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.

Bursting to Tell

I am now a bit over seven weeks pregnant with my fourth child.  Last week, my husband and I decided we should tell our two oldest girls, ages 10 and 8.  We sat them down at bedtime and told them that we had something big to share with them.  My oldest, who is currently participating in the "Changing Me" unit in school said, "Let me guess.  You guys had sex and now you are going to have another baby." Uhh what? Huh? Where did that damn invisibility button go? Who thought this was a good idea?

Sweat started to form around my husband's brow line.  The look on his face said, "If there was an escape hatch in a child's rooms, where would I find that?"  We explained that while some things were private between grown-ups, yes we were going to have another baby.  Cheers ensued followed by bickering about where the baby would sleep.  We were happy.  We had told the two most important people and they were happy.  We can keep it a family secret for a few more weeks, right?

Well, there is just one hitch in keeping a secret.  ME.  I am bursting to tell everyone.  I am tired and nauseous all the time.  I am puffy in the face and squishy in the middle and my weight loss efforts to lose the baby weight from my last pregnancy have suddenly ceased.  I want to explain why I look so bad.  I want to share what is happening with me. I want to jump and scream and smile until my face hurts.

Having another child had been in the master plan, but I wasn't expecting it so soon.  I am a little freaked out. I am suddenly overwhelmed with the three I have right now, which could be from the pure exhaustion of the first trimester, or it could be my own mind spinning out of control about how I will manage four.   I am much more weepy and short tempered than my last pregnancy, which could be hormonal or could be exhaustion.  I want to share with people how freaked out I am.  I want to revert to being a child myself and run and tell my mommy and daddy so they can tell me it will all be okay. 

I haven't been to the doctor's office yet and I haven't heard the heart beat.  The rational side of me wants to wait to tell until I have been to the doctor's office because when I am not feeling queasy, I question whether perhaps three pregnancy tests could be wrong.  Maybe I'm not pregnant, but have a mild stomach bug that has stayed with me for weeks.  It could happen.  Maybe I'm tired because I have three children and a full time job and not because I am nursing, in my first trimester, and haven't had a good night sleep or a nap in months.  My head is playing tricks on me.  My rational and irrational side are arguing, and I don't know which to route for.

I want to tell people to make it seem more real.  I want to tell people to keep me sane.  I want to tell people to excuse my current appearance and semi-nutty behavior.  I want to tell people because, while I am incredibly freaked out, I am also very excited.

What do you mean there are TWO pink lines?

I am not a blogger by nature. I talk to my best friend, I text, I Facebook, I email....but I don't blog. That is, until a week ago when two pink lines showed up. Since that time, I have had the uncontrollable urge to write. Here is the short history of how I came to be a mommy of....GULP....four.

I am currently the mother of three children (and one on the way). My two oldest girls, ages 8 and 10, are from a previous marriage. Three years ago, I survived a horrible divorce. Shortly after, I met someone...a someone I liked....a someone I liked A LOT. The only catch was that he wanted children of his own. I wrestled with myself for awhile over whether I was willing to have more children. I love my two girls, but raising them while juggling a terrible marriage wasn't easy. Although I always wanted a big family, I was emotionally exhausted and running on empty from raising two. With the divorce came a new found freedom and endless possibilities. Rushing back into mommyland wasn't top on my 'to do' list.

The idea of having more children scared me. So why not just walk away?  Certainly there are more fish in the sea-fish that weren't interested in having guppies of their own.  The problem was that I was in love...REALLY in love. I was also enamoured with the idea of having a real family...the kind with a great husband, family dinners, vacations, and holidays. The kind of family that would make Norman Rockwell rise from the grave and paint my story. I missed the warm, milky newborn breath on my cheek, the drippy open-mouthed 'kisses' of a baby, strawberry fingerprints on my pants that marked the height of a toddler hug, and paperclip necklaces I wore proudly in public for weeks.

The wonderful man (and the life filled with possibilities that came with the man) won me over. Within a year of marriage, my husband and I welcomed a beautiful baby boy. He is the most wonderful baby. I feel love. I feel competent. I feel in control. I feel blissful. I feel blessed.

My husband and I talked about having more. Our reservations about expanding our family revolved around his constant travel, my return to school for my PhD, the full-time careers of both of us, and the hectic schedules of our three children. On Tuesday we decided that we would wait to expand our family. On Wednesday, I double checked my calendar to make sure I had calculated correctly. On Thursday, I yelled at someone at work for no good reason. It was one of those blood boiling, heart pounding, sweaty, irrational kind of anger spells. I never yell. I never getting really worked up like that unless......oh crap. I'm pregnant.

I rushed to the store, bought three tests. Before picking up my kids from school, I rush home to test my theory. First test-two pink lines. THAT CAN'T BE RIGHT. Second test-two pink lines. CRAP. Third test-two pink lines. You have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

So here I sit in the very early stages of pregnancy, getting ready to be a mother of four children, hoping that a blog will ground me in some way. So stay tuned, I am sure it will be an interesting story.