On Your Mark....

I have been absent on my blog recently, and for good reason.  I did some writing over the summer and then jumped back into fall full force with two new graduate courses, a busy work life, and the usual family chaos.  When I started writing this blog, it was to track the journey of the unexpected expansion of my family.  As you may know, that journey ended in sadness.  I have written about the start of our process to expand our family.  Since then, I have had two unsuccessful IUI treatments and I am now preparing to start my IVF treatments.  And that is why I am back, writing.  I want to be able to remember, to reflect, to process. 

So let's start from the beginning.  After two unsuccessful IUI's, I  met with my doctor and had preliminary tests completed.  Soon after, I received the call that I was all set to begin my IVF treatment cycle.  I went on birth control pills, which is tough for me because I don't handle hormones well.  They tend to make me a complete nut case who flies off the handle for no good reason.  Other than a brief period of agitation at my husband and a ridiculous outburst in response to my children fighting, I am handling it pretty well (of course, you may want to ask my family-they may disagree).

I received a call from the pharmacy reviewing the prescriptions to be shipped to my house.  Now, the doctor had given me some idea of what was in store for me, but she didn't give me specifics because she didn't know until my preliminary tests were complete.  When the pharmacy called, they gave me a list so long that I immediately flew into panic mode.  Just like all new crazed IVF patients, I immediately turned to the internet to Google my prescriptions and my treatment plan.  I lost a half a day to pointless surfing and worrying.  I have found that throughout this process, I have to be very careful how much time I allow myself to surf or read books on the topic.  I am the kind of person who loves information, but it can also make me cross-eyed and crazy if I am not careful to keep it in check.  I have actually limited myself to 3 books on IVF and limited internet surfing to no more than three hits a day.  When my shots start, I will stop surfing all together.  My goal with this cycle is to be as holistic as possible, so I am spending more time researching nutrition, meditation, and other techniques to help me stay focused on how I can relax and prepare.

Days after the pharmacy called, my husband and I attended a two hour injection class with another lovely, albeit neurotic patient.  The other patient was a nurse by trade, but her nervousness made me edgy. Shouldn't a nurse think this type of thing is old hat?  The teacher had a little too much bubble and giggle in her voice, but she was nice and showed us how to mix medicines and prepare needles while the nervous nelly nurse whined and squirmed.   I, being the excellent student that I am, tried to block her out and pay attention.  I made my husband take notes while I willed my brain to burn all the information provided into a special "do not delete" file.  At times it almost seemed too much.  Take this needle and get the liquid from this vile and then push it into a vile with powder and then twist to mix...never shake...then extract the liquid with the needle and push it into another vile of powder and mix again before extracting into the needle...then switch the needle before injecting-be sure to swab everything with alcohol before anything touches anything and flick to get out all the air bubbles.  Oh, and the amounts are different in your morning and evening injections, so be sure not to get confused or you could ruin your whole treatment...and then get ready because you still have two more shots you have to prepare. The whole time, the neurotic nurse whimpered. The Type A part of my personality wanted another run through before leaving the class, but the rest of me was trying to escape the presence of the neurotic nurse.  I left and took a breath, convincing myself that I was competent enough to handle five shots a day.

Saturday morning the FEDEX delivery man dropped off a huge box filled with my prescriptions.  There were dozens upon dozens of needles in different sizes, three different types of pills, a supply of suppositories, a trigger shot, and three different types of medications that I will have to give to myself as injections for about two weeks.  I will have to give myself two injections in the morning and three at night.  I emptied the contents onto my kitchen table and sat, paralyzed, looking at all the meds.  Sudden panic hit that I wouldn't remember which needles went with which medicines.  I looked at my husband and blurted, "I don't know what goes with what-look at all this stuff!"  He calmly helped me organize the medicines and reminded me to breathe.  I don't know what I would do without him.

Right now, half of one shelf of our refrigerator is stuffed with medications that must be refrigerated.  The other medicines are safely tucked into a tool box that I have designated to keep all my medicines organized.  They sit, waiting.  I have a little over one more week of birth control pills before I start the shots.

Surprisingly, I feel very calm about the situation.  I am hopeful that it will work, but I also have come to terms with the likelihood that it won't.  I will be nervous the day before, and the day of, my first shots, but I know that I will quickly get the hang of it. The shots don't scare me. I am not looking forward to the hormones because I generally don't do well with hormones, but I am okay with the rest of the process...right now.  I am not looking forward to a bruised tummy from all the shots, but I will get over it.  The only real fear I have about the whole thing is the possibility of twins...now THAT scares the bejesus out of me.  We really want one more baby so to complete our family, but twins...that is something that I am not sure my sanity or my bank account can handle.  Stay tuned, I will be trying to document the process.

The King

This short story is a collection of memories documenting the progression of mother deciding to leave her abusive relationship.
The King

All Things Irish

Here is a link to the first few chapters of a book I am writing. It's about a couple trying to conceive while they struggle to balance faith and medicine.

All Things Irish

Murder with No Permant Consequences

This morning on the Today Show, there was a story about a woman who was denied a hearing to review shared custody of her children. Her request came after she learned that her ex-husband married a woman convicted of killing her children twenty years ago. Five years ago, the woman’s psychiatrist was so concerned about her mental stability, he reported her to the Department of Social Services. When reviewing the mother’s plea to have the custody revised so that her children would not be in harm’s way, the stance of the court was that this woman had not hurt anyone in five years and appeared to be mentally stable; therefore, the children should be allowed to reside with her.

Given my own history with the court system, custody cases, and DSS, and given my position as a psychologist, I was profoundly sad and angry when I first watched the story. I was outraged at the court’s ignorance in making a statement that since this woman had not hurt someone since 2008, she is safe. She has a history of murder and violence; the best predictor of future violence is past violence.  A perfectly capable and loving mother, one who hasn't killed anyone, is able and available to care for the children full time and yet the court did not even hear her plea.  I walked away from the television muttering to myself in a fit of fury.

Then I paused to think more deeply on the subject of why we have such a forgiving court system. Forgiveness is comforting to us. We understand that we are human, and as such, have proclivity to imperfection. It makes us nervous to think that we could permanently damage our lives besed on one moment of weakness, carelessness, or stupidity. We find comfort in the idea of second chances, mulligans, and do-overs. While we seemed outraged at cases like Casey Anthony, inside we are secretly relieved that if such a thing happened in our lives, we might have a chance to walk free. We are comforted in knowing that if something unfortunate happens, we have a chance at redemption.

If a person commits one bad act and thereby internalizes the act as a sign they are a bad person, they are more likely to engage in more bad actions.  By giving second chances and showing mercy and forgiveness, we decrease the likelihood of future acts of that person. Also, given that our judicial system is imperfect, having softness in the system allows for self-correction. The counterpoint is that such decisions send a message to the greater community that these behaviors have a certain level of acceptability. 

While I certainly believe in second chances, I feel that we have to be careful of the messages we are sending.  A cute white woman kills her baby, a football star kills his wife, a famous athlete beats his girlfriend, a famous rockstar sets her boyfriend's house on fire...and we forgive it all...and they make money from the story. The nameless, poor, and minority committing the same crimes receive much more severe consequences.  It sends a confusing message, thereby weakening our faith in the judicial system.  Of further detriment is our sensationalization of violence; it is dangerous and unhealthy to our larger society.   We have to be careful about sending a message that no action has a permanent consequence or that every behavior comes with an excuse or a payout.  I am not suggesting the shaming or dehumanizing of the guilty; I am suggesting that accountability and retribution be a stronger part of our vocabulary. 

When we make everything forgivable, in essence, we forgive the action before it occurs and thereby give a certain level of permission for such behaviors. We can’t forgive abuse or hate crimes or violence. These actions have permanent consequences on the victims, and therefore should also incur permanent consequences on the perpetrator. Casey Anthony shouldn’t make a million dollars for killing her child. OJ Simpson should never have gotten a publishing deal for a book outlining how he would have killed his wife, if he really did it. In the case on the Today show this morning, murdering your own children should prevent you from ever having custody of children.  In order to protect our sense of civics and our society as a whole, we have to be sending stronger, more consistent messages about how we will manage the most unforgivable crimes. It’s a sad day when murder of the innocent no longer has permanent consequences on those responsible.

Orioles Magic, Will it Happen?

I am an Orioles fan through and through.  I don’t think I have a choice; it’s part of my history.  My grandmother was a diehard Orioles fan.  She would make dinner while listening to the game on her radio, which she propped against the screen in an open window for the best reception.   She would read the morning paper and grumble about a trade and get in heated conversations with anyone about the strengths and weaknesses of the team.  She passed her passion onto her boys, who passed it onto their children.  When I think of summer as a child, it was marked by baseball in every way.  It was our lullaby that rocked us to sleep at night, our leisure activity, the background of most events, and theme that ran through most conversations.  My father watched the games on television with the sound muted so he could listen to the commentating on the radio.  If we were so unlucky as to have to travel during a game, the game still came with us through static filled air waves.  There would be times that the static was so loud we couldn’t hear the plays at all, but my father would shush us and listen ever so carefully, only to cheer to curse at something he heard behind the static.  Our favorite family outing during the summer was Buck Night at Memorial Stadium.  My mother filled thermoses full of fresh lemonade, wrapped hot dogs in foil, and packed our gloves. We sat in the bleachers and ate our picnic, listening to the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the call of the vendors. The air was hot and wet and smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and hot dogs.  It was the smell of the stadium, the smell of baseball, the smell of summer.  We screamed “Charge!” and danced to John Denver and wished we were the lucky soul that just heard, “Give that fan a contract!”  It was a time of the greats: Dempsey, Ripken, Murray, Bumbry, and Palmer.   Fathers watched wistfully at the Ripken clan, wishing they could be the proud father waving their son on to home in the big leagues.   We cheered when Earl Weaver gave us fireworks and we booed when we heard Jim Palmer was hurt, again.  At the end of the night we would sit in traffic for hours trying to get home.  We listened to the post-game show and recapped every amazing play. We didn’t mind. We were proud to be Orioles fans.  I miss those days.  I want to be able to pass on the Oriole pride to my children, but it’s hard to do when we have nights like the other night when we were down by nine runs at the end of the first inning.  All over Baltimore there are conversations about what has gone wrong with the Orioles.  Is it ownership or management, bullpen or bats?  Everyone has a theory.  Some have gotten so disgusted that they have put away their orange and black.  Others have stopped watching all together. Baltimore is tired and broken, mourning the loss of a team we once knew and loved.  While some think our glory days are behind us, I believe we are in a temporary slump.  Baltimore is a proud city.  We are a loyal city.  While we may say that we have given up hope, we can’t shake the Orioles.  Our blood runs orange and black and we can’t deny what is part of us, part of our history.  We are 33rd street and Camden Yards, Robinson and Roberts, and everything in between.  Deep in our bones, we remember what it was like to be great. While we may say we have given up all hope, I believe most of us are just waiting for the magic to return to Baltimore.  I just hope it happens soon; there is a whole new generation eager to  make new baseball memories.

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.

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.