Good Books and Good Toys and a little Rant on the side

 A while ago, I was asked what I think makes a good book.  I have been thinking about it, and I have to say, being a voracious reader of many genre, it is hard to come up with a definitive rubric for qualifying a good book.  (Again, as I have said before, this is not to judge anyone else's choices, only to write about mine.)  I find that a good book, first of all, makes me think.  It may be a little piece of paperback juvenile fiction or a tome of hardcore non-fiction research.  It may be a biography or a self-help book.  Whatever it is, it touches some part of my mind and finds connection in my life, in my dreams, in my consideration of the world and its happenings.  A good book is beautiful.  I'm sorry to say so, but I absolutely detest what seem to be deliberately ugly or crudely done books, particularly children's books.  There is a place in life for ugliness, it is a part of life, but to dwell on it, to roll in it and smear it around, as it were, is something I can't stand.  I find that even the darkest, ugliest parts of life can be treated bravely, honestly, clearly, and come out worth reading about.  A good book is (usually) well written.  Call me a nerd, or whatever you want, but poor grammar, repeated typos, flat characters, and cliched scenes totally turn me off.  It doesn't have to be grandiose - just well-edited and well-written.  That's all I have for now.  I'm an truly an omnivore when it comes to books, but I do end up gravitating more towards non-fiction, autobiography, historical fiction, and the classics.  You never know what you'll find on the shelves, though, so I like to at least walk up and down the aisles, reading titles and occasionally browsing a page or two from random openings.  Choosing books to read is kind of like dating, for me - I almost always knew from the very first date whether there was any potential there.  If not, for the most part, I wasn't too interested in going on more dates, or reading further.  If so... well, let's check it out and see where it all goes!
  And being that its almost Christmas, I've been thinking along similar lines as it pertains to toys.  There are so many toys out there!  I'm afraid I see many of them as mostly trash - cheap plastic, garish noisemakers, and just over all stuff to clutter the floor and hide behind the couch and under the bed.  Before you think I'm a total humbug, I fondly remember the many and varied toys I played with as a child (mostly an enormous collection of very random stuffed animals!) and how every one of them had a name, a back story, and a reason why we absolutely couldn't get rid of it.  I now look back with admiration at my parents forbearance with all our toys.  However, when it comes to "good" toys, I have to say, I do have my opinions.  Mostly I find more and more attractive the simpler, more versatile toys.  Kids make their own fun, use their imaginations, and become very creative with basic, simple things. Stuffed animals - yes.  They become whatever character a child imbues them with, and are mostly harmless and easy to stuff into a box or sack.  Dolls - it depends.  We had some Barbies, and we LOVED the Barbies at Grandma's house, but they always end up with their clothes off and their hair standing up on end.  I loved soft bodied baby dolls though. :)
  So I'm thinking that toys I now like include things like Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys, (limited) Legos or Duplos, balls, blocks, beanbags, and yes, some dolls and stuffed animals.  I feel considerably less excited about anything that makes noise, flashes lights, or requires batteries.  I do realize the irony of the fact that while I have my opinions, Eden likes almost anything and finds creative ways to play with everything from the most complicated, technologically advanced toy to a cardboard box.

-*-*-

And here is the Rant....

 I have never watched the new Pixar film, "Brave," but I have heard a few things about it, mostly to the tune of how wonderful it is to have a feature animated kids film with a strong female lead character that doesn't focus on the stereotypical "girly" things.  However, after hearing one of my little girls quote it and discussing with her what she learned from it, I can honestly say I have no desire to watch it or to ever let my daughter do so.
   The little girls were playing together in the living room, H. being Merida and D. being Sleeping Beauty, while I made cornbread around the corner in the kitchen.  I could hear their childish voices, "And then pretend.... And I was wearing.... and then this happened..."  It was cute and funny to overhear, and very much reminded me of pretending with my sisters as a little girl, until suddenly H. quite forcefully said something that struck me right between the eyes.  Quoting the movie, "Brave", she said, "But Mother, I don't want to be like you!!" or maybe it was "I'm not going to be like you!"  Whatever the exact wording was, my immediate feeling was shock.  What a sad and really damaging sentiment for a little girl to catch hold of and internalize!  Perhaps I grew up in an idyllic bubble, but I always wanted to be like my mother, and my grandmother, and the women in my family.  Not exactly like them, of course, but I looked up to them, and saw them as strong, capable, and living out their own adventures, while simultaneously feminine, real, and giving service and love.  I was glad to be a woman, and was excited not only to live my dreams and adventures, but also to fill the roles I saw them fill - wife, mother, aunt, and grandmother chief among them.
    I got the cornbread in the oven, and came out of the kitchen to sit on the living room floor near the girls.  They were having a little spat about which character (Merida or Sleeping Beauty) was better, and asked my opinion.  I managed to placate them with a diplomatic response and then asked H. why Merida didn't want to be like her mother.  She replied that her mother just wanted her to get married and was trying to make her get married, and she didn't want to.  I asked H, "But do you want to get married someday?"  Without delay, and with great emphasis, she told me that she did not want to ever get married, EVER.  Um....what do you say to that?  I just said something like, "Oh, that's too bad.  I think being married is great," and let it go.
  Ok, so she's only four.  And thoughts about marriage, etc. do change over time.  But, again, I just thought it was so sad that she has that idea planted in her head - marriage is horrible, it curbs all your dreams, you become someone you didn't want to be, and its something to be avoided at all costs.  I don't think that its healthy to be obsessed with getting married at that age either, but for heaven's sake! its no wonder we have a generational problem with commitment with these kinds of subliminal (and even overt) messages being relayed into children's heads from the time they are tiny!
  So there's my rant.  Its not that I think that older movies are good just because they are older.  I have noticed, however, a common theme.  In older movies, the good is beautiful, bad is ugly. (Some people see it the other way around, and take offense at the perceived message that beautiful is good and ugly is bad.  I never saw it that way, probably due to my mother's voice in my head, saying "Pretty is as pretty does.")  Goodness, kindness, gentleness, etc. is rewarded by life itself, after passing through trials.  Your attitude is as important as your actions.  In more recent films, I see a distinct swing towards mixing up the moral message.  Beauty may be good or bad, scoundrels may be the hero, actually, and what you get from life, you have to wrest away by your own smarts and chutzpah because life is just going to hand you a raw deal if you don't make things happen your way.  There is some truth in these things.  I just wonder what it does to children's innocence and the development of a moral compass to confront some of these messages at such early ages.

(And here is my disclaimer - I only find snatches of time to write on Sunday afternoons or after Eden's in bed, so I have to type fast.  My ability to make sense and be coherent may thus suffer...)

WOW!

'nuf said

Blessings and Sacrifices

Inside the tough, tedious, sometimes very bitter rind of sacrifice lies an indescribably sweet nectar of blessing.

(This post is not to judge anyone who does not parent the way I choose to parent, nor to say anything at all about their style of parenting.  As in all of life, I believe each person has a responsibility to carefully and thoughtfully seek out the methods, styles, etc. of parenting that are truly in the best interest of their family and children.  I do feel very strongly about many of my parenting choices, but I want to say very clearly that I have to answer to my own conscience regarding what I do, and I don't hold anyone else to that standard.  So basically, this is just my experience and I'm not trying to judge!)

I began to write this post several months ago, after a very trying day which ended with a long bedtime battle to get our determined daughter to calm down and go to sleep.  It was hard.  Very hard.  I wanted very much to give up and just let her cry it out.  But I didn't.  I breathed deeply, deliberately relaxed my tense muscles, and silently prayed for grace.  I rocked her and sang to her and shhhed her and bounced and lay by her side, and she finally went limp and lay, warm and soft, cuddled in my arms, both arms around my neck and a hand twined in my hair.  I, too, went limp and just lay there, letting the relief wash over me like waves.  In that moment, the words with which I opened this post came very quietly and clearly to my mind.  I was filled with the sweetness of my child, the blessing of her trust, the physical enjoyment of those moments snuggled so close.  The fleetingness of the experience was impressed upon me.  I realized that I could not have all this, would not be able to savor it so, if I had chosen a different path of parenting earlier, when the sacrifice was so tedious and tough.  I would have other things to be doing, enjoying, experiencing, but not this moment.  And this moment was totally worth it.

And one more thing.

This is our little daredevil's latest feat of daring.  We left the bathroom door open for just a minute, unattended, and found her here -

Finally....

Aunt Laurel sent Eden this beautiful stuffed animal as a birthday present.  H. christened it  "Rusty" and Eden loves it!  Here she is, discovering its marvels for the first time.

Using the easel as a walker!

Nate took us on a boat ride up the Naknek River for a picnic.  It was a beautiful day, quite chilly, but lots of fun!  Eden was really scared though, besides being tired and cold, and this was the closest we got to a smile. :)

New mobility brings new discoveries!

She climbs all the way inside, behind the door, and throws out the plastic stuff we keep in there.

A beautiful evening during the two short but lovely weeks of autumn we enjoyed.

Hurray for brushing teeth!  Eden loves to brush her own or anyone else's!

What a good daddy!

It was too cold and snowy to go out, but we made do, playing in the snow on the back porch from the doorsill!

Yes, she climbed up there by herself.  At least she stopped trying to stand up after I told her not to.  Nothing is safe now!

She pee's on the potty every morning when we get up, and usually at bathtime, too. Not at all afraid!  

I thought that was a cool pic with Mt. Chiginigak volcano in the background. This is one of the rivers I would take people out heli-fishing to.

This is the view from the mahogony throne (ok, not actually mahogony, but it sounds good) in the outhouse at the sport fishing camp that I flew to all summer long. This camp was posh - gourmet chef, hot water shower, wood burning stove - all this and no one else around for 130mi in any direction!

Looking south across Mt. Chiginigak. I flew by here a couple times a week all season long. This is one of the 3 calm clear days when I could get good pics of the volcano.

This is an open plume on the North side of the Chiginigak Volcano. The plume is probably at about 5500'.

This is looking at the bottom of the Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes in Katmai National Park. The valley floor is just one big ash flow from the last eruption of Mt. Griggs in 1912. There are deep canyons where the rivers have cut through. The cool thing about this pic is the dust you see blowing. It is volcanic ash. Very dangerous to helicopters. On this particular day the wind was blowing up to 45-50 mph through the mountain passes. It is hard to tell from the picture but the ash cloud (blowing down the valley from right to left) is over 1000' thick! Needless to say, I had to take the long way for the rest of the day. I also ended up flying through the worst turbulence I've ever been in.

Another of our autumn adventures.  You can't see much of Eden; she's actually asleep between us.  At first she was pretty scared, but by the end she was out cold.

About 24 weeks pregnant in these pictures!

Alaska sunrise

Silly girl!  She can put her pants and tights on her own head now, and knows she's funny when she does!

"Mama!" According to Eden, she and I are basically the same person.

The iphone cam just doesn't do justice. I need Trevor's camera!

Songs of My Heart

It is a peaceful Sunday afternoon here.  We are wrapped in a world of white, snug in our house surrounded by the first snow of the season - whirling, whipping, gusting, drifting snow.  I'm sure by next April the sight will not be quite so amazing and perhaps more depressing than cozy, but for now it creates an effect of quietness and insulation - perfect for a Sunday at home with the family.

With General Conference last weekend, and Stake Conference this weekend, I've certainly had many things on my mind.  Thoughts of charity, of the Savior, of my calling, of my weaknesses and efforts to improve.  Thoughts of how to open my heart and life more fully to the grace our Savior extends so mercifully and immediately.  Thoughts of how to apply the gospel to my family, to raise up my little one(s) in truth and righteousness, to make my home a haven of peace and love.  Sweet touches of the Spirit, sometimes little pricks of conscience, and over all, a yearning in my heart to draw nearer to my Lord again and walk in the meekness of his light.

I sat at the piano as we hung up the phone after listening to our Stake Conference, and while Nate danced with Eden, I had a few moments to play and sing the hymns.  Soon we noticed that Eden's eyes were drooping, and rather than interrupt the serenity, I just made her a naptime bottle, and Nate sat on the couch rocking her while I extended my few moments into nearly half an hour.  (Its amazing how difficult it is to even play one song without someone else to occupy my little girl!  She wants to be in the middle of it all, playing and turning pages, or have us be all done, all together!)  They went upstairs to lay down, and I was left to play and ponder.

I truly do love to sing, and to play the piano, and the hymns are a special part of that experience.  "The song of the righteous is a prayer unto me," the Lord has told us, and while I may vary in my particular righteousness, when I sing and play the hymns mindfully, it is a prayer, it rises from my heart in an especially meaningful way.  I love to sing all the verses most of the time, because all of the words have meaning.  For me, the hymns are at once a plea rising from my heart and an admonition to it, a prayer and a comforting, a reminder and a teaching moment, as near to a face-to-face moment with my Heavenly Father as any other time I can think of in my life.

I remember, as a young teen, first becoming aware of the fact that I would never be perfect on my own.  Realizing, as I sat out in the golden fields behind my parents house and contemplated the light of a clear, warm sunset, that I was basically a sinner and that all my efforts to be what I should be just weren't enough.  It seems, perhaps, a bit melodramatic, but really it was the realization of my need for a Savior.  I remember feeling kind of hopeless, like Satan had already won because no matter how I tried I couldn't do it all right, even being raised in the gospel and knowing about Jesus Christ all my life, and loving Heavenly Father, and having felt his love so frequently and deeply.  The light faded, and I went inside and sat at the piano and flipped through the music there, the house around me bustling at first with all the going-to-bed busyness of little kids and gradually growing darker and quieter.  Hymn #85, How Firm a Foundation, came to my mind, and I opened to it and began to sing and play.  The last verse changed my life at that point.

The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, I will not, I cannot desert to his foes. 

That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,

I'l never, no never, no never forsake.

My whole understanding of the Atonement opened up then, and the peace and hope that grew in my heart were the greatest blessing I could have ever received.

A few years later, I sat on my room mate's bed in our dorm room after work and puzzled over a short note telling me to call home as soon as I got in.  I called, and received the devastating and unexpected news of my dear brother's death.  As soon as I hung up the phone, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I literally felt as if my world was shattering and turning like a kaleidoscope.  So far away from my family, in Hawaii, I felt my heartstrings snapping.  Some dear friends, sisters really, came and sat with me as we waited for a member of our bishopric to come and give me a blessing.  We went into the lounge to wait, and I couldn't talk, I couldn't sit in silence, my mind was whirling dizzy with thoughts of every kind, and all I could do was sit down at the piano and play the hymns.  When the RA's kicked us out because of the lateness of the hour, my dear friends went with me to the music labs, still open for practicing music majors (which I was not), and sat with me til they too closed.  Somehow playing those hymns kept my hold on sanity and a small measure of peace, a reassurance of my Father's love and his merciful plan of redemption for all his children, and a grounding anchor to those things I did know in such turmoil of what I did not.

Again, after losing our precious first baby, we drove home in mostly exhausted silence.  Once home, our house seemed empty and quiet.  What to do now... the surreal bubble surrounding me, the isolation and shock and disbelief left me without an independent mind, almost.  I sat down at the piano and began to play. I remember Nate standing behind me, tears on his cheeks, as I sang "Abide with Me."  I didn't cry during that song, but I was singing it with all my heart to my Lord, pleading with him that he be with me now because I felt so utterly lost and alone.  I sang another song, and the words "I shall rejoice in time" choked in my throat as my grief almost drowned my faith in that promise.  Yet still I sang, because clinging to that promise was all I could do.  Later, after several months had passed, craziness filled my head and threatened to "drag me down to the gulf of misery and endless wo." Literally.  I chose not to give in, but I sat, mentally and emotionally and spiritually paralyzed, at the edge of that pit, til a particular Sunday afternoon of singing and playing the hymns softened my frozen heart and let a measure of healing faith and love seep in through the darkness, as tears made distorted lenses of my eyes and splashed with fat wetness on my hands and wrists.  

I thought I could never be happy again, at least not fully so.  (In fact, when Elder Bowen spoke on Sunday, during this General Conference, all I could think was, "Please, don't talk about this!  Please, just don't talk about it.  The tears and pain and sorrow, and fear for this new baby, swept over me anew, and I realized again that only Heaven will heal this loss fully.)  Yet, skipping ahead just over a year from that time of loss and sorrow, I was again sitting at the piano.  This time, however, we were in Alabama, and though I played the same songs and Nate again stood behind me with tears on his cheeks, our circumstances could not have been more different.  This time, our precious little Eden, healthy and whole, was cradled in her daddy's arms, and as I played I began to cry because I felt the miracle of healing where I had not expected it.  Without negating our earlier loss and sorrow, I was suddenly overcome with a fullness of joy such as I had never felt. It was as if a piece of the celestial kingdom was wrapped around us and all things were made right, though they were not yet.  I cannot fully describe the blessing of that moment.  

These moments came back to me vividly as I sat at our piano just now, and others, perhaps not so dramatic, but still so valuable as small and tender mercies.  I am so thankful for the hymns of Zion, and the power that is within them.  I am so thankful for parents who sacrificed and encouraged and enforced and brought me up to play the piano and to value music.  I am so thankful for a husband who also encourages me, and who has made every effort to provide me with a piano to play in every one of our homes - even here in Alaska.  It is a blessing to me.

A REALLY Good Book

I just have to write this review really quickly before I return the book to the library and forget the important details, like title and author and such. :)

"The Brain that Changes Itself"

by Norman Doidge

VERY GOOD BOOK!!

I happen to love good fiction, but when its done right, non-fiction is even more satisfying for me.  I suppose its because I feel like I'm learning something.  And also because I find it hard to find really good fiction. But I digress...

This book is about the plasticity of the brain, investigating it from infancy (and briefly, even prenatally) to old age, and covering topics such as psychoanalysis or "talking therapy," phantom limbs, the effect of mental practice, love and attraction, and disability, whether from birth or other trauma such as a stroke or illness.  I found it absolutely fascinating, and every time I read a section I had to tell Nate all about it to share the information but also because I wanted to process and really remember it, and talking it through/explaining it is one of the best ways I do that.  Of course, I couldn't gobble it up in one go - Eden does a great job of keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground - but that turned out to be a good thing because then I was able to digest it more thoroughly, a chapter or so at a time.  

The writing is engaging and well-done, easy to understand and even apply to daily life despite its often deep roots in philosophy, science, and many years of research across interdisciplinary fields.  

I loved it!  It especially made me think of you two, Bridget and Rosemary, but I think anyone could read it and find both enjoyment and edification!

And now I have to run take care of my kidlet!

Mission; Mothering

I've been home from my mission for four years and four months.  It was truly a very wonderful, very difficult, absolutely challenging and fulfilling, fully worth every moment, year and a half spent loving and learning and growing and serving.  If someone asked me, "Should I go?" my answer would be, "Absolutely!"  But get as ready as you can first.  Be worthy.  Have a testimony.  And determine to do everything you can to serve however you can, to lift rather than to weigh down.  It was a wonderful time - but more challenging than you could ever imagine.  :)

I've heard it said that those mission years were the best two years of one's life.  I've rarely heard it said that they were the hardest two years, maybe partly because that is not a very positive view of such an important period of service, and who wants to admit that anyway?  I will say it though!  They were the hardest of my life up til that point!  However!  Life goes on, and I feel glad and blessed to say that now, while I count my mission as a very special time, it is neither the best nor the hardest years of my life.  I do feel, however, that the experiences and learning that happened during that time have been the best training I could have ever received for the rest of life.

(Some may wonder about my focus on what the mission did for me, seeing that the mission is supposed to be about what we can do for other folks.  I must admit, while others can claim baptisms and miracles, cite numbers of lessons and Book of Mormon placements, my mission was, in those terms, not so successful.  The truth is, I don't really know all that my mission did for others.  I hope it was a blessing to them.  I was able to participate in some baptisms (which, every time, were marvelous, blessed events!) and I know that I was able to do the work the Lord had for me, but I didn't get to see a whole lot of the fruit.  So, while I can't really say what my service did for others, I do know what the Lord did for me through those experiences.)  That being said...

Yesterday was a hard day with my little charge!  We had an epic struggle, and although it all eventually ended well, it spanned nearly an hour and a half, had me in tears at several points, and truly brought me to the end of my wits.  Without going into details, I will simply say in retrospect that it involved, in small degree, obedience and cleaning up, with a large measure of age-typical non-compliance, an already not-so-good day for me, and ... I can't even remember what else now!  It got blown way out of proportion and turned into a real perfect storm of a power struggle.  It was HORRIBLE!

I talked with her dad, and called my mom for suggestions later and, after Eden was asleep, did some reading and pondering.  I was comforted, :) and enlightened, and encouraged enough to keep going.  But more than anything, I was reminded of my mission, the true, eternal, overwhelmingly important mission of motherhood  (or parenthood, I guess you could say.)  It helps everything to have to proper perspective.  I'm not little H.'s mom, but I am acting in loco parentis for a good portion of her life right now, and of course, I have my own daughter and new little one coming.  It helps me to remember what I am actually doing here.

I'm not trying to only shape behavior.  I'm not being the boss just because I'm bigger and its easier if I run things.  I'm not (primarily!) making them do things to make my life easier!  What I'm really trying to do is exactly the same thing I was doing in Spain, and that is, the Lord's work.  Bring souls to Him.  Invite them to come unto Christ.  Every little thing I do influences these little ones' perception of Heavenly Father and His love for them, and who and what our Savior is.  Every teaching, implicit or explicit, registers in their little hearts and minds and leaves the mark of love and truth or the opposite.  (Good thing they're so forgiving and resilient, and we can try again tomorrow!)  I just as much, if not more, need His inspiration and guidance to mother these little ones as I ever did to teach the gospel as a missionary.  I just as much, if not more, need to draw upon His words, His revelation, the power of prayer, the guidance of the Spirit.  I just as much need to examine myself, repent, and be worthy.  Of course, mothering looks a whole lot different and has a different timeline, but I know of no better preparation that I could have had for this crucial and eternal calling in which I am now privileged to serve.

(And just to be clear, I find this calling to be way harder and way better than the other one - but then the other set the stage for this, so I'm not saying its an either/or thing!)


And if you're still reading, past all the parentheses, probably-run-on sentences, and highly condensed, somewhat cryptic thoughts, I give you a gold star! :) And I have a really really good book to review sometime when my little Eden is not pulling at my knee and loudly demanding my attention.

God Wants to Hear You Sing

This song was a timely reminder for me, here.

I thought maybe some of you could use it too...

Here are the words.

Their chains were fastened tight
Down at the jail that night
Still Paul and Silas would not be dismayed
They said, "It's time to lift our voice, 
Sing praises to the Lord
Let's prove that we will trust Him, come what may."

God wants to hear you sing
When the waves are crashing round you
When the fiery darts surround you
When despair is all you see
God wants to hear your voice
When the wisest man has spoken
And says your circumstance is as hopeless as can be
That's when God wants to hear you sing

He loves to hear our praise 
On our cheerful days
When the pleasant times out weigh the bad, by far
But when suffering comes along
And we still sing Him song
That is when we bless the Father's heart

God wants to hear you sing
When the waves are crashing round you
When the fiery darts surround you
When despair is all you see
God wants to hear your voice
When the wisest man has spoken
And says you circumstance is as hopeless as can be
That's when God wants to hear you sing.

Why is this so easy to forget?

And so hard to do?

Balancing our very real human grief, sorrow, pain, and discouragement with the faith that allows us to "sing" in the midst of it all.  I don't believe that it does any good to deny those experiences and just pretend its all ok - that is not what God requires of us.  Jesus Christ, our very Savior, wept, groaned within himself, even asked that "if it were possible" the cup could pass from him.  Surely we too may do those things in the depths of our struggles.  But to be able to not give in to the temptation to let our sad times then become our sour times... that, for me, is one of the real tests.  And maybe that's what people mean when they say we were sent here to be tested - not that our hard times are our tests, but that what we choose to do with them shows what we have become, are becoming, just as a scholastic test is supposed to demonstrate what we have learned and what we still lack.  

Anyway, sometimes the only song we can manage is the faint melody of duty done for duty's sake.  Even that is precious to our Heavenly Father, I believe.  I appreciated this song, though, because it reminded me to allow that stage to pass and to let the full song come forth in my life as my strength does increase.  To not wallow in misery but to push through it and come out on higher ground.  

I'm thankful for tender mercies like this one.

A Breather

Sometimes you have to stop thinking about life and just live it.  Just stop asking, "Am I happy today?  Is today a good day?" and do whatever you have to do that day.  At least I do.  Its been a busy, productive couple of weeks, and the breather from blogging has helped.  Much as I love introspection, its good for me to put it away for a little while.  Sorry, still no pictures yet...

One of the brightest parts of these last few weeks has been feeling our new little one move with so much more strength and vigor.  We're a little over twenty weeks! I always wish that somehow I could communicate the sensation more effectively to Nate.  When I try to find the perfect description, it always eludes me and I'm left groping for words.  I've heard the "popcorn popping" and "butterflies" descriptions, and sometimes that does capture the early sensations.  The kicks and punches, blips and pops, are the easiest to imagine, Nate says, and the easiest to describe.  But what about those rolls and squirms and Tectonic-like shifts?  Sometimes the closest I can come is to say it feels like squeezing a bar of wet soap, the sudden, slippery turns where new contours push out and then slide back in just as quickly.  Or like the baby is somehow bunching its whole self up in a corner and then trying to turn around and head out again.  Except as far as I know, there are no corners in the uterus.  Oh, well.  Feeling new life move within me remains one of the most amazing and magical experiences of my life.

Eden is growing so fast.  She climbs and opens, worms her little fingers into things she's not supposed to, and uses the potty for all her little (and big!) poops.  I love it!  We've been doing "elimination communication," or EC, since she was 2 weeks old, and I have to say that, based on our experience, it really works.  At first I was a little (ok, a lot) reluctant to be open about it, because no one understood - mostly we were met with mild defensiveness, "Well, we're going to just let our baby be a baby!..." or downright shock, disbelief, and pooh-poohing, "Well, really you're just training the parents, the baby has no idea..."  The least judgmental, for the most part, were people who had no children.  But one things was true from the start - just like wearing cloth diapers or co-sleeping, doing EC was just something we chose to do for our family.  It didn't mean that we thought those who didn't were unenlightened, or bad parents, or that their kids were less smart than our daughter!  Parenting is such an easy thing to feel offended or defensive over, so I understood that, but, come on!!!  As for the "just training the adult" argument, yes, it was training us adults.  It trained me, especially, to pay closer attention to what my baby was experiencing, communicating, and capable of.  I've read pediatric "medical" writings that claim that children just can't control or have awareness of their bladder and bowel functions until they reach a certain age (usually claimed to be around 2 years old).  I have to say, based on my own experience, that is just not true.  Eden eliminated in the potty from the time she was two weeks old.  And she let me know when she needed to go! And she held it, for a limited time, until I could take her. The "cues" were often subtle and/or I couldn't really explain how I knew, but it was similar to the way I could often say, with a squirm or a grunt, "She's hungry," or "That's a burp coming."  Of course, on the flip side, there were plenty of times when I didn't know, and didn't catch anything.  The point of EC is not to potty train your child early, though that is sometimes a result.  The point is to be in communication with your little one and help them with their needs as best you can.  So we are not potty-trained, and there is no pressure for her to get it in the potty, but I am glad to not (for the most part!) change poopy diapers!

One last random thing - its a common cliche to say that one person makes a difference, but it is so true.  In some of my recent difficult moments, two individuals in particular have touched my life and uplifted me, and truly made a night and day difference for me. One was a dear friend I have known for some time - someone on whom I could pour out my woes, via text, and who took the time to listen and respond and help me out of my breakdown.  The other was someone I barely know at all, a neighbor with a little daughter, who dropped by unannounced one afternoon just to visit for a bit.  Nothing earth-shattering happened, but that contact was exactly what I needed to lift the fog and feel some relief.  So if you're a visiting teacher, or friend, or neighbor - make the time to just reach out! You don't know what a difference you might make.

Sabbath Eve Thoughts

My little bundle of energy is finally asleep.  

Whew! 

Finally!

This business of moving from two to one naps is wearing both of us out, but one of us is not willing to admit it at all. ;)  But when she goes down for the night, she is out!  And I have some time to, well, usually clean.  Or collapse early into bed myself.  Or wait up for my dear husband.  Or surf the web looking at fabric and patterns and reading other random blogs and homeschooling information. :) 

(And, by the way, I must apologize for the dearth of pictures lately!  Nate did show me how to get them from my phone to the blog but... I kind of forgot.  And haven't taken the time to figure it out again.  But I will soon! And you will be refreshed in the visual department, and delighted, as I am daily, with our beautiful, growing girl, and maybe even a shot of the growing baby belly too!)

Anyway, tonight, as I was laying there in the dark bedroom, putting Eden to sleep, feeling her little hands twining through my hair, I was pondering.  My phone was playing a recording of "Fishers of Men," and the beautiful music and testimonies both soothed my spirit and ignited my own chain of pondering.  The voices of the prophets diminished in my hearing, and I began considering the various parts of my life, questions I wanted to ask Nate about the Priesthood (as a side note, it is fascinating to me to learn from a priesthood holder all sorts of details about the priesthood and priesthood service that I never learned!) and opportunities to serve in various capacities that have been given to me.   

I have to admit, probably to my shame, that when I'm given a new calling, my first thought is not always joyful and excited.  In fact, oftentimes the first thought that comes into my head is, "Really?!  Why me?!"  Why me, sometimes in that I've-already-got-a-lot-on-my-plate, are-you-sure-you-want-me type way, but more often why me in the sense that I know very well my own limitations, struggles, and lack of experience and I know that there are other people who are much more qualified and better able to do this job!  

So I wonder, "Why me?"

But I say yes, because I'm not going to say no to the Lord, no matter how much I want to. (Please tell me I'm not the only one who has struggled with this!)

Well, tonight I realized that my YES is all He wants.

He doesn't need my skills.

He doesn't need my time.

He doesn't need my particular talents.

I'm not so special that He only wants me to fill this calling 'cause nobody else could do it, or do it better.

In fact, to mortal eyes, my own included, my serving in this calling might have no important effect.

He is able to do His own work.

He doesn't need me to do it.

What He needs, for His work and His glory, (that is, my immortality and eternal life) is my yes.  What He needs for His work and His glory (that is, the immortality and eternal life of all His children) is that some of us say yes.  He will work through us.  But we must say yes.

Of course, saying yes includes giving my skills, my time, my talents, everything I can and need to, to the particular ministry with which I am entrusted at the time, but beyond that, it lies in His hands.  The outcome, outside of me, is up to Him.  The outcome, inside of me, is up to me.  If I say yes to Him, regardless of what He asks and does with my offering, His work will be done in my heart and my life, 

and isn't that what I want?

I said yes when I was baptized.  And I meant it, with all my eight-year-old heart.

I had the opportunity to say yes again as I passed through the temple to receive my endowment,

and I did so, with much fuller understanding and intent.

So why does it matter now?

Why do I need to say yes when the Lord asks me to do this thing?

Because those yes's must be lived out every day, or in reality, what do they mean?

Anyway, just some thoughts on the eve of this week's Sabbath.  I can't do it all, sometimes I think I can't really do much, but I can say yes.  He'll do with it what He wants.  

And I'll get some pictures up tomorrow, I promise!

A Corrupting Influence (a break from all the heavy stuff)

I just had to share this little experience!

On Thursday, Nate brought home the mail at his lunch break.  I was SO excited to get the Ensign for this month, and eagerly ripped off the plastic cover to flip through it while the girls ate their lunch.  H, of course, was intrigued by my interest, so I told her we'd look at it together after our quiet time.

She didn't forget, and as soon as we were up and at 'em again in the afternoon, she wanted to get it out and read it.  We didn't get any farther than the inside of the title page!  There we found a lovely painting of the five wise virgins, and since she wanted to know what it was about, I began to tell her the story of the 10 virgins.  

"Once there were 10 beautiful girls.  They were all good girls, but five of them were wise, and five were foolish.  Wise means kind of smart, someone who thinks ahead, and foolish means someone who doesn't use their head - someone who doesn't get ready and think ahead.  Anyway, these girls were all invited to go to a very special party, a wedding party where someone was going to get married.  They  were so excited!  They got on their best, prettiest clothes - see, beautiful dresses and flowers on their heads!- and then waited for the time to come.  Each one of them had a special little lamp in her hand,  a lamp that they could hold up and light the way for all the special people coming to the wedding when the bridegroom came.  See those little lamps?  What else to they have in their hands? See those little bottles?  Those are bottles of oil.  The wise girls thought ahead and made sure they brought extra oil to burn in their lamps, but the foolish girls did not.  

While they were waiting, guess what happened? It got later and later, and pretty soon, they all fell asleep.  It was dark, and they were all sleeping when suddenly, far in the distance, someone yelled, "The Bridegroom cometh!"

They were all still kind of asleep, but then they heard it again!

"The Bridegroom cometh!"

Hurry, hurry, everybody, straighten out your clothes!  All your lamps have gone out!  Quick, let's light them!  But remember, what was the problem?  The five wise girls brought extra oil, but did the foolish girls? No!  Oh, no!  Their lamps were gone out and they had no oil to light them!  They asked the wise girls, "Please, please, let us borrow some of your oil!" 

But the wise girls said, "We can't give you any!  Then there won't be enough for any of us!  Run, run quickly to the store and buy some!"

But while those foolish girls were gone, guess what happened?  The bridegroom came!  And there was a whole group of people, cheering and dancing and playing music, and the five wise girls got to run in the front with their lamps burning brightly! (a little poetic license;) Everyone was cheering, "The bridegroom cometh!  Hurray! Hurray! The bridegroom cometh!"

They all went along to the bride's house and then they all went inside! And because it was night, they shut the big gates, boom!, and locked them so no bad guys would sneak into the party.  It was such a great party!  There was light and tasty food and music and dancing, and everyone was so happy!

After a while, those five foolish girls came running up to the door, and they knocked on the door, bang! Bang! Bang! 

"Let us in! Let us in!" 

But the bridegroom said,"I'm sorry, I don't know who you are! I can't open the door!"  And those foolish girls were left outside.  They didn't get to go to the party at all.

This was all told in half-narrative, half-dramatized voice, and H. loved it so much that she had me repeat it three times in a row!  Her favorite part was hearing me shout, "The Bridegroom cometh!"  and then running around and dancing and holding up her "lamp" while cheering and shouting it herself. ;)  Lots of fun!

Awhile later, her mama came to get her.  Of course, at that moment, the adults are all in a hurry and the children are all like molasses.  I hustled H. upstairs to get the blanket she'd brought, and we found Eden in the spare bedroom, investigating a box of prepackaged alcohol wipes.  (Nate was nearby.)  H. wanted to know what those little things were, so I told her. 

"They're alcohol wipes.  Come on, lets go!"

"Can I have one?"

Aaahhh! Let's go! "Sure! Here, here is one for you.  Now let's go!  Your mama is waiting downstairs!"

"Oh! OK.  I'll save it til I'm grown up!"

What?! That's strange. Whatever! 

She still dawdled.  I tried to gently hurry her along.  No luck.  At the top of the stairs, she totally stalled.  You know how little kids' pockets and hands never quite seem to fit together properly?  She was trying to stuff it into her pocket without success, and would not go until it was safely stowed.  I told her to just go downstairs and her mama would help her, but she started to hyperventilate and lock her knees so I offered to just put it in her pocket myself.  That calmed her down.

"And so my mama won't know.  It will be a secret!  She can't know!  Hide it from her!"

Again, what?! 

"Honey, its ok! You can show it to her and she'll help you use it!"

"No! No! We have to keep it a secret!"

Ok.  Whatever.  It was in her pocket, we finally made it downstairs and they were out the door.  

Fifteen minutes later, as Nate and I were getting ready for a date, I heard my text alert ding.  It was from H.'s mom.  Apparently, H. couldn't hold her secret in any longer and so she confided to her mother that I had given her alcohol to drink, and it was hidden in her pocket!!!!  

AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

That was why she told me she'd "save it until she was grown up!" That was why she wanted to keep it as secret from mommy! and why she freaked out about taking it downstairs in the open!

So here I am, a corrupting influence, teaching my little charge bible stories in the afternoon and then sending her home with a little alcohol in her pocket.  Yep, that's me!

(Thankfully her mom trusts me, and carefully explained what I'd actually given her and how it was used.  I'd hate to think what kind of memories of me she'd carry through her life if not!)

Women of Character

First, thank you to all of you who have left comments on various posts!  I love to know that someone is reading my thoughts, and your words uplift and encourage me.  I may not reply to your comments specifically, but please know that I read and treasure them.  They mean so much to me!

A few weeks ago, I received an unexpected package in the mail.  I always like to get mail, even those random catalogs that come from LL Bean and the like, :) and this proved to be much better than a random catalog!  A dear friend who has known me nearly all my life very thoughtfully sent me some words of encouragement and a book entitled "Women of Character."  Its full of the stories of LDS women, from many backgrounds and through many choices and circumstances, from the early pioneers to today's women.  The essays are just the right length for a busy, tired mama (or anyone else!) to snatch up and read during a baby's nap, a bathroom break, or a brief moment of quiet on the couch, and then mentally chew on throughout the rest of the day's duties.  Its been a blessing and an inspiration!

The other night, after a particularly difficult day, I lay in bed and this book came to mind.  I was having a conversation with myself, arguing back and forth between self-sacrifice and insistent discontent, between bad attitude and stuffing emotions, between wanting to be a good wife and wanting to have things my way...  The mental club kept whacking me upside the head, "This shouldn't be so hard for you... Just suck it up and be happy!...Come on, 'daughter of the pioneers,' what happened to cheerfully living with your decision?..."  I don't know why those things even come to my mind to say to myself; I'd never say them to someone else who was struggling!

So this book came to mind, at first as more ammunition to launch at myself - they did it, why can't I? They even had it worse, what am I complaining about?  Look at all my blessings, why can't I just be content?  It was not pretty.  But then I started to see things differently.  Yes, they were great women.  Yes, they overcame difficulties and persevered and demonstrated faith and love and sacrifice.  BUT! I was reading their stories after the struggle, on the other side of the difficulty, when the trials were passed.  Of course what stands out is the fact that they made it, they did it, they got through with grace and went on!  That's why we read such stories for inspiration!  It suddenly struck me that these women surely had their moments of inner turmoil, that being mortal, they had their moments of weakness, that there were undoubtedly moments when they wished things were, or could be, different, and probably even times when they (*gasp*) had to vent or complain or even burst into tears!  Yet those moments didn't diminish the greatness of their lives, the truth of their triumphs.  I doubt any one of them thought of herself as a heroine or someone who was going to be set apart in history as an exemplar of certain virtues, but here I am, reading their stories for encouragement and inspiration in my struggle.

I don't think of myself as a great heroine or some exemplar to stand on a pedestal.  I know too well my inner (and sometimes outer!) struggles and faults to presume that role even if I wanted to.  But it was a blessing to realize that having these struggles does not mean I am bad, or unable, or weak, or even particularly selfish.  Hard things are hard, regardless of why or whether they "should" or "shouldn't" be.  The point is to get through them the best we can, with forgiveness, faith, and a healthy measure of God's grace to see us through.

Yes, I've been really struggling.  Yes, there are days when my attitude needs pretty constant adjustment.  Yes, there are times when things are not so good.  But I make it through, day by day, and when I can humble myself enough to accept it, the light of heaven gently shines through in small and unexpected ways to ease my burden and help me along.

Random Updates and Thoughts on Grief

Well, sometimes the black clouds roll in and blot out the sun despite our best efforts.  Hopefully we see more clearly after the rain...

Anyway.  So now I'm 15 weeks along and if I can lay quietly (without falling asleep) for long enough, I can occasionally feel the little popping squirms of my new baby inside.  I was so grateful to pass the 12 week mark and find the nausea at first not so constant and now quite rare!  Although I do still throw up if I go long enough without eating.  Blech.  I don't like throwing up at all.  I'm adjusting again to being in Alaska and learning much about myself in the process, and am so very thankful to have a husband who is on my side, who cares about and wants to know how I really feel, and who is willing to sacrifice for me, for us, and for the good of our family.  Nate is truly a blessing to me.

Eden is growing so fast, both in her physical and mental capacities.  She's probably just going through the normal development of an almost 1 yr. old, but without anyone nearby for comparison, it all just seems miraculous to me!  Her comprehension of our words truly amazes me - so many things from "where's Daddy/the light/Jesus/your head/etc.?" to "Put your foot down" (at the table) and "That's not for eating!" (books, crayons, and the like) she comprehends and shows it by either complying, pointing, or looking.  She loves to look at books and even turns pages by herself, though we have to supervise that now that we've had a few torn out!  Her favorite things are going outside and seeing, talking about, or being near other children or animals - horses, cats, dogs, and bears are among the most favored.  She says "dad," and "hi" sometimes, and cruises around holding onto furniture, hands, or legs.  She waves hello, but the bye-bye wave usually doesn't come until after the intended recipient has truly gone bye-bye.  She's even started giving kisses - the open mouthed, gentle "touch my lips to you" type which sometimes turn in to a bit of a sucker fish imitation. ;)  She is amazing to me!

-*-*-*-

I've been thinking about what I have written concerning the miscarriage.  Although the actual experience and the time leading up to it were the most trying physically, and were confusing, difficult and heartbreaking, it was definitely the aftermath and dealing with the emotional, mental, and spiritual effects for the following months that were the most trying.  I remember driving home in silence from the ER, both of us totally exhausted, feeling flat and empty and cried out.  For the first time in months, I was physically hungry.  Famished, in fact.  We stopped and got a doughnut, and when we got home I devoured a small chicken pot-pie some kind ward members had brought over.  Then, despite it not yet being noon, we lay down for a nap.   Nate was hoping to go to work for the afternoon shift, and we were both completely worn out from the morning, not to mention the early mornings, late nights, and constant stress and worry of the last week.

Nate was out the moment his head hit the pillow.  He was so tired!  I, on the other hand, could not sleep, although I was worn out as well.  I was so tired, so exhausted - I needed to sleep - but I couldn't let it come.   Somehow, although I knew our little one was already gone from us, I could not just let her go and go to sleep.  It was the same feeling I'd had in the hospital room - please, hold my baby, so I can leave.  I cannot leave and just abandon this little body on the bed, all by itself.  There, the nurse took my precious bundle and I barely made it out the door, my whole being rebelling.  But who can take the little one you carry in your mind and heart?  I lay there, knowing she was gone but unable to leave her and let unconsciousness take me away.  Hot, agonizing tears slid down either side of my face, pooling in the cups of my ears, soaking into two unpleasantly wet spots on the pillow below.  The physical pain was over - I felt the best I had in months physically - but the mental and emotional agony were almost unbearable.  I didn't want to wake Nate, so I lay rigidly on my back, weeping in silence, struggling within.  I remember finally crying out in my mind, "Jesus, I know she's already with you.  But please, just hold my baby for me so I can sleep.  Please, Jesus, please hold my baby for me.  Please... " over and over and over again.  I had never felt so alone.  Finally, after I'm not sure how long, I saw in my mind's eye a glimpse of my Savior in a white robe, cradling my tiny baby in his arms.  I saw that he held her, and I saw his love.  And I fell deeply asleep.

The bad thing about sleep when you are grieving is that you have to wake up and come to terms with the new reality all over again.  I cried more than I knew it was possible to cry over the next week or so.  There were times when my eyelashes felt strange and I reached to touch them only to find them stiff and white with salt from my tears.  I read online about other women's miscarriages and how so many of them still mourned years after the fact.  I often felt unreal, as if in a dream or some alternate reality.  I sometimes felt crazy - had I really ever been pregnant?  Was I a mother, now, or not? And what about when my milk came in?  Not generally supposed to happen at 16 weeks, but by then it seemed that the medical establishment (midwives included) really knew nothing about what was really happening or going to happen with my body.


Imagine, if you will, a town on the edge of the ocean.  It is busy with life and activity and people and purpose.  There are wharves and docks, and even some boats.  But this ocean is like those on medieval maps - there is no end.  It doesn't go anywhere.  It just extends, and extends... out into nowhere.  Far out, away from the noise and bustle, is a lone dock extending into the waves.  One rope is tied to the very end, and on the end of that rope is not a boat, but a bubble, a fragile transparent bubble, about to just float away on the next strong wind.  The only thing connecting it with the rest of the world is that lone rope. That is the image I have had of myself during that period of time.  I was that bubble, and I felt lost to real life.  Nate was my only connection to reality, the only safe place, the rock I clung to desperately.  Thankfully I had him.  It was several weeks before I lost the unreal floating feeling and began to sink back into a more normal daily life.

Visit Home

I stepped out of the car.  The night was dark, sky speckled with glittering stars, soft sweet dusty fragrance of California summer rising to meet me.  A great elemental peace fell upon me, as if in my whole self were sighing in organic relief - home! Roots reach up again to connect with thirsty branches, and a sense of ease and completion settles over me.  People talk about having a sense of "place," and I feel what that means every time I return to visit my parents home.  I feel like rejoicing in the smallest, most mundane things - turning my eyes upon the arch of sky in its particular shade of summer blue, savoring the toasty warmth of sun on my face and arms, walking over the soft, slippery gold of mown weeds - I cannot express how it fills and grounds and lifts me.  I even find nostalgia in my heart for the neglected fields behind the clay factory that I walk by on my way from the dentist's office to the park.  

Of course, as I realize, it is easier to feel those things when being there is a privilege instead of a necessity, when my visits are by choice and eagerly anticipated instead of by circumstance and unexpected.  But oh! I simply love that combination of people and place and feel in my very being every nuance of season and space.  I so wish I could have it all there! :)

On Friday, much of the family gathered for a dinner and visiting.  Things have changed since our last visit - babies are older, new babies born, all growing and changing and experiencing new things.  There is so much to talk about and catch up on, and its hard to do all at once! We catch each other in little aside conversations, over changing diapers and setting the table, asking and listening, sharing the tidbits that make up our daily life.  And then it gets late too soon and babies must be put to bed and long drives home undertaken far too soon to have our fill of the visit.  We were able to fit in some music though, with accompanying laughter and tears.  Laughter, because of the sheer hilarity of certain family members in combination with each other...

My brothers, egging one another on in lusty harmony (and sometimes disharmony!) with "Let Me Be Your Salty Dog" and other old favorites thrown together into silly medleys of mostly bluegrass with a few nursery rhymes and hymn refrains thrown in for good measure.  I am trying not to wake my sleeping baby on my lap, trying not to wet my pants, laughing so hard I am crying and struggling to breathe.  Its not just the comedy of the moment, great though that is.  I am transported back 15 years to sweaty homeschool days, remembering those same two brothers whanging away on fiddle and banjo, blasting out trumpet duets, experimenting with mandolin and voice and style in the downstairs bedroom between 4:30 and 5:30pm (sometimes even earlier if algebra and civics were particularly dull that day!) while I studied spanish and browsed the chicken catalog upstairs.  

Tears, because having the family all together brings tender hearts and easily touched feelings quickly to the surface again.  Singing hymns in sweet melody, blending our voices in praise and song, brings the angel band close around us and fills my soul with a "peace that passeth understanding," sets my heartstrings to reverberating in celestial chords and choruses, even the kind I "cannot sing."

I also love to be home to watch my parents parent.  They were wonderful parents to me, and I can only hope to be as wise as they have been.  It is a unique situation at the moment, because my mother has the opportunity to watch two grandchildren full time some days while their mother, my sister, goes to school.  Eden is somewhat behind them in age, but I love to see her in action, so to speak, as the caregiver of these young ones and learn from not only my memories but directly from her example.  For one thing, I so very much appreciate seeing her wisdom in its real-life application!  But for another, it helps me not to romanticize her mothering.  Mom is, and has always been, a wonderful mother - couldn't be a better - but it helps me to remember that even so, she is not perfect nor was she as we were growing.  And its ok! Heavenly Father gave us imperfect mothers to bless us!  She has very definite ideas, principles she bases her parenting choices and actions upon, but it is not a formula or in any way a rigid plan - this is living parenting!  It helps me to relax and breathe and be at once more flexible and more determined about my mothering.  I try to observe and absorb all I can while I'm there.

Yes, it was a truly wonderful visit, for many reasons even beyond these, but now we are back at home in Alaska.  And while I am so happy to be reunited with my dear husband again, I can feel the dark clouds of discontentment and depression hovering at the edges of my mind, just waiting for the slightest breeze to sail out and blot out the light.  I won't look at them!  I know they are there, but I am determined to choose the happiness that is here for me and let the light continue to shine.  This is a good life, too! 

As for sharing my experience with the miscarriage - I do not share it to say "poor me," or to in any way to compare it to anyone else's experience, grief, or healing.  I do not share it to hang out dirty laundry.  I do not share it to have a juicy story to chew over.  There is more I will share, partly because this is my blog and I can if I want to, ;) and partly because I think that we share very easily the small, sound-bite smiles and trials of our lives, somewhat less easily the big bright sunbursts of joy, and, paradoxically, too easily and yet not enough, the big struggles and trials.  Too easily the complaints, the self-pity, the blaming and anger.  Not enough, the depths, the changes that come, the new understanding that you can only come to after being broken.  The comfort that can be found even while in the mists of sorrow and struggle.  I do think that the first has to come out somewhere, especially if its been held in for a while, like pus out of a festering wound. And I do think that the second can only be shared in appropriate times and ways to be truly communicated at all, especially in person.  But there is a wonderful and strange effect when it can be shared.  Somehow it is healing, both to the hearer and the speaker.  Honestly shared, it allows us the courage to continue living as imperfect beings in a fallen world.  I never wanted to be a part of the secret club of women who have lost a baby to miscarriage.  But how grateful I was for the understanding of those who had also gone through that valley when I found myself there.  It was, as much as anything, the knowledge that I was not alone.  So, if one person reading my experience is going through, has gone through, will go through a struggle and can find hope and light in sharing or knowing mine... well, I would be honored.  

Baby Mine III

Friday morning.  The last day of round the clock, nausea inducing antibiotics.  A week since it began.  I woke up to an odd feeling.  It was early, around 5am, and I thought maybe it was that I needed to go to the bathroom, but then I realized that my pad was soaked, and the fluid wasn't stopping when I stopped urinating. (Sorry for TMI, this is the whole story.)  In confusion, I put on another pad, and went back to bed.   I still felt strange, so I rolled over to get comfortable and immediately sprang out of bed with a full-on gush of liquid.  Now that, I knew was not supposed to happen.  I changed, woke up Nate, and we called the midwives.  One answered the phone, half- asleep, and told us to go to the nearest ER, and let her know what happened.

She did say the nearest ER, so we got in the car and drove north.  How many times I have wished we had gone south.  Not that anything would have changed, necessarily, but the whole experience, the whole demeanor of staff and personnel probably would have been different.  Oh, well.  We drove north.

There were no contractions on the way there.  I wasn't in pain, I wasn't sick, but I remember sitting as still as I possibly could, not even praying that the baby would be alright as I had the other times, just asking, "Please, be with us! Please, help us!"  As if by not moving, I could keep the future from happening.  We arrived in the beautiful July sunrise, a hot and humid Florida summer day already foreshadowed by the feeling in the air, and walked into the deserted ER.

I will say this - if you have to go to the ER, 6am is a way better time than 6pm, or even 12 midnight.  No one was there.  An oldish EMT with stringy red hair and a few missing teeth helped us with the intake.  He looked a little sketchy, but he was the nicest and most professional of any of the people we interacted with that day.  There was no wait, since we were the only ones there, and they immediately took us back.  By this time, contractions had started up a little, but not seriously and not regularly.  It was obvious by their questions and attitudes that they didn't think my water had broken.  They kept implying maybe I had just wet myself...you know, its ok, pregnant ladies do that sometimes.  Right.  I kept insisting I had not.  A doctor walked in, and without as much as an introduction, did a rough internal exam and told us that there was no dilation.  They checked the baby's heartbeat.  It was extremely elevated, and the baby was very active, causing them to lose it several times.  An ultrasound was ordered.

The policy at this medical center was to put in a catheter for all ultrasounds.  (At least that's what they told us.)  We tried to explain that I had already ingested over a quart of water and not urinated in the last several hours, besides the fact that I was recovering from a UTI.  Nope.  No excuses, in it went.  OH MY GOODNESS!  It was agony. Of course, the nurse says, "Does that hurt?  It shouldn't hurt.Anyway, it won't when you get all filled up." No, of course it doesn't hurt - why do you think I am gasping and tears are rolling out of my eyes? Why do you think I just started to cry? But you're the professional, you know what you're talking about, what you're doing... If this will help my baby, do whatever you have to.

The doctor and nurses left the room, and Nate and I were alone.  Peaceful music was playing from our computer, which Nate had thought to bring. (Several ER visits in one week have a way of letting you know you had better bring lots to do if you're not the patient, or even if you are, because you are definitely going to be waiting.)  The contractions started up again, in earnest, getting stronger, more intense, closer together.  The catheter was agony.  I lay flat on my back, still as possible to avoid the pain that came from jostling the catheter, and tried to relax through the contractions.  At some point I began moaning, loud through the pressure, and then dwindling to soft in-between. It was the only way I could think of to deal with the intense and even overwhelming sensations flooding over me, all the while lying perfectly still on my back.  Nate rubbed my feet, not sure what else to do.  He later told me I made less noise during Eden's labor and birth than I did than.


Eventually, a lab tech showed up.  She was young, and somewhat brash, and informed us that Nate couldn't come.  It was against "policy."  That was enough to make me take a break from my moaning and gasp out a plea for him to come.  She didn't say anything to that, but Nate just stated that he was coming, and he'd wait outside the ultrasound room if he had to.  We wheeled through the halls; my eyes were mostly closed as I tried to hold it together, but I saw the looks on the faces of nurses and people in the halls as we passed.  "What is wrong with her?!"

Sure enough, there was plenty of room in the lab, and faced with a very present and calmly decisive Nate, the actual ultrasound technician let him in with no problem.  She began to "fill me up."  We assured her that it wouldn't be necessary.  I think I actually said, "I don't think I can hold anymore!" and when she checked, sure enough, there was more than enough fluid already in my bladder to see clearly.  I began to feel some relief, as if the contractions had stopped.  As I lay there, eyes closed, trying to regain my equilibrium, I was vaguely aware of her taking measurements, looking at the screen, and then suddenly stopping the ultrasound. Without any explanation, we were rushed back to our ER room, and I mean rushed!

They parked the bed back in our tiny corner room and left, without a word.  A nurse came in and for the first time in my life I really, really wanted to swear.  "Get this (bleep) catheter out of me!" was what was on the tip of my tongue, but thankfully habit protects even in times of great stress, and what I actually said was minus the profanity.  She didn't say much and went about her duties without any explanations.  Although I had a pretty good idea of what she was doing, I felt as if I were supposed to be ignorant and silent.  Any comment, question, or even wincing and crying out were met with a critical and somewhat exasperated attitude.  I felt completely disempowered, if that's a word.  There was instant relief when the catheter was drained and removed, and the contractions had stopped, but I felt an odd pressure.  Hoping against a pretty clear idea of what was really causing that, I told the nurse I had to go to the bathroom.  I mean, honestly, what was I supposed to say? "Um, I think my baby's going to come out now?"

She brought in a commode, basically a grown-up potty chair, and left us alone again.  I climbed off the bed and sat on the commode.  Within a short time, with no real effort I can remember, our tiny little baby slipped out.  Disregarding the mess of blood and fluid, I knelt on the floor and scooped up my little baby, cradled the tiny body in my hands.  It was perfect.  Beautiful.  Not weird and alien-looking like some illustrations make fetuses look.  It was our beautiful, fully formed, just-needed-a-little-more-time baby.  The little legs were curled up, and from head to little bum, it fit snugly in my hands, filling them from fingertips to wrist.  The amniotic sac and placenta were still wrapped around like a protecting blanket, and we didn't know if we were supposed to change anything.  We didn't know if we were supposed to even touch and hold our own baby, let alone remove anything, so we didn't.  We just marvelled at the perfection.  One tiny arm was thrown up over the head.  The tiny mouth was slightly open and the other hand half covered it, as if in mild surprise at the way things had suddenly gone wrong.  Tiny perfect hand, just the size of my thumbnail.  Too soon, we felt constrained to replace the little body, still warm from mine, so recently alive, in the pool of blood, and climb back up where I "belonged."  A nurse and the doctor came in.  In some awkward way, they told us that our baby was not going to make it, that the ultrasound revealed that the heart was no longer beating.  Um, thanks for letting us know.  (When we got the records, we found out that the tech had actually seen the baby in the cervix, and that was probably why she had stopped the scan so abruptly.  No one wants a dead baby born in their lab!) We indicated that we knew and that the baby was in the commode.  I think then they felt super awkward then, because I don't really remember them saying anything else meaningful before they left.  The nurse began to tidy up, and suddenly the door opened again, and a social worker walked in, holding up a baby blanket and saying that someone told her we might need this...

Up to that point I had been so overwhelmed, so exhausted, so absorbed in dealing with the intense physical sensations and uncomfortable psychological situation that I literally felt very little.  I was absolutely in the moment, dealing with whatever came as it came.  I felt wonder and awe at the perfection of that tiny body, and a kind of disbelief and inability to comprehend what had happened, but when that baby blanket was held up, I suddenly was totally engulfed in a wave of the deepest sorrow I have ever known.  It was as if every fiber of my being was overcome with grief.  I covered my face and the tears and weeping poured out of me. It would not be stopped.  I could not stop it.  Even writing this now, going back to that moment in my mind, tears prick my eyes and my throat aches.  I cannot put into words the depth of pain and grief I felt, even more extreme than at my own brother's death.

They lifted our tiny baby's body into the blanket, and wrapped it up a little, and then handed it to me.  It was all I could do to curl up on my side around my baby on that hard, narrow hospital cot and mourn.  Everyone again left us, and Nate and I stayed there with our little one for nearly an hour.  My crying stopped, and I just talked to that little one, telling him/her how very much we had loved and wanted and waited for their precious self, how sad we were to let them go... Somehow it was a comfort to just lay there with my baby, even knowing that he or she was not really there anymore.  We said a prayer together with our baby cradled between us, a prayer so heartbroken and grief-heavy, so raw and painful and utterly submissive and crushed.   And then it was time to leave.

Thankfully there was a nurse who was willing to hold that precious bundle as we walked out the door of that room.  I don't think I could have left if we'd had to just leave our baby there on the bed.  Even so, as the door shut behind us, I couldn't help it - I just broke down weeping and wailing again.  I heard one of the nurses murmur something about me "sure taking it hard." Yes, I was.  I definitely was.  But there was nothing to be done.  We had to leave.  Empty womb, empty heart, empty arms.  Empty.