Checking Pockets

What Matters ~~ 2012

2012-01-01T22:37:00.000-05:00

2012 is here...and everybody is writing about it. Or at least writing to say goodbye to 2011.

As for me, I'll invite in the New Year with a brief excerpt from our Christmas letter and the first of what I hope to be a daily iPhone photo habit, beginning today.

Our days are filled with laughter, tears, encouraging, arguing, loving, snapping,

hugging, disciplining, praying, forgiving, growing…and so much love. Together we

stumble through new challenges and milestones, holding on to each other and clinging

to our faith, believing in God’s plan. Pleading for God’s guidance, will and completion in

each of us. Blessed beyond blessed…not with a life of perfection…but with love that gets

us through our failures, sees and remembers the best, and rests in its purity.

Wishing all of you a peaceful 2012. May you (and I) take the time to just "be still" and focus on the things that really matter...like snuggle time.

Two Phone Calls (November 15, continued)

2011-11-18T22:09:00.000-05:00

~~This is the last of a three part post. You can read part 1 here and part 2 here...it may help you understand why I chose to share something so personal and emotional and what exactly "Two Phone Calls" is about. Again, I'm humbled to share this piece of my life with you. The pain of this day is heavy, but the healing and the good and the blessings that have come since are nothing short of a miracle...a testament to God's unfailing love.~~

While most of my memory of this day is detailed, I can tell you this part is not as clear. Perhaps because of how traumatic it was.

The Man was hunting. He was hours away, sitting in the woods on opening day. I encouraged him to go. He had my blessing. We couldn’t have imagined what would happen.

It was lunchtime. He’d left the woods to wait for my call. I remember trying to steady my voice. To quell the quiver. I’m sure I was I unsuccessful. But I was controlled. Factual. This is what it means. Basically...“gastro” = intestines; “schisis” = hole. I do remember his response.

“Really?”

Yes, really. I know. I was still asking the same question…in disbelief, fear and absolute horror. Our baby was going to be born insides out. How could that be?

I was okay. She was okay. For now. Would she make it? I don’t know…they don’t know…no one can know what will happen, what it will mean for her. There were so many questions. But no answers.

The conversation was calm. Both of us protecting each other. Relaying the facts. Loving each other. But I was trembling as we talked. My teeth were clenched to keep them from chattering, as I shivered uncontrollably, drawing on all my strength to maintain control and to simply remain upright.

One more call.

Mom. She was waiting, too. Just like my husband, hoping…almost banking on an inconsequential report. That is not what awaited her when she responded to that ring.

I thought I was prepared. I was strong, ready…like I was talking to the hubby. But then her voice. There’s just something about mom. You can’t hide. You can’t fake.

Raw pain coursed through my body as I choked out the words again. Gastroschisis.

“What?! What?!” Pure disbelief. Unadulterated shock. Absolute horror.

I. fell. apart. My knees gave way. I was a heaving heap on the floor. Phone clutched to my ear, sobs racking my body.

“My baby. My baby.”

It’s all I could say.

The rest of the day crept by. I didn’t google gastroschisis. I couldn’t. The perinatologist had warned me against it, and I didn’t even have the energy. It was like my life was draining from my every pore. I couldn’t move. I sunk deeper into my couch and my pillow…and spilled more tears then I’d ever shed in my 26 years.

Then it was November 16, and the world was still turning. But I would never be the same.

November 15

2011-11-14T21:37:00.001-05:00

For some it’s the opening day of deer season. For some, it’s just another day. For me, it’s a day ten years ago whose memory, time has left untouched…as if it were ten days.

He walked into that little room where I waited, angst flooding my every pore. I remember how I was sitting. His ordinary white lab coat. His common hair color. The sound of his voice, purposefully soft.

His face was my confirmation…the only confirmation I needed. I already knew. I just didn’t know exactly what I knew. I searched his face in desperation. My pulse pounding in my ears. My heartbeat visible…no, obvious…through my gown. My breath coming only in short, silent gasps. He just kept looking at the printouts from my ultrasound, flipping through copy after copy. Eye contact came slowly.

At some point he spoke the word “gastroschisis.” The room blurred. The air left my lungs. I fumbled for the box of harsh, white, doctor’s office Kleenex. I couldn’t see his face anymore. I didn’t want to. I didn’t even look. His words tumbled through the fog in my head. I was there, very present…but I wasn’t. I was outside myself, watching this nightmarish scene unfold, as if viewing through the filtered dream scene in a movie. Nothing was clear. His voice was distant, but close. His words muted, but deafening. His concern genuine and palpable, but illusory and irrelevant.

Reality and nightmare merged, overwhelming all my senses.

I could stay in the room as long as I needed. I remember him saying that. I didn’t want to. But I didn’t know how to leave. I wanted to run. But I could barely walk.

Somehow, eventually, my legs carried me through the waiting room—the room filled with expectant mothers and their small children. Were they smiling? Excited? I imagined they were. But I kept my head down. A haze surrounded me. I was pretty sure no one could see me, my red eyes, my blotchy face. I was pretty sure I was invisible.

I must have walked to the elevator…but it felt more like floating. Some other force moving my legs. The elevator opened quickly…mercifully. I leaned against the back wall, my head still down, silently begging the doors to close.

I needed to be alone.

And then I was.

In my car, in the parking garage. Two phone calls. First work. I’m not coming back in today. I’d tell them why later. Next, my sister…my best friend. My voice wavered and shook. What could she say? Shock froze conversation. I hung up. I cried. Two more phone calls, but they had to wait until I was home. They would be even harder. The first would be the worst.

How do you tell your husband? How do you say that to her daddy? He was waiting. Hoping it was another appointment with little to report. Maybe even counting on that. But it wasn’t. This was the phone call no one should have to make.

~~This is part 2 of a 3 part post, to be continued soon. You can read part 1 here...it may help you understand why I chose to share something so personal and emotional. And why sharing was both extremely difficult and extraordinarily easy. I'm humbled to have your audience. God's blessings on each of you who take the time to read. He is faithful and loving and He never fails.~~

Ten Years

2011-11-12T20:58:00.001-05:00

It's been 10 years on Tuesday. A decade. I'm really not even sure what to make of that. I have no idea how it has been that long. But it has. And I want to share that day. Maybe you'll wonder why, so I'm going to tell you.

I will share it, in detail, for myself. It is my therapy. It is my healing. My journey to healing was slow, dreadfully slow, until I began to share. It is then that I was able to bound forward and find true reconciliation for my yesterday and my today.

I will share it for my daughter. Because one day she may have questions. One day she will be a mother. One day she may want to understand.

I will share it for that one other person out there who will read it and, for the first time, feel like someone else gets it. Like someone else understands. Like they are not alone. That one other person who finds camaraderie or solace. That one person who moves one step closer to healing.

November 15, 2001. One word changed everything. One diagnosis catapulted me...us...onto a path that was our nightmare and our saving grace. It changed me. It changed us. And I have never been so humbled and so grateful to have been chosen for such a trial that has brought (and continues to bring) so many blessings. That heartache that filled me with perspective, compassion, empathy and appreciation I could in no other way have gained.

Ten years ago, I crumbled. Today, I stand...rebuilt by the compassion and strength of a faithful and unfailing God who carried me through it all.

On November 15, I will share what it was like the day I learned that my first child, my unborn baby girl, had a life-threatening birth defect...gastroschisis.

Linking up with Stacey for Write It, Girl!

Writing is Killing My Blog

2011-11-02T09:18:00.000-04:00

I don't blog that much. Or maybe I do. I guess it depends on your perspective. In my opinion, I don't do it much. And here is why.

I write. So. Much.

Does that not make sense?

I write for a living. That is my job. Well, it's the job I hold outside of my way-beyond-full-time job as a wife and mother. So, on the days I work, I sit in front of this computer. And I stare at this screen. And words travel from my head and through my fingers.

Word after word. I write what I have to write. I write what my clients need. I tap into the most creative parts of my mind, sometimes digging so deep I get lost. It's dark in there, people...in the recesses of my mind. But I spend a lot of time there.

And then, when I emerge back into the light. When I've proofed that assignment one last time and hit the send button, surrendering my creation to the critical eyes waiting on the other side of my virtual office...I'm done.

Just. Done.

I go about the rest of my days with ideas and thoughts whirling through my mind. I draft entire blog posts in my mind. There's so much. I need to write. I have to get it out.

I want to write...almost every day. I want to write what I'm inspired to share, what I'm excited to pass one, what's pressing on my heart.

But when I sit down again, in front of this screen, it's gone. I can't do it. I don't have enough energy to form an interesting sentence.

If I force it, I find myself using words like "very" and cliches (see: recesses of my mind. sorry!) and other empty parts and pieces of speech that bore and repel me.

But the energy is gone. The inspiration replaced by exhaustion. The desire to write replaced by repulsion for this back-lit medium.

I love to write. I have an amazing job that has offered me so much opportunity. It's ideal, really. And I wouldn't trade it.

But seriously, all this writing is sucking the life out of my recreational writing.

You know what I mean? Anyone?

The Safe Place

2011-10-26T22:18:00.001-04:00

I watched his playful grin as he elbowed his buddy, joking like little boys do as they exited the school building. Carefree. Or so it seemed. But the door of the minivan had barely closed behind him when the tears began to flow.

The one day he brings a favorite toy for a special show-n-tell and a classmate’s misstep breaks it in two, along with his heart. I bet he just wanted to break down right then and there. But he stayed strong. He put on the brave face…like little boys do. His generous and thoughtful spirit accepted it as the accident it was. It was okay, he reassured. I can picture his expression as he tried to mask his devastation…and stifle the tears.

It happened in the morning. He went through the rest of the school day, tucking his disappointment and sadness away. But the moment he was home, all those emotions surfaced. And by home, I don’t mean he was in our house. I mean he was with me…his mom. It was that very moment that he could no longer hide. He no longer felt the need to. It was okay to let it out, to be sad, to feel what his heart felt, and to express it without reservation.

I’m his safe place. I’m their safe place.

My eldest daughter struggled with mild Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), more intensely when she was a toddler. The resulting behavior issues were something to behold. Life was…indescribable. I was exhausted, frustrated, discouraged, and unsure. But then I’d drop her off at Sunday School. And when I’d pick her up, the teachers would rave about how well-behaved she was. What a sweet and cooperative little girl she was. What an obedient and compliant personality she had. I would smile and affirm her sweetness, my eyes empty, my soul hollow. Because I knew what awaited me when we got home.

It was then that she fell apart. It was then that she lost all control. It was then I began to question everything about myself as a parent. It started to make me crazy. No one could fathom that this angel could be that bad. No one could understand. For a while, I longed for just one person, outside my husband and I, to witness the behaviors we were dealing with…just once. It didn’t happen.

But then I learned why. We were her safe place. Even as a tiny tot, she held it together everywhere we went, everything we did. It was overwhelming her, building inside her. But she held it together. It was only when she was home, when she was safe, that she could just. let. go.

I was 26. It was my first pregnancy. It was the day the doctor said “gastroschisis”…baby girl might be okay, but she might not. No one knew. If she made it through gestation, lengthy hospitalization and an unknown number of surgeries would be required.

As I lay on the couch, tear-stained face sinking deeper and deeper into the pillow, I remember wanting to go back home. Wanting to reverse time. To slip back into my old bedroom, back to the days when my biggest worry was my next test grade. When my mom took care of everything. I wanted to be safe. I wanted my mom.

Now I’m the mom. I’m that safe place. I’m the one who sees it all in the raw. Whether it’s the good or the bad, the happy or the sad…they reserve it for me. Because it’s when they’re with me that they know it’s okay. It’s okay to be who they are and feel what they feel, whatever that may be.

I don’t know about you, but I think that is some privilege. And some blessing. It’s exactly the place I want to be.

A Boy Born...Eight Years Ago

2011-10-13T22:31:00.000-04:00

Squirming, purplish & scrunchy-faced...you gurgled short, bubbly cries. My teary gaze drank in the site of your round face framed by dark, matted curls & perfect chubby cheeks as the nurse held you for me to see. You squawked in protest, blinking to get your first bleary-eyed glimpse of the face behind the voice you'd known since first your ears could hear. Joyous tears flowed freely.

My son.

I had no idea what to expect from a boy. No brothers & only one daughter...you were my dream, your father's long-awaited gift.

There was no way to know what you'd bring to my life. No way to anticipate what having you for a son would do to my heart. Even now words fail to express the ways you've grown me in every way, every day.

My sweet boy. I'm so proud of who you are…who you've grown into during your eight short years.

Your growing self-assurance and humble confidence.

Your persevering and triumphant spirit that has overcome the unique challenges life has already brought your way.

Your perfect balance of daring and caution.

Your willingness to try, to fail, to try again.

Your enthusiasm, thoughtfulness, sensitivity.

Your readiness and ability to love with complete abandon.

Your captivating personality and endearing nature.

I knew that morning eight years ago, when my arms first felt the weight of you, I would never be the same. But I didn’t know just how your boyish ways would punctuate my life—our family—with the relief, the healing, the laughter, the fun, the love we didn’t even know was missing.

You are a gift, straight from God's arms to mine...one I thank Him for every single day.

Keep growing my boy. I treasure the years we've had and those we've yet to share. You'll always be my little boy, even when the "little" doesn't fit you anymore.

Happy 8^th birthday, my son!

I Thought I Loved Him

2011-09-27T23:18:00.000-04:00

I thought I loved him…I was only 15. He was my first kiss. The vulnerability, the bliss, the forbidden. I was sure it was love.

I thought I loved him…when those words first escaped his lips. It was a feeling I couldn’t describe.

I thought I loved him…that night, during the college years, when he broke my heart. That night I prayed, begging to forget him. To never again know the pain brought on by loving that way.

I thought I loved him…years later when he slipped that solitaire on my finger. I thought nothing could change the depth of what I felt.

I thought I loved him…that Friday evening, in the oppressive June heat, when his hands held mine and the crowd in the pews faded away, as we said “I do.” I was convinced I would love him like that forever.

I thought I loved him….the morning the pink line appeared. I was sure this was the ultimate love.

I thought I loved him…the day he told me he wasn’t happy. The long, silent car ride. I thought I loved him enough.

I thought I loved him…when his arms enveloped me, and we grieved in silence that November day. It was a love I needed and fell into with new abandon.

I thought I loved him…while the scratchy, disinfected white sheets chafed my back, the excruciating pain of a spinal headache resonating through my body. While the heartache of a new mother whose child, survival in question, lie floors away, untouchable, flooded my soul. While I watched him carefully, thoroughly, unasked, hand wash the breast pump in that tiny hospital room sink.

I thought I loved him…when he folded me into his arms in the kitchen that day while I cried in desperation. A toddler, an infant, thoughts of failure and escape overwhelming me. Honest love.

I thought I loved him…when I again felt the fragility of life and he stood by my side after a car accident sent our babies, and me, to the hospital.

I thought I loved him…when he gets up for work every day. When he does the dishes. When he plays with the kids. When he summons the restaurant manager. When he kills snakes. When he changes light bulbs. When he lets me sleep in. When he holds me close.

I thought I loved him every day. I thought I loved him as much as possible. I thought I could never love him more. But every day I wake up and somehow I love him more deeply, honestly and truly than I could the day before.

Without Warning

2011-09-24T23:59:00.000-04:00

Some moments just throw you back. They come with no warning…at the most unexpected times. I guess it’s the nature of trauma. Maybe it’s the nature of gratitude (a word I find gravely deficient in expressing anything even close to my emotions).

Maybe I still grieve. But it’s not what you might typically think of as grief, because mine is not the loss of my flesh and blood. I lost. Believe me, I lost. But my losses pale when I gaze upon my gain.

What I experience is a depth of gratitude (again, insufficient) that comes from knowing near loss. An appreciation (a word far lacking) for what I have. A mourning for what I nearly lost. A lamenting of what others have suffered/are suffering. A heartbreak I wish no parent had to know.

Tonight I giggled and sang with my 9-year-old daughter. I tucked her snugly and safely into her bed. I hugged her long, lithe frame.

And as I did, it happened. I was thrown back. Back to the hospital. The NICU. Back to that first time I was allowed to fold that tiny, four-pound bundle into my arms. So fragile and frail. So beautiful and awesome.

Uncertainty and question. Faith and hope. Anguish and bliss. They gripped my heart then. Tonight, I just couldn’t let go. Again, words fall short in their ability to adequately describe my emotions.

I could still feel that tiny nothingness, almost floating in my arms…weighted only by the blankets swaddling her. Nearly a decade later, that memory doesn’t fade. Tonight her arms encircled me. My breath caught at her reciprocated love. A memory blurs with the present.

No crying, though. Not then. Just love, pride, smiles, affection. My pain is not hers. Neither is my joy, as much as I might long for her to share it. She simply cannot know right now, because the depth of the emotion…It’s too much for a child.

I swallow the lump in my throat with a smile. I disguise the catch in my voice with a playful tickle. The darkness hides the brimming tears.

I love you, my child. My miracle. My love.

Because I Needed to Smile

2011-09-11T23:35:00.000-04:00

I cried a lot this past week. I cried for the obvious reasons surrounding the tenth anniversary of 9/11. And I cried for a few reasons beyond that. I could still cry as I sit down to write. But since I really don’t want to cry anymore, I decided to try to focus on the things about this past week that made me smile.

As I started to think about what I would write, I found there were so many that this could become obnoxious and all my smiling could make you ~~nauseated~~ NOT smile! So being the thoughtful person I am, I limited myself to ten randomly chosen moments. Writing each and reading through them again still brings a smile to my face…every time.

Hearing my four-year-old talking about “organizing” and “relaxing”
Seeing anew the miracle of the night sky, the twinkling stars and the nearly-full moon, through the eyes of my three children who were giddy to be up late enough to witness it
Going out on a date (for the first time in FOREVER) with my love
Li’l B knowing exactly the words I needed to hear at exactly the right moment: “Mommy, I love you forever”
Playing a couple rounds of P-I-G and H-O-R-S-E with The Man…oh, and beating him…both times! Yeah, that’s right. What’s that, dear? Rematch? Anytime, anyplace! (hee hee! I have to rub it in and enjoy it as much as possible ‘cause it was the first and probably last time I’ll ever beat him!)
Watching T play in his first baseball game, get his first hit, make it all the way around the bases to score for the first time…and WIN his first game, 4-3! And having my sister sitting by my side seeing it all, too.
Seeing the joy on M’s face as she hung pictures in her first ever locker on the first day of fourth grade
Witnessing a big smile spring onto my nephew’s face…the kind of smile you can’t fake…when he opened his birthday present, knowing without a doubt that he loved his gift
First day of school hugs, pictures, lunches, and notes
Hearing about my 9-year-old’s “worst day at school EVER” (about 10 times, since she retold the story for every person she saw that day) and seeing her smile while she related the details...and being filled with deep gratitude that she hasn't known worse days (or more accurately that she doesn't remember them)

What made you smile this week?

An Ounce (or Two or Three) of Prevention

2011-09-07T22:30:00.000-04:00

In a few weeks, The Man and I will schlep our three kiddos through the airport (silently praying for the health of any TSA agents who may consider laying their hands on my children ‘cause I don’t think I’ll be having any of THAT!) and plop them into the crowded seats of an airplane. For the first time in their lives. Our destination—Disney World! Yeah, we’re all pretty excited.

My mission for the next few weeks is to keep everyone in this family from getting sick. I have my work cut out for me, considering that almost every morning between now and then, my children leave the sanitized safety of our home and descend into that prolific breeding ground for germs known as s-c-h-o-o-l. Ick! So many kids, so much snot. So much potential for ruining this once-in-a-lifetime trip! So, my OCD tendencies are kicking in, and we are on a prevention routine that would make any hypochondriac proud.

Here’s what we’re doing:

Of course there is the habitual washing of the hands—during school (at least I hope they do it there), the moment they walk in the door after school, always after using the bathroom, before eating, after leaving a store, and basically after coming into contact with any other living being.

Sneezing into the crook of the arm instead of the hands.

Daily nagging. All children are reminded repeatedly to keep their hands OFF THEIR FACES!!! No biting nails, picking noses, rubbing eyes. If there is a whole in your face, keep your fingers out! I know, I’m cruel and ridiculous.

Severely limited sugar. (It feeds bacteria, ya know?) Lots of fruits and veggies.

Tons of sleep. That means early bedtimes every night. They love me for this. Maybe not, but I really love me for this.

But all that stuff is just for ~~normal, sane people~~ rookies. I thought we should take it to another level. So I took the advice I got from an email last year, supposedly authored by a registered nurse, and I added my own twists (read: craziness).

Twice daily mouth rinse with antiseptic mouth wash. A few swishes of the alcohol in that wash should annihilate any sneaky little buggers that manage to wiggle their way past the other barriers I’ve created and into my children’s mouths. My big kids actually enjoy this and remind me when I forget to get it out for them. Li’l B isn’t big enough to be reliable about not swallowing the wicked stuff so she skips this step.

Nasal spray. A little saline spray in the morning and a little at night. We started this at the pediatrician’s urging because of my daughter’s highly sensitive nose and chronically inflamed tissues due to mild seasonal allergies. Because the nurse email reinforced this practice as useful for preventing illness, both big kids are subjected to it on a regular basis. It’s really not as bad as it sounds. They don’t even fight it.

The vitamin regimen. This may be where they fight me the most. They start the day with their chewable multi-vitamin and calcium supplement, which they love. Then I have to cajole or threaten them into their immune support syrup. That comes around again at dinner time. The little one is my biggest challenger. She is not a fan. And finally, at dinner I also crush up a big ol’ nasty sinus and lung support supplement and mix it with their applesauce.

Finally, I top it all off with regular trips to the chiropractor.

My poor kids. I just hope all my efforts to help them avoid illness these next few weeks doesn’t launch them into a psychological illness.

But can you blame a mom? With one kid that reliably gets strep three to four times every year, with the first bout debuting sometime in the fall…and not just any strep…105-degree-for-five-days-straight fever kind of strep that often requires two rounds of antibiotics. (That’s a high fever for a 9-year-old!) And one kid who suffers asthma attacks every time he gets postnasal drip. Really. I just want to go on a vacation with no sick kids. What’s a mom to do?

Got any of your own stay-healthy routines? Tips? Maybe I could add them to my crazy.

Bite Your Tongue!

2011-08-29T16:16:00.000-04:00

Words are so powerful. It’s one of the reasons I love them so much. They can evoke emotion, create new thoughts, spark ideas, encourage, change lives. It’s quite amazing the impact words can have. But that also makes them dangerous.

If not used with care, some words you speak will never be forgotten…even if they are forgiven. And you won’t be able to take them back…no matter how hard you try. With one comment, you can plant a seed, a thought never before fathomed, and change the way a person sees herself…forever?

I was reminded of this the other day when I took M shopping. She’s entering fourth grade this year. Nine years old. She’s still in that enviable stage of childhood where she is blissfully unburdened by thoughts of her appearance or plagued by baseless insecurities about how she looks. She’s beautiful, and she’s living life like everyone should…completely unaware of and uninhibited by her exterior. Don’t get me wrong. She likes pretty things and likes to look nice (and by the way, is super beautiful!). It’s just, those things are pretty far down on the priority list, as it should be.

I both treasure this characteristic of childhood and envy it. How I wish I had so few hang ups in this area. So I cling to this phase of childhood for my children.

And then, with one barrage of comments, a stranger threatens to shatter my daughter’s innocence.

No one in their right mind (while I’m sure there are plenty of crazies who would) would dream of calling an overweight child “fat” or referring to her as “obese” while standing in her presence. But I wonder, how many think twice about commenting on a girl’s skinniness?

How do you think it feels to a girl closing in on her tweens to have someone staring at her and blathering on about how “such a skinny girl” should or shouldn't wear this or how something is not a good look on "someone so skinny"? Or how she really should avoid certain shades of denim or it would make her “look even skinnier than she is”? Okaaayy. Enough already! She's NINE!!!!

Hmmmmm. Let’s think about this for a minute. That woman (a salesperson at GapKids), what did her loud and open critique just really say to my young daughter? Or what did my daughter’s ears hear?

Maybe M simply heard something about skinny jeans. I pray that is what she heard and that the rest went over her sweet, innocent little head.

Or maybe she heard the first of the lies society will now begin to whisper at her, as a girl. The lies our culture will soon be shouting at her as a teenager, and later, as a woman. Maybe those words sparked her first feelings of uncertainty about how she looks in her clothes. Raised questions in her little mind. I wonder now, if my daughter thinks twice when she pulls on a pair of pants. Or examines herself more closely in the mirror each day.

Maybe I'm a bit sensitive to this topic. See, I was once that skinny girl. I was the late bloomer who was called out by a teacher, used as an example of the definition of “scrawny” in front of all my classmates. Ouch! Stings a little during those awkward middle school years. Skinny is a compliment now (I think)...back then, it became a source of doubt.

I pray my daughter is stronger than I. I pray that one person’s thoughtless words…or those of a hundred…don’t launch her toward a lifetime of insecurities. I hope that as her parents, our words of love drown out the messages that will be coming at her fast and hard, all too soon. I pray she embraces our values and our efforts to instill in her the truth…that true beauty lies within.

I pray she embraces the body she’s been given and realizes how amazing and blessed and beautiful she is…how perfectly she’s been designed by her Creator. That healthy is what matters when it comes to her body. That when she chooses to live healthy, she can embrace how she looks because it is exactly the her God created her to be. I pray that she sees her real beauty, both inside and out. And that she listens to the only words that really matter:

For You formed my inward parts...I will praise You

for I am fearfully and wonderfully made!

~~Psalm 139:13-14

Desperate

2011-08-25T23:29:00.000-04:00

Dead eyes stare at the door. Four years. A moment. No. Eternity. Her feet decide for her. Exhilarated. Devastated. What now? Doubting sobs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This post was written for Write On Edge's Red Writing Hood prompt...a fictional story abiding by the character restrictions of Twitter.

This week’s assignment will require the fewest number of words ever: we want you to write a story – your choice of topic – as a tweet.

That’s right. One hundred and forty characters. Not words. Characters.

Make us laugh. Make us think. Make us want more.

So...does it intrigue you?

Four

2011-08-23T23:24:00.000-04:00

I stumbled across a picture the other day and before I knew it, I was blinking back tears and struggling to swallow past the lump in my throat.

It was a picture of my baby….three years ago.

In two weeks, she will dance and twirl and spin at her fourth birthday party.

Four.

This little surprise whose announcement left my jaw slack. Whose existence altered plans and directions.

This breath of fresh air whose birth answered prayers unspoken…whose safe arrival revealed miracles unseen…whose first touch began a healing long implored.

This bundle of sweet strength whose very presence gifted new balance and fulfilled dreams. And closed a chapter.

Four.

Today wriggling limbs spill from my lap where once a swaddle of pink fit so snug. Musical giggles stream from pink lips that once formed that perfect but silent “o” in a first attempt to coo. Hurried scampers busy the feet that once yielded a faltering pitter patter.

And my mind reels.

Four.

My heart breaks at what I’ve lost…will never have again. Yet it swells with pride in what she’s become…and is becoming.

Four.

In two weeks, I will celebrate her…amazing, adorable her. I will savor every moment. My face will smile, my voice will laugh, my heart will relish…yet it will hurt. The silent, invisible ache every mom hopes to know, but hates to feel, as toddler becomes preschooler. And baby days are left behind.

BRING IT! ~ with linky

2011-08-16T00:01:00.002-04:00

It's time! Today kicks off Bring It!...a new monthly blog hop. The purpose is to help each of us raise awareness about a medical condition or health-related cause that is close to our hearts. If you missed yesterday's post explaining the concept you can check it out here.

For this first hop, you decide what you want to post. But if you need an idea, start by telling us about the source of your inspiration for raising awareness.

Are you ready to raise awareness...together? Let's Bring It! to blogdom!

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HOW TO JOIN: Bear with me as this is my first time hosting...and I'm not even sure if I should call this a blog hop or a linky list or WHAT! I’m just praying it works!!!

Bring It! is limited to health-related causes so please only link posts related to a medical condition, disease or illness.
Please grab a Bring It! button and include it on your post. This should serve as your backlink, which is required to join. I may be having, ahem, technical difficulties with the button. Give it a shot and let me know if you can't grab it. I'm a rookie!
Become a follower so you can stay connected through future posts. While this is not required to participate, it sure would make my day!!!
To maximize awareness-raising potential, be sure to tweet this post and/or post it on facebook. Help me spread the word and bring a big audience to our causes!
Visit as many other Bring It! posts as possible...that's the whole point!
This linky will be open until Thursday at 5:00 p.m. Eastern so link up anytime over the next couple days.

Link up below...and leave a comment once you do! And don't forget to spread the word and invite others to join us.

**Remember to link up to YOUR ACTUAL BRING IT! POST, not your main site.

All other links will be deleted.**

Meeting Baby M ~ Bring It!

2011-08-15T22:33:00.000-04:00

It was a Friday morning, the first snow of the season had begun falling around the hospital. I know this only because my sister has told me. I’d spent the night lying wakefully on the scratchy white sheets of my hospital bed, listening to the reassuring repetitive thump of my unborn child’s heart on the monitor. I didn’t look outside. My mind couldn’t wander for even one second from what I knew was coming…and even more, from what I didn’t know.

At 10:10 a.m., little M came into the world, six weeks premature but not a moment too soon. My cesarean revealed that the amniotic fluid inside my womb was gone. We could have already lost her, and by some accounts, we already should have. She blinked at me from across the room before they whisked her away.

Hours passed before I could finally be wheeled on my hospital bed to see my firstborn in the NICU. Her tiny 4 pound 9 ounce frame lay, completely exposed, on an open table…a transparent plastic pouch protruding from a hole in her abdomen. Inside the pouch, which was suspended above her, tied to the warming light attached to her bed, was all of her intestines…a purplish mass.

During her first surgery, before I even laid a hand on her, they had replaced her ovary and stomach into her tiny abdomen. But her abdominal cavity was so very small. It could not accommodate her large and small intestines, all of which had spilled outside of her body before she was even born. Because they had escaped through that little hole, just to the right of her belly button, and developed outside her body, her belly was never stretched by the growing organs as a healthy child’s would have been and was far smaller than it should have been. The pouch was inserted into the hole in her belly, to hold and protect the intestines. It hung above her, allowing gravity to move her guts into the abdomen as it grew and stretched.

There were tubes and wires. A nasogastric (ng) tube inserted through her mouth into her stomach to empty the stomach contents. The ng tube was taped to her face with a white sterile tape, covering parts of her cheeks and mouth. She had an IV in her left arm, which was splinted to keep her from knocking or pulling it out, a pulse-ox on her right arm, wires and patches attached to her chest to monitor her heart and breathing rates and patterns. She couldn’t wear a diaper due to the defect, her open wound. So she lay exposed…no swaddling, no blankets, no cute little outfits…on top of a diaper, just her little head covered with a tiny knit hat.

She clung to my finger. My heart tore. My empty arms ached.

************

M was born with gastroschisis, an abdominal wall defect (a hole to the right of the umbilicus) that allows the intestines and other abdominal contents to protrude and develop outside the body. Each year as many as 1 in 2,000 babies are born with this life threatening birth defect. The incidence rate has skyrocketed from 1 in 10,000 when M was born. No one knows why gastroschisis occurs.

************

Awareness...let's BRING IT! (new linky tomorrow!)

2011-08-15T13:53:00.000-04:00

Everyone has a story, or two, or three. And these days, many of us have a ribbon to go along with it. Our's is lime green…for gastroschisis.

If you’re new here, this may be the first time you’ve heard the word gastroschisis. (But I can guarantee you it won’t be the last.) If you’ve visited before, you've heard bits and pieces and likely know that our oldest child, M, was born with this life-threatening birth defect. You probably also know that M is now 9 and very healthy!

M’s birth experience and the trauma that followed changed the way I look at this world. Anyone who has nearly lost a child (or who has a sleeping angel) knows exactly what I mean. Since that time, I’ve been doing what I can to raise awareness about the diagnosis that changed our lives.

I know there are lots of you out there…doing the same thing with your cause, your passion. I’ve seen a few of your blogs. I’ve read a few of your posts. And I know there are a lot more I haven’t come across yet.

So let’s join forces. Let’s help each other get the word out. Let’s take our causes and our passions for raising awareness and let’s Bring It! to blogdom together.

I’m starting a monthly blog hop and hope you’ll join me. Link up here tomorrow to spread the word about the medical condition or cause that tugs at your heart.

Education and awareness are key to gaining research and funding to prevent or cure or treat. They are key to connecting and finding support for yourself and for others who have, are or will go through what you have. So tell your story, share some facts, disclose the latest news.

For this first hop, what you decide to post is up to you. But if you need an idea, use this post to tell us about the source of your inspiration for raising awareness.

Take your cause and Bring It! to blogdom. Raise awareness! Find community!

See you tomorrow!

Profaning Profanity

2011-08-12T00:20:00.000-04:00

When I read the topics for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop, I was a little bit relieved to see Prompt #3: “Opinion post: Write about how you feel about cussing in blog land? Acceptable? Unacceptable? Do you keep reading?”

It was something that had been on my mind for a while. Something I’d been pondering writing about. Now there was no question. It was time for me to write.

You see, I’m new to blogging and to the entire blog community. I’ve only begun exploring this strange new land in the last few months. And, honestly, I was shocked. And I continue to be shocked at just how many expletives cross my screen as I click around the web. They are used casually, habitually, thoughtlessly as often…no…more often than they are used purposefully or strategically. They show up in tweets, in posts, in comments. They are used in reference to everything from food to children to spouses to circumstances to self.

The other morning I checked twitter and of the first three tweets I read, two included the F-word. Good morning! These were tweets from beautiful women, talented writers with thoughtful blogs. I cringed. I guess I expect to hear that language from the likes of clueless teenagers on reality tv…but from educated, expressive women?

I’ll be honest. I don’t get it.

I clicked on some posts linked in response to this prompt on Mama Kat’s blog and the large majority of the ones I read were defending and/or promoting the regular use of four-letter words in a blog. They billed it as freeing, honest, being real. A few disparaged those who find it offensive or in ill taste, some displaying open contempt for such prudishness. All were completely unapologetic. The one post I read that went against the grain, however, was a bit meek in its approach.

I intend to be every bit as unapologetic in my post as were those who disagree with me. I figure we can all handle it. We’re adults here. I guess if you don’t like my opinion on swearing in written form, you can “unfollow” me or cuss at me in retaliation or assume I am a stuffed shirt or simply stop reading. That’s your prerogative.

But I don’t expect most of you to do that. If there’s anything I’ve learned about this community, it’s that for the most part, it is comprised of genuinely caring, intelligent and honest individuals who value other people, their experiences..and their opinions…even if they don’t agree with them. So put on your big girl pants and hear me out.

I think its crude. Unnecessary. Unbecoming. Distracting. I think it takes away from the beauty and femininity and thoughtfulness of the woman behind the post. I find it irritating and uncouth.

Wait! Hold the phone. What thoughts just went through your mind when you read my opinion? Did you silently call me a name? Did you chuckle and tuck me neatly into a stereotype in your mind? Were you, in fact, judging me? If so…were you one of the ones whose posts labeled non-cursers as “judgie”? Hmmmm. Maybe you were. Maybe you weren’t. Whatever…just wanted you to think about that.

I’m not sitting here on my high horse pointing my fingers at anyone. I’m giving you my honest opinion. I’m not saying I’ve never had a naughty word pop into my mind or escape my lips in my lifetime. No. I mean, I used to work in the sports department at a newspaper…those words are not foreign to me. But you won’t find me using them here in blog land. And here are a few reasons why:

I consider myself an intelligent person and prefer to sound that way.

My blog is an open book to a bunch of strangers, and it is a little peek into who I am. I don’t cuss on a regular basis in my daily life, so why would I do it here? As bloggers, we allow people—some of whom we will never meet in person—to look into our lives and form a picture of who we are based on the words we present. Dirty words can negate your positive traits and taint your overall message.

I believe integrity and reputation are important. I want to be proud of the things I write and the way I write them on my blog. I don’t think that casual swearing is anything to be proud of. Anyone can do it and so many do. It certainly doesn’t make one stand out from the crowd.

I want to raise my son and daughters to be respectful, well-mannered citizens. Cussing goes in opposition to those things, in my opinion.

I would wash my kids’ mouths out if they used profanity, and I am responsible to model the behavior I expect out of them.

So there you have it. I think blog land would be a better place with less vulgarity…but so would every land.

I’m guessing a lot of you don’t agree with me. If you do…comment and let me know. If you don’t, I welcome your comments too. I can agree to disagree. And we can still be friends…or at least, I’m still willing to be yours. How about you?

The Red Wagon (not so much a wheelbarrow)

2011-08-07T23:05:00.002-04:00

This is my first response to a Lightning and The Lightning-Bug prompt. The task was to: Take any word, image, or feeling evoked from "The Red Wheelbarrow" and turn it into your masterpiece. Well, mine is a bit of a departure as I was more inspired by the word "red" than I was the word "wheelbarrow." My mind kept wandering to a little red wagon...and this little piece of fiction is the result:

A gentle breeze swept strands of long, golden hair loosely across her tanned cheeks as she trudged through the open field. Tall grasses bent under each dragging step, weighted by rubber boots three sizes too big. Sissy’s frayed skirt swished softly with the rhythm of her gait. Behind her, the tired old wagon groaned in protest, a small puddle near the back sloshing with every bump.

The farm house, the place the small girl called home, faded into the distance. She could barely discern the clucks of the hens when the grasses opened up to a small pond before her. The handle of the wagon slipped from her fingers, melting into the mucky shore where Sissy came to rest. A tiny sigh escaped her barely parted lips as she shielded her eyes from the glinting sunlight.

It was her favorite spot. She was too young to know why. Too young to understand how her bones ached for the serenity offered up by this haven. Too young to comprehend the solace that drenched her soul, simply by being there.

Handfuls of fabric bunched loosely in her fists, she hiked her skirt and slowly waded into the shallow greenish waters until their stillness lapped at the rims of her boots. Peering into the glassy pool, a flash of silver held her attention. Her eyes followed a lone minnow under the surface. Lost in wistful oblivion, the hem of her skirt was soon floating gently around her.

Ripples broke the spell as a small frog found its respite from the heat of the midday sun. The whirring of a dragonfly called Sissy back out of the waters. Dreamily she gathered cattails, pebbles and wildflowers…a full but light load for the worn wagon.

As the sun dipped lower in the prairie sky, Sissy gripped the handle of her little red wagon. Brimming with symbols of her childish fantasies and joys...pieces of her innocence...its raspy squeak echoed her reluctance as they began their journey home.

I am Her Puppet, People…Just a Puppet on Strings

2011-08-05T20:31:00.001-04:00

Our first night of a seven night stay at Lake Michigan was quite possibly the perfect beach night. We trekked the ¾ mile to the beach. all of us walking. No scooters for the big kids. No stroller for Li’l B. (This is a decision I quickly came to regret.) It was just the perfect night for a leisurely walk.

We were not even half way there before Li’l B ended up on daddy’s shoulders, which was fine with me. I was pulling a cute little beach cart behind me, full of sand toys, and my big ol’ Nikon with all its paraphernalia was strapped over my shoulder.

The waves were fun for the big kids and Li’l B was having a blast scooping water and digging on the beach. After a while, The Man was done. But the kids and I decided to stay a bit longer. (This is another decision I came to regret.) It wasn’t long after he left that Li’l B whines about needing to go potty. I told her matter-of-factly there was no potty at the beach so she could wait. Since she didn’t fuss and went on with her play, I assumed we were safe. (An assumption I came to regret.)

A few minutes later, she grabbed herself in panic and squealed…she had to poo. Of course she did.

I was still convinced she was being a drama queen. But we gathered our things and started back. Walking together. Now I was down a man, though. And I wasn’t about to carry her and drag the cart and schlep my camera bag in the summer eve’s heat. So we walked. And she whined.

Her whining began to increase in volume, pitch and urgency (not to mention in sheer annoyance). So we soon began the jog. Me half dragging her by one arm (trying to keep her from tripping over the uneven pavement under our feet) and still lugging the cart, nipping at my heels with every step, while being beaten silly by the camera bouncing off my belly area, strap digging into my sweaty neck. It was at this point, Li’l B lost a shoe. And we lost all momentum retrieving it.

By now the whines had turned to shrieks. But I could see a saving grace. The pool house lies about half way between our cottage and the beach. We’d make a pit stop and all would be well. My dear sister-in-law, who was walking behind us a short ways, took mercy on me and allowed me to leave the beach cart for her to drag along. I also charged her with my two big kids and ran over to the restrooms by the pool.

Padlocked. It was after pool hours, and the bathrooms were padlocked. I shook them, like that was going to make a difference. And I laughed…the cynical, resigned laugh of some cartoon villain who has just been outsmarted. The kind of laugh you’d hear from a character on a movie right when he realizes he’s about to be arrested or die.

That was it. The shrieks were coming faster and louder and included attention-drawing claims of great belly agony. I had no choice. I had to run…in flip flops…in the heat and humidity of a July night…carrying a hysterical, wet, sandy, gangly 40-pound preschooler.

As I plodded along the burning asphalt, she dropped her shoes, one at a time. I didn’t look back. But this added to Li’l B’s anxieties and she began kicking. This made my job of maintaining hold of her writhing body that much more difficult. So I huffed “Auntie…will…get…them” in a lame attempt to pacify her.

By the time I was near our cottage, my running was not much more than heavy footsteps accompanied by a lot of panting. Whoever saw us at this point surely must have thought I was just finishing up a marathon for all the exhaustion I was gracefully displaying.

Toward the end of our joyless jaunt, while I was gasping for air (in case you have not inferred this by now, I am not a runner), something happened…and Li’l B’s entire mood changed. I barely noticed though, considering I was so busy trying not to keel over from near heart failure.

I charged her to march down the stairs and into the bathroom. It still wasn’t really registering with me that she seemed to be skipping through the house with a smile on her face. I certainly wasn’t smiling. I tripped down the stairs, gaping at her in bewilderment as she walked right past the bathroom. Exasperated, I ordered her inside.

It was at this point I began to realize I had been duped. By my 3-year-old. Again.

She looked at me, after I barked my orders, and said with complete sincerity, “Why? What are we doing?”

??????????!!!!!!!!!!!!??????????

And then it dawned on her and she giggled, a huge grin spreading across her entire face while she danced playfully (not the urgent potty dance…no, no, no…this was the skippy, dancy, happy feet kind of dance) around the bathroom, and these words came out of her toddler mouth: “Oh yeah. I forgot I had to go potty.”

What the what?!?!?!?!?!

Then to add insult to injury, she sat on the potty, peed a little and said in an innocent, carefree tone, “Oop. I guess I just needed to go pee.”

I have no more words, people. Good night.

Dear Mommy...Why?

2011-07-27T22:32:00.000-04:00

Dear Mommy,

Why is there a scar where my belly button should be?

Why was I born with a bad owie?

Why does my tummy look different than my brother’s and my sister’s?

Why is there tape on my face in all of my baby pictures?

Why are there tubes and wires in my mouth, my arms…everywhere?

Why am I as small as that itty bitty teddy bear?

Why am I lying on top of that blanket with stripes, pink and blue?

Why aren’t I wrapped tightly inside, snuggled up close to you?

Why in every picture are your eyes puffy and red?

Why does your smiling face look so sad?

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My M was born with gastroschisis, a hole in her abdomen. All of her large and small intestines, one ovary and part of her stomach were outside of her body.

I’m her mommy…but I don’t have the answers for her. No one does…yet. And that breaks my heart. Research and awareness are needed.

This Saturday, July 30, is Gastroschisis Awareness Day. Help me spread the word, learn more…share this post on twitter, link it on your blog, post it to facebook, tell a friend.

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I will praise You for I am fearfully and wonderfully made!

Psalm 139:14

I Died a Little Yesterday…

2011-07-23T23:41:00.000-04:00

I did. I swear. Yesterday was the first time our kids have ever been on a boat and the first time they’ve ever gone tubing behind a boat. They had so much fun. And I lost three years off my life.

There they were (the older two), sprawled on this large piece of floating plastic filled with air, skimming across the water, attached to a thousand pounds of speeding metal by a long piece of rope. Their little bodies bouncing up and down with every ripple and wave. Veering wildly out to the side of the boat at every turn. Their hair plastered back by the combination of spraying water and unfiltered wind. Big grins covering their faces (replaced intermittently by fleeting expressions of sheer terror…wonderful, terrible terror).

Fun, right? I mean, I used to do it as a kid…all the time. But this time I was mom. And I had never done this before as mom. I sat in the back of the boat. Watching. Smiling. Waving. Laughing. Shedding years off my life.

I was being the good, fun…perhaps normal…mom on the outside. Or at least I was trying. But I’ll give you a peek at the craziness that was having a party inside my head:

Vivid visions of my two oldest children being ejected from their precarious perches, bouncing and skidding across the surface of the water before their lifejackets grab a wave and pull them to a sudden watery darkness, filling their noses with bacteria-laced lake water, choking them into an uncontrollable panic. As they gag and cry in confusion and fear, other speedboats approach, completely oblivious to the small beings flailing helplessly in the open water before them. Closer, closer. Faster, faster. And me, clinging in helpless desperation to their 3-year-old sister, stuck in the boat that left them behind and cannot circle back fast enough to close the gap.

It’s at this point the visions stop (because if they don’t, I cannot be held responsible for any irrational behavior…like single-handedly throwing the driver of the boat overboard, stalling the motor, scooping up both kids, successfully running across the surface of the water and not stopping until I’ve covered the 90 miles that separates us from the safety of our dry home). I gain control. I do okay for a few minutes…until another boat shows up behind us again. Then I swear my head starts tingling as a few more hairs lose their pigment. And my face goes numb where another line deepens. And the visions start all over again. All while I grin stupidly and give eager thumbs up signs.

I know. Crazy, right? Okay, maybe I’ve exaggerated my anxiety and the whole experience a bit, just for fun. But the final equation still looks a little something like this:

my kids + fun, normal childhood experiences = my early death

Just Breathe

2011-07-18T23:34:00.001-04:00

The red line bounced, spiking one moment…stabilizing the next. 242. 126. 135. My gaze shadowed the highest peak until it vanished, pushed off the screen’s edge. 149. 134. 150. I couldn't watch anymore.

Swollen and pink, my eyes shifted away, falling toward the plastic box in front of me. The box that warmed and protected her. Where she was nurtured and kept alive. The box that replaced me…and now kept us apart.

I watched the perfect rise and fall of her chest. Gentle, but forced. The only sound in my ears was the pulsing “woosh…woosh…woosh.” The constant repetition to which I was transfixed. My own breaths involuntarily mimicked hers. I leaned forward, silently begging her to breathe above the machine.

It had been 24 hours. No movement. The vent still doing all the work.

Only yesterday, as I cradled her tiny body for the first time, she had grasped my finger and looked in my eyes. Her breath came freely, unaided, uninhibited. Moments later I kissed her sweet face before surrendering her to the box…and watching, with empty arms, as her slight, four-pound frame was swept away in a sea of blue coats. My own breath came hard.

I waited. For two hours, there were no numbers. No alarms. No monitors. But upon return to the nursery, surgery complete, they abounded. Overwhelmed. Unprepared. I stood at a distance. White coats, at least a dozen, hovered over and around her. Denial. It couldn't be her. She had been pink, wide-eyed, alert. Now, she was pale, morbid shades of gray. Motionless. Her belly stretched, painfully taught. A maze of blue-purple lines spanned her abdomen. It couldn't be her. But it was.

It had been 24 hours. I watched the numbers. I breathed with her vent. I prayed. I begged. The respirator’s hushed cadence was my despair and my hope. The peaks and valleys on the heart monitor were my anguish and my relief. Combined, they were my security. Strange comfort.

Up. Down. Woosh. Woosh. In. Out. 132. 144. 129. Silent pleas: “Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.”

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This week's assignment at The Red Dress Club is based on rhythm:

Let's make it more literal. Write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word “rhythm.”

When I think of rhythm, I am instantly thrown back to the time we spent in the NICU with my firstborn. This post is a memory of a difficult day, etched in my mind, perhaps forever.

Thanks for reading! This was my first post for The Red Dress Club, and I would love to hear your comments on my writing!

I Wear This Ribbon…

2011-07-12T23:10:00.001-04:00

because you made me “mommy.” You were my dream. My fondest wish. My deepest desire. You became my heartbreak. My tragedy. My soul’s tears. You are my transformation. My inspiration. My hope.

I wear this ribbon…because I want you to know. You were carried by hands from heaven. Covered by grace from your first breath. A miracle—nothing less.

I wear this ribbon…because you need to know. You are special. You are a survivor. You are strength.

I wear this ribbon…for you, because of you. You—full of compassion and empathy. Driven to touch others’ lives. Intrepid in your passion for life, for love, for good.

I wear this ribbon…not to define you, but to embolden you. To embrace your story. To understand the truth. To instill pride in your every moment.

I wear this ribbon…to defy definitions. To transform defect into strength. To replace anomaly with asset. To change vulnerability into power.

I wear this ribbon…to show my pride. In your fight. In your victory. In you.

I wear this ribbon…Because I was changed. Wholly. Exceptionally. Forever.

I wear this ribbon…So I won’t forget. Because I can’t forget.

I wear this ribbon…today on my bracelet. Forever in my heart.

****************************************************************************

M was born “inside out.” She had gastroschisis -- an abdominal wall defect (a hole to the right of the umbilicus) that allows the intestines and other abdominal contents to protrude outside the body. Gastroschisis is a life-threatening defect that requires immediate intervention, corrective surgery and intensive care.

M was born prematurely, with all of her large and small intestines out, plus an ovary and part of her stomach. These organs floated freely in the amniotic fluid. Exposure to amniotic fluid can cause severe damage to the bowel, which can suffer growth failure, becoming thickened, matted, shortened, interfering with normal function.

M is a survivor. Our journey through this experience has greatly impacted our lives and colors my perspective on life. You’ll hear more of her story, no doubt, in future posts.

What if I Sang About Ice Cream and Pixy Dust?

2011-07-09T23:56:00.002-04:00

What would happen if I behaved like my kids? I can’t help but wonder this sometimes as I watch them, amused…and often confused…by the things they sometimes do.

What if I broke into song while waiting in line at the bank? And not just any song either…a made-up song…about ice cream and pixy dust.

What if I started spinning with my arms spread wide, right in the middle of the cereal aisle at the grocery store?

What if I fell out of my chair while eating?

What if, completely unprovoked, I bared my hiney at a family function and said, “Look at my white bootie” while wagging it back and forth as if I had a tail?

What if when I needed a restroom, I grabbed myself in panic (using both hands, of course) and began prancing on my tiptoes to the nearest toilet, announcing my intentions to all within earshot?

What if I fell out of my chair while eating?

What if I made random noises from all areas of my body while sitting at the dinner table?

What if, in the middle of a conversation with another adult, I started repeating every word the other person said, mercilessly mimicking their every tone and gesture?

What if I interrupted conversations by poking people in the arm, over and over and over and over and over and over?

Seriously. What. If. I. Fell. Out. Of. My. Chair. While. Eating?!

Or...

What if I just randomly ran up to loved ones and threw my arms around them, squeezing with wild, bone-crushing abandon?

What if I made silly faces behind people’s backs and then giggled uncontrollably?

What if I drank smoothies from plastic straws while floating on a ring in a kiddie pool?

What if I giggled with pure joy at the feeling of the wind in my hair?

What if? Well, if I managed to keep my loved ones (or perfect strangers for that matter) from putting me in the loony bin…I think it might be kinda fun! And I know it’d be more than a little funny!

****************************************************************

SIDE NOTE: I'm starting up a twitter account for my blog...and it looks so sad to have one follower. You can find me at http://twitter.com/#!/checkingpockets (I've been trying to get the gadget added, but my ignorance is defeating all attempts...I'll keep trying!) If you like what you're reading on twitter or the blog or both...I'd be forever grateful if you share with your friends!

In the Words of Bill Engvall: Here’s Your Sign

2011-07-05T23:49:00.000-04:00

My T has taken a keen interest in playing baseball lately. He’s been asking to play on a team for the last several months, so today I signed him up for the shorter fall season of Little League. This is our first experience with Little League so I was surprised, when completing the online pre-registration process, that I was prompted to print and sign a Sport Parent Code of Conduct. Hmmmmm…really? I…a grown adult…need to apply my signature to a document that defines what type of behavior is acceptable or not, in order for my 7-year-old to play a sport? I need to be contractually obligated to behave myself?

I braced myself, hoping they wouldn’t set the bar too high…that I’d somehow be able to live up to their standards. The rules did not disappoint:

I cannot tell you how glad I am that they defined specific behaviors here. I mean, I truly wouldn’t have thought one thing about hissing curse words and flipping off a small child for dropping a fly ball. How else will the kid know he’s a loser unworthy of participating in this treasured American past time? And I had already begun rehearsing my first pep talk with T…I had to start early so he could memorize all the 4-letter words I was going to teach him so he could effectively degrade the umpires. Wait. Is spitting in faces acceptable? I don’t see that here. I better send an email.

The further I get into this document the more clear it becomes… they’re just stripping me of all my fun. I guess I’ll have to teach T that he cannot purposefully chuck the ball at a runner’s nose to slow him down. And I imagine bringing a little hockey into the sport and attempting to shirt the ump is out of the question. *sigh*

This is really getting boring. I don’t even know if I want T to play anymore. If my kid is losing, I expect to be allowed to put laxatives in the other teams Gatorade, pump my first grader full of steroids and have T sit on the catcher’s face. Repeatedly, if necessary.

The list goes on, lecturing me on not ridiculing my little boy or letting him smoke cigarettes, etc. I’m sure glad I read these behavioral guidelines. We could’ve really been embarrassed, ya know? I mean, I’m not used to suppressing my Neanderthal tendencies or using my common sense. But now that I am contractually bound to behave like a rational human being…

Ugh! All sarcasm aside...you know what it means, don't you? The fact that they had to draw up this written agreement? It means there were parents out there actually pulling this kind of crap. At a kids. sports. game. Get a grip, people. I equate this contract with warning labels like this:

Someone DID that at some point, you guys! And there are so many more of those where that came from.

So, from the Little League organization to all you parents out there, deserved or not: “Here’s your sign.”

Fireworks Freak Out

2011-07-02T21:40:00.000-04:00

Well, this is going to be a fun weekend. Independence Day on a Monday means a four-day weekend for many. And that means fireworks every night. I might as well start the caffeine drip now and get the toothpicks ready to prop my eyelids open.

Don’t get me wrong. I love fireworks. Or at least I did, before I had kids…and a neurotic beagle. The big kids are fine now. But there’s Li’l B who has some…let’s just say, auditory sensitivities. One of those, ummm, “sensitivities” is to anything that might possibly bear even the slightest resemblance to the sound of distant (or not-so-distant) thunder. I do believe fireworks qualify. The poor thing turns into a weepy, screechy, clingy, emotional mess. I’m already making room for her in my bed.

And then there is Hunter. Oh, Hunter. Much like Li’l B, thunderous noises turn him into a cowering, quivering, sad, smelly little hairball (not that Li’l B is smelly or a hairball, for that matter). At the first bang, he’s belly crawling across the house with his big, floppy ears so low, they practically get caught under his legs. He slinks down the hall like somebody has whipped him and curls up into a tight little ball in front of Li’l B’s bedroom door. We aren’t really sure why he has chosen this spot as his refuge from big, bad, scary noises, but it’s where he goes…every time. I can only think that he’s seeking out an understanding soul in Li’l B, hoping she will commiserate with him until the, er, horror of distant noises goes away? Yeah, I don’t get this fear at all.

Awww, I didn’t include him on Me and My Minions. I’ll have to remedy that.
How could I forget this cute face?

I imagine enjoying fireworks again someday…but not without Prozac for my dog. For now, let the paranoia begin.

It Takes Two

2011-07-01T23:14:00.001-04:00

I’m so excited! We are redecorating my baby girl’s room! And by “we” I mean The Man.

Wait. What? That doesn’t seem fair. I mean yes, he is the one that goes to the store and buys all the painting supplies. And he is the one who removes every outlet cover (who knew there were so many in one room?), light switch plate, smoke detector, and light fixture. Yes, he is also the one who spackles the holes in every wall and sands them until they are no longer detectable to the human eye (only to have me instruct him to put another hole in the same exact spot days later…sorry, babe!). And further, he is the one who painstakingly stretches blue tape over every last inch of trim. I’ll even admit, he is the one covered with white paint freckles and a stiff neck after twisting into unnatural positions to properly roll the ceiling (a valiant effort necessary to cover the blue paint that bled from wall to ceiling when the builders originally did the job). And okay, he is the one whose fingernails now have an extra pinkish hue after covering four walls with “pink air.” I’ll give him all that.

BUT…it’s not like I do nothing, right? I’ve been very busy determining the best color for the walls. Deciphering between cream rose, pink air, princess and peony petal pink can be really stressful, ya know. And searching online for creative and unique design ideas, and then shopping for hours…even days, for the perfect accessories required to transform a blue hodge-podge bedroom into an elegant haven worthy of a princess…this is not a task for the weak of heart.

Thankfully, after 13 years of marriage we’ve come to a mutual understanding and fallen into a nice pattern. One that works for us. He’s the muscle, and that’s just the way it has to be. Honestly, the very thought of taping off a room makes me break out into a cold sweat. Straight lines and I…we are not friends. Edging…I either have too much paint or not enough. Rolling. It doesn’t seem that hard. All those DIY rookies on HGTV manage to pull it off. I cannot get that right either! What is wrong with me? Just thinking about it makes me want to crawl into bed.

We had a very painful reminder of our proper roles in home décor when I decided, not too long ago, to surprise The Man by painting an accent wall in my office while he was gone hunting for a few days. I’m telling you, this was the easiest job in the world…in my mind anyway. One wall. I was going to do it from start to finish, with zero help. Zero. No calling the parents. No asking dad to come by and rescue me. By the time The Man came home, it would be complete and everything back in place. I'd do the big reveal and voila...he'd be so proud!

Long story short: dad came over at least once (maybe twice); I went through 3 rollers (this was ONE WALL, people); 3 trips to the store; nothing was back in its original place; and The Man had to start from scratch when he got home. In my defense…he was surprised!

So, we’ve both resigned ourselves to our respective roles. I’m perfectly comfortable admitting I’m in no way artistic or talented when it comes to executing design. And I’m incredibly grateful to have a man who’s nothing but tolerant of my genius décor projects (yes, that’s sarcasm…I steal all my ideas from others). He’s always willing to go with whatever ideas I manage to scrape up from the corners of the design world. I think maybe he does it just to keep the paintbrush out of my hand…that makes him happy.

So now he labors to create a princess-worthy bedroom. And I shop. It works nicely, and everybody keeps their sanity.

In a Haze?

2011-06-28T22:12:00.001-04:00

Am I being hazed? I feel like I’m being hazed. But why? I’m not trying to join some sorority or sports team or a fun group of any sort. I’m simply trying to survive, to wake up and see another day with some semblance of sanity. And the real injustice here is that my hazing…well, it’s being planned and executed with tortuous precision by a three year old.

Every day, day after day after day, our house is filled with Lil B’s wailing and screeching, usually accompanied by flailing limbs…sometimes for hours at a time. I have no idea why really. I can only guess it’s all part of some eeeevil toddler ritual designed specially to give loving moms premature wrinkles and gray hair. Sometimes, I imagine that Lil B lies in bed before she falls asleep each night, plotting with her imaginary friends and mounds of stuffed animals, rubbing her hands together and laughing maniacally as she plans how she will outdo today’s performance.

What is it about the age of three that transforms an adorable, delightful, hilarious and sweet little toddler into a tiny, frothing despot capable of making me beg for someone to stick a fork in my eye (simply because it has GOT to be more fun than dealing with the little tyrant and her tantrums)?

I’m wondering if this is simply the process that little girls go through as they metamorphose from toddler into preschooler. I wonder that because when M (my oldest) was three, we went through something quite similar (albeit more intense and complicated due to some oh so fun sensory and developmental issues that were peaking at that time in her little life). But my son seemed to skip this phenomenon (on second thought, maybe he’s just super advanced and got it all out of his system during his first six months of life when he screamed 20 hours of each day). I don’t know. I don’t even care. I do know, though, that it’s not any easier the second or third time around.

It. Is. Exhausting.

And it just keeps happening. Like I said, sometimes for hours. (My kids are nothing, if not persevering.) And the thing is, you never know what will trigger it. Maybe she gets bumped, or hears thunder, or somebody says the word no, or the stars don’t align. And it happens in a micro-second. There is no stopping it. When that moment hits and she begins her mutation into the screaming mess I no longer recognize as my precious princess of a little girl, it’s reminiscent of watching a writhing Bruce Banner when the Hulk begins to emerge. Bulging veins, shredding clothing, contorted faces… her skin even takes on a scary hue (not green of course, but eerie shifting shades of red, purple and pink punctuated with pale white spots and blue lines). It’s like Lil B is busting out of her toddler skin to make room for her preschool self. And the decibel level she reaches…I’m thinking I need to look into hearing aids, so I can alternate from earplugs to aids as appropriate.

So is this my hazing? I never joined any societies or secret clubs or anything that you might normally associate with the appalling practice of hazing so I’m not really sure. But I am pretty sure that you’re only supposed to go through it once, right? I mean, I’ve already been initiated into motherhood. (Can you hear my whining? I learned that from my kids…they’re professionals.) This makes me wonder if it’s my problem…you know the “fool me once, shame on you” kind of thing. Haze me twice…hmmmmmm.

Pocket OCD

2011-06-23T22:00:00.000-04:00

I promise not to bore you with mind numbing prose talking about the millions of miniscule white fuzzes that cling to every last piece of wet clothing like they’ve been stuck with superglue. You know the phenomenon that occurs when a simple tissue comes into contact with laundry detergent, water and a load of spinning dark clothes. No, as much as that makes me want to trash the whole load and pretend it never happened…that’s not what “Checking Pockets” is all about.

It’s about my life…my life as an impatient, sleep-deprived, mid-life crisis approaching, far-from-perfect perfectionistic, well-meaning, procrastinating, passionate (and occasionally sarcastic) wife and mom. All about my life trying to keep three kids alive and somehow turn them into civilized people without putting them on the couch when they are grownups….all while attempting to be an adult, run my own business, and figure out how to be a wife whose husband is pretty sure she’s not a lunatic. So I’ll regale you with stories of my daily attempts to accomplish those things.

The secret to my success, I am convinced, is to make sure I have covered all my bases…you know, checked all the pockets. This will no doubt keep me on track by helping me avert the tragedy that surely lurks around every corner, waiting to devour each and every one of us…particularly my children. Right?

What? You don’t see the potential for tragedy everywhere you look? You don’t spend 85% of your life warding off prospective catastrophes in their infancy? Well great. Now I have to work harder to make up for all the pockets YOU are not checking! I have to…it’s what I do.