. According to LMP, I was 8 weeks yesterday with a due date of Mother's Day. Based on the first ultrasound, the baby measured a week behind with a heartbeat of 120/bpm. Because we are talking about a small baby and a lot of the same things being viewable, Dr B feels that my next appointment, 10.5-11.5 weeks gestation, will give us the best dating. I'll also have blood drawn for the Materni21 screen which, while it won't give us dating information, will let us know the health of the baby and confirm or deny Maya's insistence that this IS her baby sister. The child has been praying for another baby- a GIRL baby- since Christmas. We really should her her to pray for things other than more children... At this rate, the lottery!<br />
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I started with morning sickness and nausea last week. As much as it sucks, it hasn't been as awful as it was with Michael or Lucas. Physically, I feel okay. With four kids to chase after, okay is really the only option. <br />
<br />
Emotionally, I'm getting there... I think. It's hard. The part of me that remembers trying for a baby for so long to be answered by constant negative pregnancy tests, is over the moon. The part of me with PCOS and autoimmune disease that shouldn't be able to get pregnant easily is like "Woo Hoo!!!". The part of me that is a homemaker and homeschooler is nervous about where the extra money and time (and, honestly, energy and patience) will come from. The part of me that remembers how awful the <a href="http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com/2016/08/returning-from-dead.html?m=1">PPD was after Lucas </a>is terrified. The post of me that is battling my eating disorder is afraid and just wants to eat the fear and anxiety away. The writer part of me, who is so excited about my <a href="http://www.miamichele.com/p/children-of-hellions-excerpt.html?m=1">latest project</a>, is despondent because where oh where will i find the time to actually write???? Lots of parts... Lots of emotions.<br />
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Regardless of everything else, there is a new baby in our lives and we are grateful for the chance to know this new little one. For now, we are taking it one day at a time.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-12838426972860777272016-09-28T08:03:00.000-04:002016-10-03T08:04:09.934-04:00Happy First Birthday, LucasCould this kid be any cuter???<div>
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Happy birthday, Lucas Andrew! You make our lives so much brighter!</div>
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Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-38870941972704614762016-08-18T23:15:00.002-04:002016-10-03T07:23:05.286-04:00Summer RainIt's dark and I'm sitting outside on the deck. A soft rain falls; the humidity broke with last night's thunderstorm and it is a beautiful summer night. My kids are all asleep, safe and comfortable in their beds. They are clean and fed. They snuggle with their lovey bears and dream of playdates and cupcakes.<br />
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They don't know what it is like to be cold in winter or unbearably hot in summer. They don't know what it is like to have to choose who will eat, for it not to be their turn for the day's rations. They have no idea what it is like to go hungry. To be nasty. To be thirsty. To feel alone.<br />
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Today, as they hung out in the backyard, Michael ended up on the ground. He was dirty and a bit scraped up from the twelve inch fall, but he was fine. He cried. He cried because the scratches stung, because he was scared, because it hurt. He cried, knowing he would be comforted and held and loved. He cried, knowing that this was an outlying event and that his little, three year old life would go back to normal... which it did.<br />
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I see the <a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2016/08/18/490461992/a-wounded-child-in-aleppo-silent-and-still-shocks-the-world">images of a boy </a>who, although he is five years old, looks like my three year old. I see him, dirty and bloody from an air raid- an air raid... a scene played out in Syria, day after day, a scene that he has probably known about daily since birth since the war has been going on since 2010. I see him, silent. No tears. No screaming. No asking for his mother (who was still being rescued by volunteers). He doesn't expect a lollipop for being brave or a trip to the arcade for sitting through his stitches like a big boy. <br />
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He probably wanted to go home. But his home was gone. The strike destroyed his home. Maybe he was learning to read and now his books are tattered ashes. Maybe, like my kids, he had a lovey that is now nothing but scraps.<br />
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This is the world we live in. A world where children are born into war. A world where children are bloody and damaged and aching, yet do not cry. <br />
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I can hold my kids close and hope they never experience what this child has. But I can't close my eyes and wish his broken image away. My heart breaks for him and all of the children like him. I wish beyond measure that I could scoop <span style="font-family: inherit;">those children up and give them a childhood.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"People need to know this happens everyday... <span style="line-height: 1.70588;">Every day we rescue children and families. Every day I meet traumatized parents for losing a child or even not being able to find the body under the rubble. </span><span style="line-height: 1.70588;">Just this time it was caught on camera."</span></span></div>
Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1809677799536184324.post-16749348925951427392016-08-14T05:36:00.000-04:002016-08-14T05:36:30.188-04:00Before the SunYou know it's crazy hot when you trade sleep for cooler running weather. It's hot. Nasty hot. Yesterday, instead of doing a long run in 100° temps, I've been up since 4:45, to meet Sarah at a local trail to do ten miles or so. Fun times. Remind me again why I run?<br />
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*****<br />
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Peter's birthday was Friday. He took a half day from work and we lounged around in spite of our best laid plans. To beat the heat, he took the older kids to the pool (Lucas feel asleep so I did naptime at home), and that night, he took the twins to the local parish carnival. We had his family dinner last night. He does so much for everyone else, it was nice to celebrate him for a change.Michelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17681333723382119281noreply@blogger.com0