Set Up For Failure (or at least, a Hard Time)

I began to write this several months ago, while we were still very much in a state of transition.  

Not just transition, but uncertainty, separation, and stress.  And sometimes, in the midst of the struggle, it is better to let one's thoughts and feelings mature and ripen in private, to allow for the work that perspective and time do.  So I didn't post it then.  

But now, while still in the end stages of transition, much of the stress and uncertainty have been worked through and things are not quite so raw, not quite so desperate feeling.

Goodness, anyone who reads this whole blog will probably think that I am a very dramatic, perpetually struggling, weak-willed mess of a woman!  Well, maybe I am.  I do tend to write more during and about my personal hard times.  I find it both cathartic and therapeutic, and I have found great relief and insight from reading about other's struggles, faith, and real lives, so I guess it doesn't matter how any reader might perceive me... If you know me, reading this blog might give you new insight into different facets of my character, and if you don't know me... I guess you can just draw your own conclusions. :) 

We had come to the conclusion that it was time to leave King Salmon, and went ahead with that move despite the fact that we, at that time, had no further employment.  I am so grateful to my dear husband for the way he listened to me and counselled with me and then had the faith and courage to jump, so to speak, out of a perfectly good airplane.  I mean, leave a paying job to move his family for their good, without another job already lined up.  He takes his role as our provider and protector very seriously, and does a very good job at it, and I know this period of time was a huge stress for him.  I was very excited to leave King Salmon, although it had come to be more of a blessing and less of a trial over the months.  In fact, our last months there were so good, so full of warmth and happiness, with so many new connections, that it was just starting to feel actually do-able.  I had a few fleeting thoughts that, perhaps, in seeking for something better, I would just be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, but for many reasons, it was the right time to leave.  

And so we did.  

I am so grateful for the generosity of my in-laws, in letting us come and stay at their house in Utah for several months.  It is not easy to add a whole other family to a household and maintain loving, peaceful order.  There were struggles all around, and I'm sorry for the added stress we brought to the house.  Nevertheless, it was a blessing to get to know Nate's side of the family better, to let them love our little ones and see our little ones learn to love them!  I was so disappointed that for much of the time we were there, Eden and Lucy were dealing with their first real colds, as well as the serious disruption of their previously very predictable lives and family, which meant that they were definitely not on their "best" behavior.  (As a parent, its almost sad sometimes how very much you want others to see the precious person that your child really is, how very easy it is to resent mis-judgment and long for mercy for your child's sake!)  

It really was such a blessing, on a very fundamental level, to have a safe place to come and be with our family and have their support while Nate was gone so very much.  I never thought I could find a harder schedule for families than that of a bush pilot, but - oh, my - I am SO glad that our time as a trucking family was limited! 

In the middle of it all, with Nate gone long and random hours (days, weeks!), trying to settle and balance two little girls whose world had turned topsy-turvy, our living compressed into one room and confined to the indoors due to continued temperatures below zero (even King Salmon was warmer!), not knowing where we were going next or when we were going there.... I came to a very important realization for me.

This was hard. 

There was no denying that.

But I had the power to make it infinitely harder on myself by thinking that it was harder than it should be. 

By expecting someone to help me with the house, the children, the state of my emotions. 

By thinking that my husband should always be available or around.

Such a very basic realization.  It almost seems silly to look at it written out. It made a huge difference in my life though! 

I don't remember what sparked my lightbulb moment. I do remember the illumination it brought!

This was not harder than it should be.

This is just the way it was.

With that conclusion, my ability to deal with it all increased greatly. 

So, to go back to the title of this post, I don't know who ever told me that life should be easy.  Or happy.  Or that it would go the way I wanted or expected.  In fact, I remember quite clearly learning the opposite! "For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things..."

So maybe I could blame it on our culture, this self-centered modern age, that wicked one, or Disney's happily ever after.  I think the actual culprit might just be immaturity (as in, just plain lack of experience and perspective). 

 But whoever is to blame, I think that we are set up for (or we set ourselves up for) a failure in life or, at the very least, a pretty hard time, by the attitude that life should be easier, more "fulfilling", more fun, more adventure, more enjoyable, more what we expected.  

Besides that, when we focus on all the things we think life SHOULD be, we miss life as it is - the ease, the fulfillment, the fun, the adventure, the enjoyment, and the blessing that we have right before us.

 :)

my dream job + reality/a humbling day

I love being a stay-at-home mother.

No, let me say that again.

I LOVE being a stay-at-home mother.

It is my dream job.

I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing!

These were the thoughts that ran through my head last Monday night, as I looked at my precious daughters lying on either side of me in peaceful slumber.  The room was darkened to a comfortable twilight by blackout curtains, and the memory-foam of the bed was warm enough to make us a cozy snuggle, but not yet warm enough to make us a sweaty pile.  I re-played the day in my mind.

Busy, it was, but with the calm, ordered busy-ness of just enough time and tasks to fit well together.  We'd gone for a walk outside, since the weather was finally starting to warm a little. (A high of 35, but that's great compared to 18!)  We'd read stories upon stories.  We'd danced to the Nutcracker.  I made our Monday night dinner of beans and bread, warm and fresh and filling and tasty.  The laundry was not only washed, it was folded and put away!  The girls had gone down peacefully for a nap, slept well, been cheerful all afternoon, and bedtime had proceeded like clockwork.  Daddy was home from an all weekend flying job.  Yes, I loved my life. 

I thought of all the ways that my job was the best.  :)

I am my own boss.  

I don't have to think about what I'm getting paid, how many hours I lack or am overtime, or losing my job.

I get to work with my favorite people.

I get to choose when and how I do what I have to do, and even (to a certain degree) decide what, exactly, I do have to do.

I get to pour out my best, my love, my enthusiasm, my desires, without stint.

I get to confront problems and then find and implement the answer. (I love to do that kind of trouble-shooting, research, whatever you want to call it!)

If I want to change things - I can!  If I like the way I'm doing it - I don't have to change!

I nuzzled my toddler's hard little head, butted up against my cheek, and gently squeezed my baby's soft, dimpled arm, and gloried in my blessings.

And then there was Tuesday.

Smack in the face reality.

Mom-Fail.

(At least that's what it felt like.)

Everything just started off on the wrong foot! I was distracted, Eden was excitable and mischievous, and Lucy was needy.  The morning was frittered away on unimportant bits and pieces, as all my nice plans and goals dripped down the drain.  Panties were wet (multiple times), food rejected and thrown overboard, and toys strewn hither and yon.  My patience wore thin.  Lucy was hungry but then had a burp and wouldn't settle to eat, or she finally slept only to be rudely awoken by Eden's loving ministrations.  My patience wore thinner.  Naptime came, finally!  The "reset" button to the day, if you will.  My hopes were doused when it became a huge power struggle - Eden wouldn't go to sleep, I wouldn't let her get up, so we all stayed on the bed til 2 o'clock, with Eden whining, kicking the wall, kicking her mama, standing on her head, burrowing under the covers, sucking on the wrong end of her water bottle, triumphantly getting up to go to the potty and then coming back and throwing a fit all over again at the prospect of laying down.  And of course, me reacting to each of her actions.  I knew I was making it worse, but I was tired and fed up and couldn't seem to break the cycle!  More than once, she got quiet, and then quieter, and stiller, and was alllllmost asleep....and then realized it and woke herself up again with silliness.  

So we got up, and she was a whiny mess of tired toddler, and I was a fed-up mess of tired mama, and what did I do? 

Basically ignored her for the rest of the afternoon.  

I know.  Not something I'm terribly proud of.  

I just did other stuff, took care of some emails, fed Lucy, and benignly neglected my Eden. 

Not out of calm, thought-out, mommy strategy, but out of sheer "I can't deal with this right now!" desperation.

Funny thing is, she whined about for awhile.  She tried to get me to engage. (I did; I wasn't being mean, I just took care of whatever she really needed and then left her to her own devices.)  And then she just started playing on her own.  She crashed her little bike and the kiddycar on the kitchen floor.  She scattered her (dry) beans all over.  She dumped out the Duplos, and piled her stuffed animals under the coffee table.  Books were here, there, and everywhere!  The house was a disaster.  

I just tuned out the whiny-ness and the mess, and wrapped myself up in a bit of calm.

Then I had to change Lucy's diaper.  I buzzed her chubby tummy, and made silly sounds at her.  Suddenly I heard Eden's giggle, and looking over, saw her leaning on the axle of her upside-down bike, watching us, and laughing uncontrollably.  She was a pumpkin, past the stage of irritability and coming into the slap-happy giggles.  

Who can resist a little girl giggling? Everything I did made her laugh harder, until I was laughing out loud too.  Reset.

We giggled and were silly, ate an improvised dinner, had a splashy bath and went to bed.

I still love being a stay-at-home mom, even on the hard days.  But those humbling days do make me not take myself so seriously!

Today's Relief Society Lesson and Me

This week's Relief Society lesson was all about character, integrity, and one's standing before the Lord.  I have to confess, I have really slacked (up to this point) on reading the lessons in preparations for Sundays.  I know I should, I know I would get more out of each meeting and be able to contribute better, but there are so many reasons why I just haven't done it.
Thursday was a stake leadership training meeting.  Of course, I couldn't go, but they had it all set up so that we could call in like we do for church and at least listen to what went on.  Calling in has its pro's and cons.  I love being able to sit on my couch with my feet up and my pajamas on, nursing my baby as she needs it, while still attending my meetings and fulfilling my calling.  (For church on Sundays, we do dress up and try to make it a little more formal.)  However, I don't like not always being able to hear or tell exactly what's going on, and the trickiness of participating highly discourages that kind of connection.  The one piece of counsel that I heard, remembered, and applied was the admonishment to at least read, if not study, the lesson prior to Sunday, not only for my own benefit but so that I could contribute to the lesson and help the teacher out if needed.
So I read the lesson.
And, as I knew it would, it blessed my life.
One part struck me, not so much while reading it on my own, but definitely during the lesson.  The paragraph reads-
     "We must hearken to ... whisperings (of the Holy Ghost) and conform to its suggestions, and by no act of our lives drive it from us.  It is true that we are weak, erring creatures...but so soon as we discover ourselves in a fault, we should repent of that wrongdoing and as far as possible repair or make good the wrong we may have committed.  By taking this course we strengthen our character, we advance out own cause, and we fortify ourselves against temptation; and in time we shall have so far overcome as to really astonish ourselves at the progress we have made in self-government, and in improvement."
Our teacher asked for some of us to share experiences regarding these words, and, as the staticky moments ticked on without comment, I searched my brain for a something to say, some way to "help" my teacher out. What floated up really amazed me, and though perhaps it didn't help anyone else, it opened my perspective again to the work Heavenly Father is doing in my life.
When we came here, last year, it was the beginning of a really hard time for me.  So many things about this situation have really pushed me beyond what I thought were my limits.  More than once - many times, actually - I felt the darkness of depression, despair, discouragement, loneliness, anger, frustration, and misunderstanding settle over me, and found myself struggling to see the light.  Through much effort, faith, and time, I gradually came out of that darkness into a certain resigned, if consciously blinder-ed, contentment, and from there to a real peace and a joyful life again.  I rejoiced to leave for the holidays and Lucy's birth.  I privately, and publicly, hoped to never return. :)  And when we made the decision to come back for another 8 months, I cried.  And yet...
Somehow, its different this time around.  It may be partly because of the end in sight, and partly because I'm not dealing with the physical and emotional effects of pregnancy, but I think its more than that.  I looked back at my difficult Alaska summer during my time of strengthening and rejoicing in California and wondered how I could have been such a  "weak, erring creature."  Why was it so hard?  Was I just a wimp?  Was I just making mountains out of molehills?  If I look at it that way, then some of of this blog is a pretty embarrassing look at my vulnerabilities and struggles.
I prefer not to look at it that way.
Rather, let's consider it from this angle.  Weakness is a natural state of being.  Its how we all start.  Anything. We may find natural talent, or ease, in a situation or skill, and perhaps certain other strengths, previously developed, give us a headstart, but no one is strong at the very beginning.  Strength is developed.  Therefore, weakness and struggle is not something to be ashamed of!  It is a start, an opportunity, a sign that you are still living and growing and progressing.  A sign that you are human, just one of a large family of people who each struggle in their own way and time.
So I look back, and I look forward, and I ponder my present state, and I "astonish myself at the progress I have made in self-government and improvement."
Isn't it amazing what we learn about ourselves when we do what we know we should? :)

Mother of Two

Somehow, I never thought it would be such a huge transition, going from one child to two.  I've done kids before!  Multiple kids, of all ages!  Why would adding a new baby to my so-far only child be so different, so  challenging, so down-right HARD?

(Okay, I didn't actually think that.  I just didn't really think about it at all.)

It was a challenge from the first weeks of pregnancy to adjust to parenting Eden under the simultaneous demands of morning sickness, milk decreasing, girth increasing, energy waxing and waning (but mostly waning), and all the changes that come with the expectant state.  I learned a lot about slowing down and allowing or even asking for help as I thought I needed it.  Thankfully, Eden was mostly happy and ready to become more independent, bit by bit.  

But when Lucy was born...

One night, when Lucy was just a few days old, Eden woke up crying.  I was in bed, next to the wall, with Lucy, and we had already spent most of the night wrestling with repeated newborn poopy diapers and the process of establishing breastfeeding.  Nate, sleeping to the outside, got up to comfort Eden and help her go back to sleep.  Except that she wouldn't.  She was still getting over a nasty cold, and all she wanted was her mama.  All I wanted was to go to her and make it all better, but Lucy had just latched on and was nursing avidly.  I knew Eden was safe in her loving daddy's patient (if somewhat exasperated) arms, and that I needed to lay still and let my body heal, as well as take care of Lucy, but my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my body!  It was so hard to not be able to be there for her!  (And I will ever be grateful to my husband for dealing so patiently with all of us that night and not just leaving her to cry it out.  I don't think I could have handled that!)

It was such a hard thing for me to learn and be okay with the fact that I could no longer give my all to my one child, because now I had two children to give my all to.  And the logical extension of that realization is that each child, therefore, gets less.  And I was not okay with that!  The depth of desire I have for my children to be blessed and cared for is beyond what I could have comprehended before they came into my life.  It is hard to back up, let go, and trust, when all I want to do is make it all right for them!  In this light, I can understand better some people's decision to limit the number of their children in order to provide more, be there more fully, or in any way, make their lives better.

Except...
I am the fifth of eleven children.
I do not feel deprived, neglected, or like my life was in any way worse for having ten siblings.
I am very glad that my parents did not stop before I was born, and just as glad that they did not stop after I was born!  I treasure each one of my siblings, and each has contributed so much to my growth, my development, and the quality of my life.
I love and admire my mother and my father; I never doubted their love for, and devotion to, me, and to all of my brothers and sisters.  I knew they were sacrificing and doing a hard work in inviting all of us to their family, and I was so glad they were willing to!
I do not consider myself to have received "less" of anything, really, due to multiple siblings.  Only more.

So I am learning to trust that Heavenly Father will fill in the gaps, and that even as my capabilities are stretched to beyond their limit, His glorious grace will pour through the cracks into my children's lives.

(And yes, as the weeks pass, we are settling into our rhythm together and finding ease once again.  As a wise man once said (and I can't remember who it was), "That which we persist in doing becomes easier to do - not that the nature of the thing has changed, but our capacity to do it has increased." Or something like that.  But I know that much of that ease is coming as I learn to more fully rely on Heavenly Father as a mother of two.)

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.

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.

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.

Baby Mine II

The fever still didn't go away.  Nate had to get up and go to work as usual, so I just lay on the couch and drifted through the day in half doze.  That evening, while showering, I began to shiver again, all my muscles cramping and quaking.  But this time there was a strange sensation, a feeling in my lower abdomen that I had never before had and yet knew immediately was not supposed to be happening right now.  It wasn't painful, but it was wrong, and the fear came rushing back in.  We drove to the ER south of us - we'd had a negative experience at the ER to the north, so although it was slightly closer, we decided it was worth the few extra minutes to go south.  I, having started the pregnancy slender and then lost quite a bit a weight, did not look pregnant, I'm sure, but some ladies sitting next to us in the waiting room inquired about why we were there and why I was so worried.  I will never forget their kindness in letting us go before them, although we had arrived some time after.  The nurse took us back and after taking a sample, left us to wait.  I'd begun to bleed a little, but eventually it stopped.

After what seemed like a very long time, a doctor came in and told us that I did indeed have an infection, in fact such a serious one by this time that they wanted to stop the prescription antibiotics and immediately administer some more powerful drugs by IV.  Thankfully we asked if they were alright for pregnant moms - he had missed the fact of the pregnancy somehow, and had to adjust his prescription a bit, but they got it started and gave me some other follow-up antibiotics to take for a week.  To humor me, they checked internally and reassured me that everything was as it should be - no changes in the cervix to be concerned about.  We even got to have an ultrasound and see the squirming, kicking little baby inside my uterus, which was visibly (as I had suspected) contracting.  But all was well, they said, so we went home.

The intermittent bleeding and contracting continued over the weekend, but I just took it easy and tried to trust that all would be well.  By Tuesday, the midwives said we should go have an ultrasound at a special women's hospital in Orlando, so we drove out there and spent forever waiting in their foyer, finally to be called back for another ultrasound.  Again, the internal exam seemed to show no worrisome changes in the cervix, and the ultrasound showed that, although the little one was head down and very deep in my pelvis, it was active and apparently healthy.  Relief.  But still irritation.  If all was well, why was I still bleeding?  Why was I still contracting?  Why could no one seem to do anything about these things or tell me how to stop?

At this point, I get a little fuzzy on the details.  I think we went south to the ER again, and ended up having another ultrasound, but I don't remember exactly why, beyond the same reasons we had gone before.  All I know is that they showed, and told us that all was well and the baby was fine.  That was what I wanted to hear, and seeing the little legs kick and arms wave was a balm to my mama heart.

Poor Nate.  I was having a tough time of it, but he was still going to work every morning at 6, and at least three nights was up past midnight with hospital runs, while the others he had to take care of his invalid wife.  But he never complained.  He was always kind and considerate and supportive, willing to take my word for any symptom, any worry.  He was my rock.

Baby Mine

I think the primary emotion I felt during that time was anxiety.  Fear.  Fear that this long-awaited miracle would somehow not work out, fear of the medical establishment, fear of each new and strange change that came physically (is this normal? is something wrong?), fear of being told what to do, fear of not being listened to, fear of not making the right choice.  Yes, I was excited to be pregnant.  Are you kidding?! I was happier to finally be expecting a baby than I had words to express.  I think that is part of the reason that I was so anxious - this was the one thing that I had dreamed of, thought about, read about, and longed for literally all my life.  Seriously.  Since I was a little girl, I had wanted to be a mommy, and had known it.  I had played at being pregnant (my mom must have had a little laugh over that one!), borrowed every baby I could get my hands on, mothered my younger siblings til they probably were somewhat sick of me, and known, my whole conscious life, what a blessing and privilege and sacred responsibility motherhood was.  And what a miracle.

So, finally, here it was.  And what if I messed it up?  Those who have waited years for pregnancy might shake their heads ruefully at a wait of 11 months, but that was a hard year for me, doing everything right, watching for a sign, waiting for that elusive plus... and finally, on Nate's birthday, when it came, I was so overwhelmed that I was shaking.  So excited, and so anxious to do it all right.  Midwife, or doctor?  Hospital, or home, or birth center? What do I do about throwing up, about losing weight, about not having the energy to be the wife and housekeeper and just person that I have been?  Is this discharge normal, or should I be worried?  As someone prone to UTI's, every little twinge was cause for doubt and consternation.  Yes, I was so happy, but I was a bit of a basketcase, too.  Shortly after finding out we were expecting, I woke up in the middle of the night, frantically searching the bed.  Nate laid me back down, patted my tummy and said, "Its ok! The baby is right here still!"  Soon I was too sick to think about much except finding a way to eat, or not throw up what I had just eaten.

Somehow I got through the first trimester.  I told myself my fears were irrational and silly and tried to put them away.  My sweet husband did his best to reassure and comfort me.  I was beginning to recover from the horrible nausea.  We had a few appointments with midwives to choose - I was adamant that I wanted a midwife.  The first was a homebirth lay midwife.  She was kind and seemed competent, but Nate especially was not comfortable with that idea, so we drove about an hour away to a birth center to meet with the staff there.  I was a bundle of nerves, defensive as a porcupine, and more than a little on edge.  The midwives were not particularly personable, but they were nice enough and, again, seemed very knowledgeable and competent. The birth center was lovely and very comfortable.  We decided that this would be the place.

Hearing the heartbeat for the first time was incredible.  A peace, a tangible relaxation came over me, and the look on Nate's face was priceless.  They showed us a little rag doll the approximate size of our baby, and Nate just held it and looked at it in awe.  "There really is a baby in there!" he said.  Ya think? ;)

We talked about it all the way home, and all the sickness began to seem worth it.  My fears were eased.  We were well out of the first trimester, it seemed that nothing could stop us now.  I began to feel what I realized after I no longer felt it was the baby squirming around.  I'd lost 15 pounds, but was slowly feeling up to eating again.  For about two weeks, life was really good.  My back started to hurt, and I couldn't get comfortable at night, but everybody says that's normal when you're pregnant, so I just shrugged it off.

When doubts and fears and questions surfaced, I did my best to push them down.  After all, we were safely out of the danger zone, weren't we?  I didn't want to make trouble or inconvenience anyone, especially since it was probably nothing.  Other women I asked seemed to not really remember, or not know what to tell me, or be a little embarrassed at discussing intimate pregnancy details.  Professionals seemed a little impatient and dismissive.  I was surely just a paranoid first-time mom, right?

Wrong.  So very wrong.  There's no knowing if anyone would have noticed the infection sooner, if anything could have been done, if my baby could have pulled through...but looking back I would have told myself to not worry about the others - they could take care of themselves.  I was the only one who could take care of this baby at this point, and if it took inconveniencing and pestering and demanding - if I felt something was off, I had every right to be taken seriously.  But how could I know?  How can you tell when you've never been through it before and you have never had to demand or inconvenience or put your foot down on something you might be wrong on that costs time and money and ....

So I didn't.  One evening, after hosting a wonderful and fun baby shower for a dear friend, my back just ached terribly.  Everyone went home, and we went to bed.  Nate was working morning shifts, so he was exhausted.  I woke up in the middle of the July night, shivering so badly I could hardly move voluntarily.  I rolled out of bed, literally stumbled to the dresser, and after fumbling with the drawer for several minutes because my hands were shaking so badly, pulled out a pair of socks and put them on.  I grabbed a quilt from the closet and made it back to bed, where I huddled under it, shivering and quaking, teeth chopping together, shaking the whole bed with my involuntary movement.  I couldn't get warm, so I woke up Nate to snuggle and help the process.  He was so confused and kept telling me to just relax and stop shaking.  I was doing my best, but I couldn't.  Finally he woke up enough to realize that I wasn't just cold, and got a thermometer.  My temperature was soaring.  He called the midwives, and one of them sleepily recommended I take some ibuprofen or tylenol or something like that to bring down the fever, and call back in the morning.  (I think.  I must admit, I was a little out of it at this point.)  He got some pills and water, and after a while, the shaking stopped and we both went back to sleep.  We deduced fairly quickly from the combination of back pain and fever that it was probably a kidney infection from an undetected UTI and the next morning got a prescription of antibiotics to fight it.  They said it should be fine, wouldn't hurt the baby.  Keep the fever down with round the clock doses of whatever it was I was taking.  Call them back if we needed anything else.  And that was supposed to be that.

The beginning of the end

Its bedtime at my house.  My baby is upstairs crying, sobbing like her heart is breaking.  No, she's not alone, her daddy is holding her and rocking her with all the love in the world, but what she wants, he can't give.  And its come to the point where neither can I.

You see, I have held high ideals when it came to mothering.  I was blessed to be able to breastfeed exclusively for the first basically eight months of Eden's life.  Yes, the first month was pretty much torture (despite doing "everything right") but by six weeks, the pain was gone and it was amazing and gratifying to watch her prosper so generously and know that it was all coming from my milk.  Yes, it is was a sacrifice of time and energy and body and self, but it was so worth it!  Even after starting the solids, nursing has been a special bond, a (frequent!) time of relaxation and connection, a blessing of peace and a way to push the re-set button on the world, if you will.  The touch of her little hands, holding soft little toes in my other hand, her bright eyes peering up at me, the contented milk-drunk sprawl and sigh replete with all things good - I count this time as a precious blessing.

But, she now has three teeth.  And more than that, I am well into the first trimester of pregnancy, which...does things to your body.  Makes everything that was used for nursing much more tender, to say the least.  So its pretty much torture again.  Even that wouldn't stop us, hasn't stopped us, but now I am finding that I have no more milk to give her and that she is sad and frustrated and confused at the change.  So we both have suffered through hours of trying to nurse, trying to comfort, and then starting over again.  I'm not worried about her food intake, as she does eat plenty and drink well from a sippy cup during the waking hours.  But my heart breaks to hear her cry, to know what she wants, and to not be able to provide it for her anymore.

We got a bottle.  She drank about 2 oz. and refused to take anymore, but went to sleep with rocking and singing.  It's the second wake-up that got us, the one where she likes to just roll into me and latch on, half-asleep, for a warm, cuddly, easy-back-to-sleep dream feed.  She did NOT want the bottle, she was not happy with me, and now, half an hour later, she's almost asleep, but still crying periodically, on daddy's chest.

Now, I'm not really asking for advice.  I know its not the end of the world, and that babies live through weaning at ages both younger and older than mine.  I am incredibly thankful for the loving and supportive daddy that my husband is to my daughter, and know that she is safe and will be fine in his arms.  And I am thankful that we have been able to share this precious nursing relationship for as long as we have.

I'm just mourning, a little, the end of that.  The end of being able to be all things to this precious little being.  Its really incredible to consider that for eighteen months now, 9 within and 9 without, I have been able to (almost completely) provide for the physical, emotional, mental, and other needs of my baby!  I love that! I have loved that!  I am glad for the support I've been given that's allowed me to do so, and I hope its been a blessing for my Eden as well, but now that time is at an end.  I applaud those who can continue to nurse their little ones through a new pregnancy, but I just can't, and I have to accept that, and realize that this is specific to nursing and yet symbolic of my whole role of parenting.

I love my daughter more than I knew I could.  If I could, I would always make her life good, always provide for her needs, always be there to comfort and fulfill and in every way, bless her life.  I have to accept that I can't.  I do the best I can, and up til now its been pretty close to possible (though a sacrifice) but she will only continue to slowly move out of my ability to be all things to her, as she should.  I sorrow for her sorrow at not being able to nurse, even knowing that it is a temporary sorrow that she will not ever consciously remember.  I'm sure that I will sorrow all the more at the struggles and trials and losses she faces with maturity.

I can't be it all.  But I do know who can.  So my highest goal is to point her to Him.  Maybe a little deep for a simple weaning, but I'm feeling pretty tender about it right now.  Who knew how much it hurt to hear your child cry and not be able to give them what they want?!

Desires of the Heart

You know how it is when you want something really, really bad?  When you are just consumed with it, obsessed by it?  When you spend your free time dreaming about it, praying about it, hoping for it, and researching it?  

Sometimes its a thing, 

sometimes a relationship.

Sometimes its a job,

and sometimes a stage in life.  

Sometimes its even for another person.

But whatever it is, you find it occupying your consciousness and soaking up your time.

Usually, I don't find myself getting caught up in the "thing" desire very much anymore.  I remember wanting a (fairly basic) karaoke machine for my 11th birthday.  I'd been to a friend's party, and she got one, and I thought it was the neatest thing ever.  I thought about it, talked about it, and probably even prayed about it.  I did not get it.

And, really, that was ok.

I got over it.  

Even at that age, I did realize that it wasn't that important.

Desires for a certain job, a certain school, a certain relationship have all come and gone, each with their own degree of involvement and angst, with the exercises of faith and will.  They have been important in their time, in shaping my life and allowing me to grow.  Probably the most difficult, wonderful, heart-shattering and faith-trying desire of my life so far has been that of becoming a mother.  

Two years ago yesterday, we found out we were finally expecting our first baby.  Four months later, we lost that little one.   The doctors eventually told us that we probably could not ever have children without invasive   and aggressive infertility treatments. The full experience of that time will have to wait for another post.  Suffice it to say, I was truly shattered. 

When you know that your desire is selfish, or material, or really unimportant in the eternal scheme, it is really not hard to let it go if it doesn't come.  But when you know that your desire is righteous, and in accordance with Heavenly Father's eternal plan, when you know that it would bring about good to yourself and those around you, when you know that it is even a command and all you want more than anything is to fulfill that mandate...

Its hard to let that desire go.

It is hard to exercise the faith that believes and hopes, yet doesn't cling desperately.  It is hard, in those times of passionate yearning, to learn to let your ultimate desire be to the Source of blessings himself, rather than to that specific blessing.  

But the other options are:

A) sink into a dark pit of sorrow and depression and come to doubt God's goodness, if not his very existence.

B) harden your heart, saying, "Whatever...I don't care anymore," and walk into the cold indifference of cynicism.  

C) Continue deeper into the obsession and, whether you receive it or not, become superstitious, overzealous, and highly sensitive to offense.

(OK, maybe those were just the options for me. :) I'm not wise enough to know how it is for everyone under the sun.)

Its a choice.  Its probably the hardest choice ever, to let go of those deepest desires of your heart without giving up on them. To trust that Heavenly Father's hand is good and present, and somehow, even in what seems to be a wrong turn in our lives, His plan is working out for our eternal joy and to bless those we love. I recently read the quote,

 "When you push God's will, you miss His blessings."

Its not that he doesn't want us to desire, or to mute our requests.  But he wants for us much more than we know to want for ourselves, and we can only receive ALL he has for us when we trust Him.  Even when our own righteous desires seem to be lost in the process. 

"For I know the thoughts that I think toward you," saith the Lord, "thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected (or hoped for) end."

Trust Him.

So Far Away

Sometimes, the actual distance becomes very real.  When you've been without a phone for two weeks, when your internet connection has been spotty and not in real time with real acquaintances, when the world outside is covered in wet, white slipperiness and the only living things you've talked to all week besides your husband and baby are two neighborhood dogs you first thought were the neighborhood wolves you'd been warned about - oh, right, I did actually get to talk to the two people who came to install our local landline yesterday - you realize how far away you are.  And when the baby has been fighting sleep for an hour every nap and bed time for the last three days, but when you let her stay up she's just cranky and unhappy anyway, its easy to feel the negativity creep, roll, swirl back in.  Grumpiness.  Resentment.  Bitterness.  Frustration.  Ugly words.  Ugly emotions.  Easy to sink in the slow quicksand of self-absorption.
But like I told my friend upon learning of this move - "I am not happy about it, but being unhappy won't make me happy, so I'm trying to be happy about it." Ultimately, no one else is going to "save" me from this.  Others can comfort, distract, and help with some of the struggle, but I know from past experience that if I want to actually get out of the quicksand, I have to reach up to the only One who can really lift me out of it and choose to hold on. His hand is extended and He is willing to help me, it is true, but I have to choose to raise my arms and cling to His outstretched hand.  Its sounds so trite, almost, and easy, so picturesque and storybook, but let me tell you - it is not.  It doesn't happen just by saying.  It doesn't work to make a token effort and then expect the miracle of salvation.
Sometimes we say, "Well, I tried and it didn't work, so really what I need is ____." What I really need is whatever other fix seems attractive and available and easy - shopping, medication, chocolate, a girl's night out, etc. (Please note: I am NOT saying these things are bad or that they can't help.  Sometimes they are needed and can help, and if they are in our power, great! Go for it!) We think the solution would be to change the situation. (Again, sometimes that IS the solution; I'm not against that!) 
When its really hard, though, and those other things are not available, or don't help, and you can't (or shouldn't) change the situation, I've found that the real solution is to change myself.  And that is HARD.  And sometimes I just don't want to!  But then it comes back down to the question -
Do I really want to be happy?
Because if I do, the choice is clear.  Do the work it takes to cling onto His hand.  Choose every day, every hour, every minute if you have to, to focus on Him.  Choose to fill your mind and heart with His words, His promises, His praises, to the conscious exclusion of the negativity and darkness that lurks ever-ready.  Choose to trust Him and trust that He has a plan for you and that somehow, this is part of His plan.
I know it works, because it's worked before, in darker, harder, worse situations than this.  I just have to do it.
And, hey! I'm a daughter of the pioneers! Talk about "so far away!"  Maybe I should just pull up my, er, bootstraps, and realize how good I really have it!