A Call for More Responsible Voting

John Adams once said, “In a large society, inhabiting an extensive country, it is impossible that the whole should assemble to make laws. The first necessary step, then, is to depute power from the many to a few of the most wise and good.”  I tripped across this quote the other day and it gave me pause. I have always viewed our elected politicians as mere representatives of the larger population.  Campaigns and elections are built on the concept of selecting a person to go to Washington to represent and reflect the views of the larger community.  As citizens, we have visions of our representatives sitting in on the Hill saying, “The people don’t agree and since my votes represents them, I vote nay.”  Of course, that isn’t how it really works, and this is why the general population is angry. In politics, there is maneuvering and deal making, party lines, political favors and promises.  There is no representation of the people, except in rhetoric and sound bites. Somewhere between John Adams and John Boehner, our political system has moved from the responsibility to govern to the responsibility to maintain power. This isn't the fault of those elected, but the fault of those who elected them.  Our forefathers laid down specific guidelines that we have ignored.  They asked us to select the good and wise, not the greedy and petulant. This is where we, as Americans, have failed ourselves.  We have become careless citizens, ignorant and lazy, dismissive of our power and responsibility to vote for those most qualified to lead us. We vote because we like someone’s smile.  We vote because they look like us, talk like us, are of similar intelligence, and check the same party box.  We vote based on promises that are appealing to us as individuals and forego the needs of the country as a whole. We vote because we don’t like the last guy or because our lives don’t feel better since we last voted.  We vote for the person with the better sound bites.  We forget that we aren’t voting for student body president, but for elected representatives that govern our entire country.  The competence of our leaders is a direct reflection of the care we take in selecting them.   As citizens, we have the responsibility to select our leaders with care; we should be choosing educated, thoughtful, wise, and careful men and women to lead and govern.  We don’t need leaders who think like us; we need leaders who think better than us.  During this debt crisis, the concern isn’t that there won't be a decision.  Come next week, a decision will be made. The concern is that it won’t be the best decision because as Americans, we have not chosen our best, most wise men. We have chosen rookies, mavericks, outliers, and fringe characters who are nothing more than sound bites.  We proudly chose officials that know less about world history, geography, and government than us. We didn't choose leaders based on credentials, but lack thereof.  American voters have behaved like children, choosing the most popular kids who foolishly promised recess every day.  It’s the Lord of the Flies in government right now and it’s our fault as voters.  We didn’t vote for the grown-ups who could responsibly manage complex economic and political issues, we voted for the cool kids.  May this debt crisis be a wake-up call for all Americans to be more thoughtful and informed voters. We can no longer make decisions based on party lines, personal convictions, charisma, or flashy campaign ads.  We have a responsibility to use our vote wisely.  We need a collection of men and women who are much smarter than us. We need leaders who can come together and make decisions that are about governing, not about politics.  We need a collection of men and women dedicated to the preservation of the country and not the preservation of power.  We need a collection of the most wise and good.  We can save our popularity votes for American Idol.

Taking the Cuts

I have just returned from having two moles biopsied.  It isn’t my favorite thing to do, but given that I love being in the sun and I don’t want to die of cancer, I’ll take the cuts.  Of course, I scheduled my appointment after returning from a week at the beach.  As I try to adjust the paper towel covering me, the male nurse notices my bathing suit marks and says, “Nice tan.”  He doesn’t have any tone to his voice, but the effect is the same.  I know it is ridiculous to be sitting in a room waiting to have pre-cancerous moles removed with a savage tan, but it seems par for the course for me.  A few years ago, I would have rushed to provide a whole slew of excuses.  Now, I just shrug it off and save my breath.  He doesn’t care.  He isn’t the one sitting on the table.  I’m the idiot here, not him.  The doctor asks me if I reapply sunscreen every two hours.  Again, I could lie, but I don’t.  She tells me my honesty is refreshing.  Her approval of my honesty is the highlight of my visit.  Before I know what is happening, she shoves a needle in my neck like I am James Bond and she is the evil doctor charged with taking me down.  While I am still trying to figure out if she killed me, she takes to my skin with a doll size biscuit cutter.  She takes off two moles-one on my neck and one on my chest.  As she is stitching up the big hole in my chest, she says to the male nurse, “see how much easier it is to close it up when there is a flat surface.”   Ouch.  That stings. I have never been chesty, but really, "flat surface?" Was that really necessary?  It is a sad day in a woman’s life when her neck officially has more curves than her chest.

Ya Ole' Girl

Awww, damn it to hell. That is all I have to say right now. Yesterday I was sick to my stomach. I couldn’t tell if it was the cart load of vitamins I take every day or perhaps early signs of pregnancy. I was hoping for the latter since that is why I take the cart load of vitamins in the first place. This morning I woke up feeling just as poor. I tried to go for my morning walk, but had to stop because I was gagging. A little bit of excitement crept in, so I took a pregnancy test. Of course, it came back negative. And, of course, several minutes later I got my period.

Here is what I have learned this past year. First, taking a pregnancy test is the most efficient way for me to bring on my period. Second, those damn vitamins don’t do anything but make me sick. Third, I am never going to have another baby without fertility treatments.

I ran across an article this morning that was posted on ABC news that said that 90% of a woman’s eggs are gone by the time they are 30. I must only have three or four old decrepit eggs left.  They hobble around with the help of a walker, taking breaks to re-apply vapo-rub. By the time they get to the promise land, late and worn out, those saucy ladies are swatting off suitors with their big empty purses, calling for the police. At this point, I am not even sure if they would take the help from fertility specialists. These ole’ girls, both me and my eggs, are getting cranky.

We got THE letter

Yesterday I received a letter that said we have finally been approved by our insurance company for fertility treatments.  Although I am sneezing on 38 years and have been trying to get pregnant for a year and a half, I have not been able to qualify for coverage. I have had two miscarriages in the past year.  According to my insurance company, this isn't a fertility problem, but more of a sustaining problem.  We were told that in order to be eligible for treatments, we had to try for one year with no pregnancies. This news was devastating.  Although we were continuing to try, we were also paralyzed by fear of another miscarriage. With every month that passed, I would exhale that I wasn't pregnant. I was so terrified to miscarry and set the year date back even further. Plus, I knew one more miscarriage would send me over the edge.  My doctor told me fertility drops significantly after 38.  Did I already mention that my 38th birthday is this September?  I didn't want to risk pushing the treatment date any further into "the barren land of those over 38."  I would cry that I wasn't pregnant. I was working so hard, why wasn't my body cooperating?

I hate feeling old and broken, which is how I feel every month I'm not pregnant.

We are now officially knocking on the door of one year from the last miscarriage.  Starting next month, we will be able to start fertility treatments. When we sought fertility treatments before getting pregnant with my son, we ended up pregnant the month before we were cleared for treatment.  We were hoping for the same luck this time. I shared my hopes with my doctor, who said, "Lightening doesn't often strike twice, and now you are much older."  In my grand maturity about being called old, I thought about sticking my tongue out at her and calling her something like 'stupidhead'.  Instead, I quietly thanked her for her insight, left the office as quickly as possible, and sat in my car and cried.
I continue to struggle with the idea of fertility treatments.  I was hoping I would never be this close to the decision.  I think fertility treatments are wonderful for those who have never had children.  For me, with three beautiful children already, I feel like I am tempting God.  Maybe He is trying to tell me that more babies aren't in my future. There is an old story of a man caught in a flood. The man goes to the top of his roof to wait for God to save him.  Men in boats and helicopters come by and offers to help and the man says, "No thanks, I am waiting for God."  When he gets to heaven, he asks God, "Why didn't you save me?" God replies, "I sent you boats and helicopters!"  So are the infertility treatments my boats and helicopters, or my petulant defiance of a greater will?  I suppose only God has the true answer to that question. We decided to continue to try and see what happens.  Whether we were meant to have a baby with or without treatments was something we were going to just let unfold naturally.  After all, who are we to try to figure out the bigger plan?

Upon opening the letter yesterday, I thought,  "Okay, one more month to give it a go. Let's hope I get pregnant this month...or maybe I hope I don't because if it doesn't stick, it's a full extra year and we are so close." This see-saw of thoughts happens in the heads of women struggling with fertility universally.  I am no different.  This same see-saw has tortured my thoughts for a full year. Yesterday felt different because I had no emotion, no heart tug, no heaviness, no hopefulness.  I had the thought, and then I let it go.  It was not an emptiness or a resignation, but comfort in letting go to the bigger plan.  This same topic over the course of the past year has sent me spiriling into sadness.  Yesterday I didn't have to talk about it and pick it apart like a vulture stripping every last bit of meat from the bone. I didn't have to cry about it. This felt new and empowering.  I feel strong and secure in my ability to let go and let life lead me where it will. I am much less sketchy and twitchy, sad and crumpled.

This past year has been difficult. My reaction to the letter signified my movement into something new. We are still hoping for our family of four. We are still unsure if it will ever happen.  It still makes me sad more often that I would like, but I no longer feed on the sadness for breakfast, lunch and dinner. This is progress.

Running Away

I used to run all the time. I would run for close to two hours every day. People run for a variety of reasons-some like the health benefits, some like the runners high, some like the toned legs and flat belly, some like the peace, some like the challenge. I didn’t run for any of those reasons. I ran to keep my chest from exploding with pent-up anger. I ran to look good-not for myself or for others, but so that the darkest part of me would stop screaming at me about my flaws. I ran from a bad marriage, from a frustrating existence, from a sense of worthlessness, from a past I couldn’t escape, from all the bad decisions. I ran away.  I ran to undo time. I ran to speed up time. I ran until I was exhausted and the voices in my head would be so tired, they would be still for a bit. I ran to sweat out the dark, sticky muck that was clogging my heart, dulling my senses, and weighing my limbs. I ran to think. I ran to sort through all my messy thoughts, which would race as quickly as my feet until we were both empty and exhausted. I ran towards something I couldn’t find.

I don’t run anymore. I don’t have to. I no longer feel the need to run from anything or towards anything. I don’t have to sort things out or try to carve my body back into my younger self.

Today, I went walking. As I looped around the river, I watched hundreds of insects dot the top of the water, giving the impression of rainfall on the otherwise still brown surface, and I thought, ‘bugs.’ I saw a caterpillar precariously creeping across the path and I thought, ‘caterpillar.’ I saw a leaf, crumpled and trampled on the ground and I thought, ‘leaf.’ I heard the swoosh swoosh of my own footsteps and I thought nothing. My mind was still. Peace had caught up to me because I had stopped running.

The Feel of Love

When I first met my husband, I couldn’t remember what he looked like the next day. Even after several dates, when we would meet, I was always surprised by his appearance. There is nothing wrong with my husband’s looks; I kept forgetting what he looked like because for the first time, my heart served as my eyes. My vision of what is true and good is much better this way. I should have used this technique a long time ago-I could have saved myself a lot of trouble trying to make the ugly pretty.

The night we first met, there was a hum and a pulse that slowly moved us through space towards each other. I didn’t notice. I was still seeing with my eyes. In blurry moments of rich darkness and laughter, we were together, alone, in a crowd. The hot night air wrapped the two of us up tightly. The hum and the pulse smothered the noise from the outside world. I remember his laugh tickling my ear, the gentle touch of his hand on the small of my back, the feeling of the night air on my skin as it drew us together. The world faded away. I could almost see the light connecting our hearts and pulling us together. Not a rope of light or an extra-terrestrial beam of light jetting out from our bellies, but a glow and a hum that is silent and invisible, blinding and deafening. Encapsulating us. Protecting us. When I think of my husband, I don’t see a body or a paycheck, labels, skills or scenes…I see the light and the hum-it draws me in, wraps me up, and keeps me safe.

He is the warm breath on the nape of my neck- the open, relaxed lips and brush of the nose right before a kiss-the eyes that I fall into and hope to get lost in forever. He is the nook of his neck where my head fits perfectly and I lay contently, breathing in the sweet fragrance of soap and shaving cream. He is the arms that wrap around me to block out the world and squeeze out my demons, keeping me safe from even myself. He is my harbor, my home, my life, my light, my redemption, my salvation, my love. I am me. He is him. Stripped down. Honest. Naked. Whole. Complete. Perfectly Imperfect.

I see him best when we are together, tangled and melted into one, eyes closed, breathing each other, with no beginning and no end. With every breath, we melt deeper into each other, into the universe, into ourselves. We are limp with light and warmth- like napping in warm sand. Our love rushes in and settles like a tidal pool, warm and safe and playfully inviting. This is what love looks like feels like to me.

 

The Man and The Boy

I see a man. The man stands tall, proud, pure. He is a good man with a good heart. He believes in love, family, justice, peace, decency, honor. I see a boy. The boy cries for the childhood lost, the memories tainted, the scars, the wounds, the loneliness, the hurt. The boy cries for himself. The boy cries from guilt. The boy cries from anger. The boy cries from sadness. The boy cries from fear of the darkness of his thoughts. The boy cries all the tears he never cried. The boy desires to please, to smooth, to forget. The man knows these are childish thoughts. There is no forgetting, no undoing. There is only movement forward. Through pain. Out of childhood. Out of the past. The man weeps for the child. He weeps for his foolishness. He weeps for his innocence. He weeps for all things lost and all things that will never be lost. The two weep together until they are one.

Love Is...

Love isn’t a feeling or a passion, it’s a series of small actions shared between two people. It isn’t big events or grand gestures, but the things that happen in the little spaces, the small breaths, the silent seconds of every day.

Good love knits together these actions and these moments into a tight weave, folding the fabric back on itself time and time again until a thick quilt is formed, creating a cocoon for those wrapped inside. It offers protection, warmth, safety, comfort.

Bad love tries desperately to string together a series of big actions using big looping stitches, trying to shortcut and ignore the strength of the small stitch. The knots and stitches are loose, lumpy, and uneven. In the end, there isn’t a fabric but more of a moth-eaten bit of cheese cloth. Those that have woven this fabric foolishly think no one sees the holes. When others aren't looking, they pull and tug, stretch and fluff, desperately trying to smooth over, plump,and brighten the coarse bits of fray. They try to wrap themselves, but find only a fight with the other for warmth and protection. When one wins, the other loses. The fabric isn’t big enough for both. Both are left bitter, cold, shivering,and exposed to the elements.

Vacation Memories

As a child, vacation held just as much anticipation and excitement as Christmas, and took just as much preparation. For the week leading up to vacation, my mother would bake dozens upon dozens of cookies and other sweets. She and my aunt would go grocery shopping and fill two or three carts full of food until the carts were so overstuffed that our jobs as kids was rush around behind them like ball boys and girls, picking up any stray items that fell out as they tried to steer the impossibly heavy carts. They would bake hams and roasts and slice them thinly into lunchmeat and make casserole upon casserole until our freezers were as overstuffed as our little tanned bellies would be in just a week's time. My grandmother would take a special trip to the UTZ factory downtown to buy large tins of chips and pretzels that stood half my size. As kids, we would have to dip the entire top half of our bodies into the tin while our toes strained to keep contact with the floor to get the goodies at the bottom of the tin. Everything we scored would be soggy, stale, and sandy. We didn't care. Everything we ate tasted marvelous because the rules were different on vacation. After all, we didn't have to ask permission. My grandmother always saved the empty tins and she would fill the empty tins with homemade Chex mix. It would take her weeks to make enough batches to fill the tin. Once the tin was unpacked from the car, we would immediately attack like locusts, leaving only buttery fingerprints, melba toast, dark burnt Chex pieces, and peanuts for the grown-ups to enjoy.

My father made playlist after playlist so we had the perfect soundtrack for every occasion and made sure we had enough batteries for the boom box. My uncle spent hundreds of hours, and dollars, getting his boat and all accompanying gear ready to make the trip while my Aunt Bridget shook her head and muttered under her breath what sounded like a string of curse words and something about a hole in the water where her money went. My uncle would bow his head sheepishly and run his hand through his hair while saying, "But Bridge, the kids love it." It was the statement that ended all arguments.

The night before vacation, it was almost impossible to sleep; my mind was like MTV, rapid firing videos in a disjointed mess of memories of vacations past and daydreams of the potential fun to come. Just as I would drift off, a flashy new jingle for Hawaiian Punch rafts would jolt me awake again.

My parents would get up at sunrise and start to pack the car. We lived next door to my aunt and uncle, who were also up packing. My bed was positioned in front of the window and I was able to watch the grown-ups, like small ants, rushing back and forth under the sleepy sky, packing and repacking three cars and a boat until everything fit. Time moved impossibly slowly. They would stop and chat as the light started to bleed into the purple sky while my impatience grew. Didn't they know it was vacation, for God's sake? Let's go! By the time my parents opened my door to tell me it was time to go, I was bursting and bouncing with exuberance.

We would caravan down Route 2, three overstuffed cars and a boat. We would have to pull over from time to time to make sure everyone was still together. I never understood why, when we had been doing this for years, the adults were still confused about how to get there. I would sleep in the car, only to wake at the exact moment my father had to drive over the bridge. My mother would patiently turn to me as I yammered excitedly on and on about nothing and remind me of the rule of no talking while Daddy was on the bridge. It took an immense amount of concentration to stop my mouth from taking off without me during those dreadfully long three minutes.

Once on the road, my father wasn't big on stopping. If we had to go to the bathroom, we had to alert him when we first got the sensation in hopes that we wouldn't pee ourselves by the time he finally decided to pull over. For this trip, he liked to get over the Bay Bridge before stopping to get breakfast. That meant we ate in Easton or Ocean City, depending on when my mother finally put her foot down.

The caravan would pull up to the vacation house and the kids would tumble out of the car and go scampering in all directions like little puppies, peeing on things, rolling in the sand, eating unwrapped candy left lying around. Our parents had the dubious task of wrangling us while simultaneously hiking suitcases, coolers, boogie boards, kites, sand toys, and a myriad of other junk up several flights of stairs.

Time is tricky on vacation. In the small spaces of nothingness throughout the week, the kids get antsy. It seems like the entire vacation is spent waiting...for beach time to come, for sunscreen to be applied, for the ice cream truck to come, for the bus to come, for the waves to come, for night to come, for lifeguards to come, for lifeguards to go, for the tractors to come, for wind to come, for dinner to be finished, for bathing suits to dry, for naptime to be over, for the grown-ups to stop talking. In the small moments of waiting and the big moments untethered joy, time sneaks behind us on it’s tippy toes and jumps up to surprise us at the end of the week. Time doubles over in laughter at this clever joke while we are left shaken, hurt, and stunned. What just happened? We try to recount the week, as if we could locate the missing time and tack it onto the end of the week. The efforts are fruitless. Vacation is a space with everything and nothingness all tangled together and separating the two is impossible. Vacation isn't about specific events, but a warm gooey blending together of all the senses.

We still go to the beach every year. My dad still makes playlists and my uncle still brings the boat. The house still swarms with people as they catch scent of my mother's famous lasagna. Gone is the small beach store where my father got his morning coffee and paper and our yearly supply of glow sticks and rafts. Sunsations dot each street corner now. We have said goodbye to some and welcomed others as our family continues to grow and change. The scenes are the same, but now the children have become the parents, and the parents have become the grandparents.

Memory is like ambient light, especially where childhood is concerned. My vision of my parents gleefully packing the car looks different under the bright lights of my own parenthood experience. I now know it isn't all that exciting to pack and repack at the crack of dawn in the pitch black. Sunsations isn't Mecca, the Boardwalk isn't as great as Disneyland, and time feels different sitting on the sidelines baking in the sun than it does bobbing gleefully over the waves. I am thankful for memory's ability to soften the rough edges and make the colors, scents, and scenes more vibrant- for myself and for my children. After all, vacation is still the best week of the entire year.

The Words of Vacation

Women with Fertility Problems: The Modern Day Hester Prynne

Women experiencing fertility problems are the Modern Day Hester Prynne. No longer is is shameful to sleep with another man's husband. It is also no longer sinful to covet, lie, steal, or cheat. As a matter of fact, in today's society, engaging in those behaviors puts a person on the fast track to becoming famous. However, to have the word infertility linked to a woman's name, now that is shameful. It is so shameful that a fifty year old movie star will swear she got pregnant naturally, even though it is virtually impossible. Women with infertility are first sentenced when given a scarlet letter-made of paper, not rags-that says, "Please go visit one of the following infertility specialists." They are sent to an office with letters the size of a billboard announcing FERTILITY SPECIALIST. Only those that have been given the scarlet letter are able see the subtitle, "Wasteland of the broken women. Have pity on their souls." The Modern Day Hester Prynne tries to go about her life. However, instead of wearing the letter proudly, she fervently hides the letter. With every attempt at deceit and denial, the letter glows hotter, branding and blistering the skin. Upon discovery, others offer pity, condemnation, confusion, judgment, fear, or combination of the above. Her shame sears her skin with every announcement that someone is having a baby, every attendance at a baby shower, and every opportunity to hold a baby. Every month that goes by without two pink lines, she picks at her scabs with hatred and disgust. In an attempt to heal, the Modern Day Hester Prynne seeks books, websites, friends, family, specialists, herbalists, yoga masters, organic farmers, life coaches, and any other carpetbagger that claims to hold the secret cure to infertility. These cures prove to only aggravate the wounds, making them sting and ache and bleed. The wounds can't be hidden; attempts just leave a stain caused by the oozing, sticky wound.

The branding scars and disfigures the heart, the head, the womb, the words, the thoughts, the actions, the life, the future, the past. For many women, they will find a cure or will learn to embrace their situation. They are the successful Hester Prynnes. They will wear their letter proudly. Others will never find a cure. They will eventually move on and stop picking the scabs. They will let their wounds heal. The scars serve as reminder of their failures as women, as mothers, and as wives.

I don't know if, as the scars turn white and fade back into the skin, the pain also fades. I don't know if, or when, it stops being the event that eclipses all else, defining every moment, every breath. I don't know when it stops feeling like a punishment from God. I don't know if infertility is a theme that weaves through the entire book, or just a chapter that sets the stage for the larger story. I don't know what happens next. Only time will tell. You see, I am one of the many Modern Day Hester Prynnes.

I am not a Buddhist, but I find the Buddhist teaching to be incredibly comforting and a great source of focus for me when I get too far outside of myself.  There is a quote by Sylvia Boorstein that says, " Mindfulness is the aware, balanced acceptance of the present experience. It isn't more complicated that that.  It is opening to or recieving the present moment, pleasant or unpleasant, just as it is, without either clinging to it or rejecting it."

The Joy (and dangers) of Awakening the Creative Spirit

I didn't realize it, but my creative spirit has been asleep for a very long time.  My idea of creativity was re-arranging furniture and sidewalk chalk art with my children.  Last week I read two books: Play by Stuart Brown and The Gifts of Imperfection: Letting Go of Who You are Supposed to be and Embracing Who You Are by  Brene Brown.  Just like a defibrillator needs two paddles, I needed these two books in combination to create a jolt big enough to bring life back into my creative spirit.  Stuart Brown's book, Play, talks about the importance of people at all ages embracing play and creativity for brain development, stress reduction, connection, and fun.  Brene Brown's book is a wonderful book about connection and self-acceptance.  It was very powerful for me.  The two books together gave me permission to stop and play, and the language and context to feel good about it.  I will no longer hide my creative side in fear that it will be ridiculed or marginalized.  I will no longer make excuses for taking the time to play with my children, read a book, take a picture, or write.  I will no longer pass over those exotic, beautiful, vibrant clothes in the store  because they are "too artsy" and people will think I am nuts if I wear something that isn't black and tailored.   I feel like I was just given a second chance at a life.  Like those that have a brush with death, I feel the urgency and electricity to live my best (creative) life.  It is exhilarating and brilliant. 

So, you ask, "What's the problem?"  Well, I still have one week of classes left before I have a break for the summer.  I have to buckle down, focus, and finish my coursework.  The six year old version of myself is stomping around and whining, "But I don't wanna do that yucky work.  I wanna have fun! I found a new friend and her name is Creativity and I want to go play with her. She is so cool, and she is going to show me how to do all these neat things." I want to spend all of my time with my new friend.  I want to find out all about her, and in turn, find out more about myself.  I want to spend long hours sharing,exploring, laughing, playing, and lingering in our imaginations....but for now, it's off to class and then to work. I just hope she doesn't tire of waiting for me and skip off to find a new friend.

Fun with Photography

I take a lot of pictures of my kids. Most of them are your run of the mill, say cheese kind of photos. I come across blogs and photos on the internet and I see these amazing, brilliant pictures that seem to capture the emotion and the beauty that my photos always lack. So this is my first attempt at photography, not just picture taking. I don't have any skills and I just have a point and shoot, low budget digital camera. Here are some of my test pictures. I was trying to capture the essence of a simple outdoor moment with Grady, my 19 month old son.

Catching Fireflies

When I was young, I loved the fourth of July. The fourth marks some very key moments in the summer. It is the time of year when honeysuckle blooms and the hot air smells sweet and delicious. It's the kick off to summer marked by parades and fireworks, mosquito bites and snowballs. It's dancing and twirling barefoot in the grass, and artwork burned into the inky night sky by sparklers. Most importantly for me, the fourth of July marks the beginning of firefly season. There is nothing like running, jumping, and squealing in delight, deep in the chase for bits of pixie dust floating in the air. The art of the hunt, the thrill of the catch. Catching a firefly is like catching a star, a mystery, a pixie, a fantasy. The night stands still, holding it's breath...waiting. The slow unfolding of the hand, the blackness in the palms, until...THE BURST of light that moves slowly on the fingertips and then floats effortlessly into the darkness. It is a fantastical event that captures the beauty of childhood, the spirit of happiness.

Much of that had been lost for me. Times are busy and somehow Pottery Barn catalogs crept in and eclipsed the brilliance of sparkler art.  I can't identify when I lost that untamed happiness. For me, there wasn't a defining moment but more of a series of events that shaped who I was, what I thought, and how I perceived the world. There also wasn't a moment that I recaptured the spirit of childhood. I didn't find the secret to happiness and now I am dancing around with sparklers at night while proclaiming to love my cellulite. I am, however, moving deeper into happiness every day. I am learning to live in the moment, accept myself, take deep breaths, and drink in joy. I am washing off the dark, sticky tar of guilt and unworthiness.  I am doing the hard work of forgiving myself and finding peace and acceptance in my life. I am catching those brilliant moments of happiness, those that appear magically like fireflies to light up the night sky.  I am learning to coax those moments gently in my hands and then sit quietly and appreciate their brilliance, only to let them go back into the night sky, fulfilled by the hunt, and the glory, of catching magic.

What an interesting ride

I abandoned this blog over a year ago. To catch you up to speed, I started this blog to document the process of expanding our family.  I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child and was hoping that blogging would provide me with perspective and clarity.  However, one morning in early June that all came to a halt as I tried to shuffle my children off to school and daycare before falling into pieces as I realized I was miscarrying.

Cut to to present day-I have had two miscarriages and I am still trying for that mommy of four status. I forgot the blog and, in self-preservation, blocked out my excitement of documenting the journey of our family as we expanded.  Imagine my surprise when I tripped over the blog while trying to complete a school project. It took a few days to be ready to re-read the posts.  Looking back, we were so happy, so excited, and so surprised. We had no idea what struggles were on the horizon, or how strong we were going to have to be.  Norman Rockwell was going to paint me, remember?

Well this year has been a doozie.  We had our first miscarriage when we were just about nine weeks and only days after we told our family.  We found out we were expecting again in August.  We were so anxious and afraid to be excited, but secretly excited nonetheless, only to miscarry in early September, just two days before my birthday.  So began the furious quest for a baby.  I thought that if I was pregnant by the first baby's due date, the pain would somehow go away.  I wasn't pregnant by then and the pain got worse.  I thought if I was pregnant by the second baby's due date, it would make the whole world right again and bring lightness back to my heart.  I missed that deadline too, and I was running out of places to hide from the pain.

Six months ago I sat on the couch and cried to my husband.  I can only imagine that as he was looking at me, my face must have been that of someone drowning-filled with fear, panic, sadness, clawing desperation, and pleading. In my head I was screaming, "Please save me from my own crazy!!"  My husband looked at me and said, "Baby, you are in a really bad place right now. We'll get through it."  He calls those dark thoughts my clouds, I call them my demons.  I think my version is more accurate.  I was letting my mind get the best of me.  The ugliness and self-hatred was growing like a huge black blob in one of Stephen King's novels.  Here is the thing about the blob- it has no boundaries, no rules, no lightness...and it doesn't fight fair.  One minute I think I am fighting thoughts of infertility, the next I hate myself for my cellulite.  I get that damn blob cornered, and it starts throwing things at me-memories of an abusive marriage, bad parenting snippets, work mishaps, bad decisions, and anything else ugly. I try desperately to dodge those  feelings and memories, but I can't tell the difference between what is real and therefore should be kept, and what has been conjured by the blob...remember, it doesn't fight fair.  I couldn't seem to outrun it and I didn't have the tools to face it head on. The more I tried to ignore it, the worse I looked and felt.  I was gaining weight, looking exhausted, feeling stressed out, and feeling more and more out of control and alone.  The blob had settled in and was spreading like spilled acid, eating away at everything good and strong in my head and my heart.

I don't do losing well, so with every passing month that we weren't pregnant, the blob grew tenfold.  With every announcement that someone else was pregnant, the blob took the opportunity to feast on my own self-loathing. My inability to manage this sadness scared me and made me angry at my own weakness. I didn't understand, why was I so sad?  Why couldn't I get out of it?  Why couldn't anyone else see it?  On the occasion that I tried to share my feelings, people would help me by saying things like, "just be thankful that you have three beautiful children" and "you are so blessed already" and "maybe it isn't meant to be" and "it was God's way of telling you it wasn't right." They meant so well, and yet with every statement, they were slipping little treats to the blob, who gobbled up every morsel gleefully and then looked around for more to eat.  I felt embarrassed and ashamed of my sadness.  I felt weak and dramatic.  The more I tried to hide it, the worse it got.  I felt pain, shame, and responsibility for the miscarriages. When I tried to reach out, I was given the gift of more shame and anger of being accused of not being thankful for the gifts I have.  The shame piled on at the thought that my hubris got the better of me. I therefore deserved to keep having miscarriages because I kept attempting to defy nature.  Then fear set in.  What if I did get pregnant? If the universe is so clearly telling me that I shouldn't have a fourth, what if I thought I was clever and pulled a fast one on the universe?  Would it get angry and retaliate by having something be wrong with the baby?  Those were my darkest days.

I am still not pregnant. My husband and I have been to specialists and acupuncturists, eaten organic, used fertility monitors, carefully clocked our timing, taken our temperature, and engaged in lots of practice. I have read several books on infertility and every morning I take an impressive regimen of twelve different vitamins, herbs, and even a shot of some weird crap that is strangely sweet and bitter at the same time...and still no baby. As I swallow a shot of false unicorn root, I can't help but think that I am perhaps chasing my own unicorn. 

There has been a process between then and now.  Perhaps as I continue to blog, I will reflect on some of those times.  However, for the purpose of this blog, I will cut to the end of the story...which really isn't an end, but more of a beginning.  I have been working very hard to set my head and my heart straight.  I am chasing the demons away and seeking happiness in a more healthy and authentic way.  Although my ending may not be the "mommy of four" status that started this blog, I think there will be some interesting stories along the way-and a lot more laughter.