Depression

If my recent post about the Pit of Despair wasn't enough of a clue, I'm seriously fighting off some depression right now.

It started about two weeks ago and I told my husband I could feel that depression blah setting in. The tiredness. The listlessness. The feeling that no matter how happy your life is, you can't be happy. You just look at it analytically and say, "I should be happy. Life is great. There is no reason to be unhappy, but there is no way to feel otherwise." If you haven't experienced it (or if you aren't currently experiencing it), it's hard to understand how real this is.

I'm not in some catatonic depressive state where I can't get up in the morning or brush my teeth. I'd call this mild depression. It's just that constant, nagging feeling of unhappiness and lethargy that I can't shake. It's annoying. I am living my life in black and white instead of color--but I'm still alive and kicking. I'm still making plans and getting things done and being a (pretty) good parent.

But there are little troubles that irritate me. My oldest is constantly dragged down by my mood. His mood is very dependent on mine and he is really bothered that I'm not being fun and cheerful and laughing with him. In other words, he's bummed out that I'm bummed out. I feel for him and I'm bummed out that I'm not being more fun.

The other thing that is really irking me right now is that I see myself entering a more serious stage of depression. This one I like to call the "Push Away Anybody Who Cares About Me At All" stage. This is the self-pitiful, moody stage where I make myself so incredibly unpleasant that nobody wants to be within a mile of me. I frown. I complain. I am a Piece of Work.

I look at myself logically and wish I could get away from myself, but I'm stuck here living inside this Piece of Work that I don't recognize. She's a stranger to me--so foreign to my naturally sunny and optimistic temperament.

Four more months and the baby will be here. My heart will recognize its' biological speed limit again and slow down so I can fight this with some exercise. And if things are getting worse, I at least have the option of an anti-depressant. I don't like to pop the pills but I'll do it for Joseph. He deserves to have his Mom back.

***

Why, oh why, do I expose myself to the world this way? We've gone over this before. I'm not ashamed that I was built this way: overly anxious and occasionally prone to depression. That's not a choice I made. It's something that was dealt to me in my genetic deck of cards--the same way some people are dealt diseases or handicaps. I know how to fight this and I always do. I'm proud of how thoroughly I've made this a non-issue in my life (except when I'm pregnant... and getting pregnant scared me to death for that very reason) ... but I remember the first time it hit and I was unprepared. I felt so alone, so misunderstood, so ashamed of who I was. 


This is a common, but mostly unspoken, problem and I want others to know they're not alone. I want to shout down into the abyss that others have fallen into and tell them there is hope. Maybe that will be enough of a rope for them to cling to that they can eventually climb out and find normality again.


That's why.

Lights Out

I am dreaming and the world looks so black, so cold.

There is a void ahead of me and I am swirling in closer, closer. It is a pit. A blackness. A never-ending shiver that I have tried to shelter myself from.

I turn away, only to fear that I will lose my balance and fall backward. I must face it, stare it down, back away. But it is calling me.

I am tired. I don't want to fight. I just want to fall, fall, fall ...

Now I am standing on the brink, staring into black oblivion. A haunting voice without words calls to me from the depths. It is waiting to welcome me. It says that I am home.

The only string holding me upright is the truth that I will one day want to climb out of the darkness and it will exhaust every reserve of fire inside me. Would that fire be extinguished if I fell down, down, down...?

I awake to discover I've never been asleep.

Confirmation!

I've known for three weeks, but wanted to wait until after my 20-week ultrasound to put it on the blog. Now I can really, truly, officially state:

IT'S A GIRL!!!!

I can't even begin to describe what this is like for me. We'll just say that I've found myself standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, water dripping from my hands as tears form in my eyes at the realization that I'm finally having a baby girl.

It feels like an enormous responsibility all of a sudden. I don't know how to raise a girl. What do I do with a girl, for heaven's sake?

But for heaven's sake ... thank heaven for little girls.

Flowers & Clueless Employees

Flowers
I bought myself flowers today. Why shouldn't I? Do flowers have to be symbols of romantic love, friendship, sympathy or best wishes? No! On the most basic level, they are not symbolic of anything. They are beautiful and, occasionally, fragrant. They are pleasing to the senses.

As I walked past these flowers, I was first struck by some large, peach-colored roses. It is my mother-in-law's birthday and I knew they'd be perfect for her. Then my eyes wandered toward some beautiful stems of unique, white flowers. I don't know what they are but I know I adore them. I have a thing for white flowers. I found some beautiful rust/red flowers to accent both of the other bouquets and took them home.

I snipped them to the right length under some warm water, gave them their flower food and arranged them admirably. Maybe I'll tell my husband I bought them "for him" to make him feel appreciated. He needs to be more appreciated around here. I'm not easy to live with when I'm pregnant. True story.

Clueless Employees
I am one day shy of 20 weeks pregnant and loving it. This is a crazy journey and I felt like an absolutely inhuman monster during my first trimester. I'm human again now (but still hard to live with) and looking forward to May with excitement and trepidation.

Those who know pregnancy will know that "20 weeks" means more than just a halfway stepping stone to delivery. It means an in-depth ultrasound to see if baby is growing the right way and to make sure everything looks healthy.

It's hard to explain this amazing experience to somebody who hasn't witnessed it. It's the point at which the blob of seeming-fat on your front side is suddenly a living human being. It's proof that two individual cells can come together and miraculously turn into a variety of specialized cells, tissues, bones, blood... It's one of those amazing moments that just floors me.

Today is my 20-week ultrasound. I've been looking forward to it for about 18 weeks now and didn't want to miss a moment of it, so I went to the store to buy a DVD-R to record it for my children and family. I was stressed because the ultrasound tech told me a very specific type of DVD to buy. I think she said a "DVD minus" (DVD-R as opposed to DVD+R) but called the office to confirm. The receptionist sent me to an answering machine. Dang.

An employee was next to the DVDs, stocking shelves, and I hoped he might have something to shed on the subject. (Really, I just wanted a little reassurance but wasn't hoping for much.)

I asked, "Do you know the difference between the two types of DVDs?" [Edit: My actual words were, "Do you know the difference between the DVD-R plus and the DVD-R minuses?" but I was too lazy to type that out until a comment made me realize I was being ambiguous....]

"There's no difference," he replied. "They're made by the same company, but some of them are made in a different factory." He looked at as if he was letting me in on a big secret and shrugged. "They just package them differently. Stupid, really."

I squinted my eyes at him just a little in disbelief, dropped my jaw and tried to control the facial expression that I knew I was about to form. I am a big believer in being straight-forward with people and this guy was clearly way off in left field. I appreciate honesty in others so I don't have to second-guess myself or them. But there are times when it's just not polite (and completely unnecessary) to clue people in to your mental process. This was one of those times.

I tried to adjust my face to appear thoughtful for a moment*, smiled at him and quietly said, "Thank you." Then I wheeled my cart away and hoped I was buying the right thing.

* Like Steve Martin in the movie "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" when he is being hit in the leg that he claims is paralyzed, is in terrible pain but trying to mask his pain by looking intensely thoughtful. Great stuff.

The Pit of Despair!

No, this is not about the Princess Bride. That would be funner.

I was sick. I couldn't sleep last night. I was extremely irritable when my 7-yr-old son came pounding down the stairs around 6:30 a.m. (one of the rare times I was sleeping instead of tossing or turning) to tell me he was "scared." Mentally, I knew I should be supportive and loving. Emotionally, I didn't feel like it.

My husband jumped in and took him out of the room so I could rest a little longer. Then my husband left for work, leaving me alone with three loud, rowdy boys who naturally needed their Mom. I didn't want to be needed. I didn't want to take care of anybody else. I wanted to curl up under the covers, cry myself back to sleep and have somebody else take care of me. Hmph!

This was selfish. I was in a very rotten state of mind. I yelled at my son and when he demonstrated a very bad, rebellious attitude, I sent him to time out. That took about 30 seconds from start to finish. He slammed the door as hard as he could and things escalated. Eventually, he left the room and I sat in my bed in tears, feeling like the worst Mom in history of Bad Momness

My son poked his head around the corner timidly, asking what was wrong. I told him I was sick and tired and just not feeling well, which was true. Like the little codependent he's learning to be--sigh--he immediately assumed this was not true and that I was crying because he had misbehaved. He apologized and told me he wanted me to be happy. I tried to reassure him that (a) this wasn't his fault, and (b) that's not his responsibility. A few minutes later, we were sitting across from each other with bowls of cereal in front of us.

My son had completely forgotten the prior trauma and remarked, in response to something I'd said, "I think you're the perfect Mom." I wanted to snort milk out my nose and scream, "HA!" because I had just demonstrated the worst character traits imaginable a few minutes before. I didn't, though. I thanked him and tried to remind myself how innocent and vulnerable my children are--making it that much more important to grow up and stop blaming my children for my misery when I'm feeling ill.

We'll see how that turns out. If I could turn off all my negative emotions with a switch, I'd do it. I'd love to be purely compassionate, reasonable, kind, supportive, and validating all the time. It's just not that easy when life is swirling around me crazily.

I felt depressed the rest of the day until a surprise phone call jolted me out of my self pity. It was somebody who I hadn't talked to in over six months--somebody that I had a "professional" relationship with, meaning she was under no obligations of friendship to keep things positive between us. She was calling to say she was so sorry that she had missed an opportunity a few nights ago to hear me sing. She wanted to make sure I understood that she was very disappointed that she had to leave before my turn came. I thanked her and felt immediately buoyed up. She reminded me that she had heard me sing a few years ago, thought I had a real talent and hoped I would continue my progress there.

I hung up and smiled at my rambunctious children. It didn't make everything all better, but it was a nice little shot of optimism to keep me going. That's the kind of thing my kids need in large doses to counteract the crazy world they're growing up in: optimism. What am I thinking when I yell at them and make home a miserable place to be? That's not good for any of us. I need to practice patience and compassion 100% of the time--not just when I'm feeling healthy and well-rested. And I better practice fast because soon there will be a new baby in the house and there will be no more sleep for a long time.

Sweet Surprise

Cinnamon. Ginger. Cloves. Molasses. Add in some flour and butter and you're pretty close to my favorite Christmas-time snack: Gingerbread.

Only one caveat: it can't be cooked. That ruins gingerbread. Gingerbread cookies are meh. Gingerbread cookie DOUGH is divine. I don't know why this is true, but it is irrefutable in my mind.

Yesterday, as I promised my son that I'd make gingerbread people with him, I tried to tell myself I had to be well-behaved. Raw cookie dough is a risk--one I'm willing to take most of the time, but not when I'm pregnant. Everything is riskier and more serious when I'm pregnant, so I was mentally steeling myself to stare at the spicy goodness without indulging even one little bite.

This morning, I got up and mixed the dough together. When I was all done, it hit me: no eggs. This recipe has NO EGGS. That means no raw eggs... no fear of poisoning... and that means the cookie dough is perfectly safe!

I stared at the recipe in amazement. I stared at the tantalizing bowl of deliciousness and let my Pavlovian instincts take over: time to salivate. I washed my hands carefully and reached in for the tiniest pinch. Pure heaven! I mentally congratulated myself for having the forethought to make a double batch. That means that I can indulge without taking away the sugary delight of fresh-baked cookies from my children.

I sat down and played board games with my twins for over an hour. I stood up and reached into the fridge for another pinch of dough.

Life is sweet. Oh, so sweet.

On My Mind & Neighbor Gifts (Part II)

A few things on my mind today, plus a bonus(!) Lengthy Commentary Probing the Psychology and Interpersonal Implications of Neighbor Gifts, the Lack Thereof or the Substitution Thereof for Other Ideologies.

Let's begin.

* The "Ranch Rolls" at Maceys Supermarket are surprisingly good. They have a little chew on the exterior and softness on the interior that sent me thousands of miles away to the homes of my cousins in Europe. Good rolls like that belong in Vienna or London or a small home outside Kassel, Germany. Not Maceys Supermarket. Perhaps it was a fluke. Maybe the next one I bite into will just be another bland, American-style, squishy excuse for bread. Let that happen as it may. The last one was heaven.

* I have entered a new stage of pregnancy: the "I Can Look at Raw Meat Without Gagging Violently" stage. I am very excited about this and I am celebrating by cooking some chicken for enchiladas. I am wondering why I still gag when I see dried-on bits of cereal in my children's unrinsed breakfast bowls. I hope that stage comes soon.

* I think my random blog posts (like this one) are my favorite.

* I think that it's time to break down and go buy some new maternity clothes. (1) My old ones are not only hideously unattractive, but also a tad on the big size. I've lost some weight since my last pregnancy ... which was a multiples pregnancy. (2) My current favorite non-maternity pants are so threadbare that they finally developed an unsightly and immodest tear in them two days ago. And I've worn them for two more days anyway.

* On to my Lengthy Commentary:

I blogged about neighbor gifts last year and here I am feeling flummoxed yet again, so this is an issue that I am clearly not at peace with. My dilemma stems mainly from three sources:

(1) My neighborhood has developed a sort of "tradition" of asking people to give food to charity or donate to a cause or some other High And Worthy Purpose instead of spending money on neighbor gifts.

(2) But I like cooking. And I like giving gifts to people. And I give money to charity year-round, including supporting a foster child in Cambodia.

(3) I always come back to The List. Whom do I skip by with a guilty conscience and whom do I give to, even though I know they haven't given anything to me for five years but I saw the plate of goodies they gave to my neighbor sitting on her counter so they're clearly doing more than the above (#1) High and Worthy Purpose?

This is not a major source of stress for me, but it keeps my brain more active than I usually care to admit. Last year, I made photo cards and added a message that I was donating food to charity for every card we handed out. This felt wrong for several reasons:

   (a) Doesn't a card like that say, "Look at how noble and good and charitable and admirable I am! Admire me ... from a distance, please."

   (b) My husband accused me of never following through on donating the food. Ahem. Who does the grocery shopping? Who does the budget? Thank you very much, Mr. Doubter, but I did so.

   (c) It felt like a cop-out. Like taking the easy way out. Like cheating. Which is what I needed last year, which was a very stressful time for me. But times have changed since then so I don't need a cop-out this year. (See above #2.)

So this year I printed up my Christmas cards and addressed all of the out-of-towners and then sat back to wonder what I'd do about the neighbors. I have fabulous neighbors that I adore and I like to drop a little something on their porch every year, but then the stress started creeping in. I started doubting myself. I decided to just buy something this year--maybe some Anna's Cinnamon Thins. I was all set on this plan but didn't make the trip to IKEA that day and started doubting myself again.

Then I thought, "Bah. I don't need to spend that money--I'll just give everyone a card with a few candy canes tied up with ribbon. It's the thought that counts!!" I walked into the grocery store this morning, determined to follow through on this plan. Then came the secondary wave of self-doubt. I realized that my insecurities are to blame for my hesitancy to bake ... after all, what if the cookies I give them sit on the counter for two weeks, get stale and then they think I'm a terrible baker? Harsh! What if I give everybody a certain treat just to find out that Mrs. Better Baker made the same thing and mine are suffering by comparison? Oh no!

Then came the moment of truth. I laughed at myself. How silly! I love baking and I love giving gifts, so I am going to bake something for my neighbors this year. Even if it turns out badly and everyone knows how human I am. Even if it takes two weeks to get it done. Even if it's not cool and now everybody else thinks I'm not into High and Charitable causes because I brought people cookies instead. I'll still give to charity. I'll still be generous. I'll just do those things AND make silly little plates of cookies for my neighbors too.

Plus, I'm not sure how High and Charitable it is to beg off the neighbor gifts to donate $20 to a Better Cause. It's great and socially conscious and all that, but don't you think there's just a teensy, tiny, little hint of laziness involved, too? Oops, did I say that publicly?

If I get burned-out, I have a backup plan: three dozen candy canes sitting on my counter in case life just gets in the way.

Skeezix

Skeezix. That's what we call babies who are still chillin' in Mom's tummy. I'm going to tell you about Skeezix today.

On Sunday morning, I clearly felt Skeezix moving around. I felt it again Monday morning and I've got to tell you: this kid is ACTIVE! Skeezix is doing aerobics inside me. Or karate. Or kickboxing. Probably kickboxing. I'm only 16 weeks pregnant and baby is already doing kickboxing! What will Skeezix be doing at 8.75 months? Gulp.

I've been feeling strange lately. I won't go into details, but it's probably harmless. My OB sent me in for an ultrasound this morning just to make sure all was well with Mom. (We already knew all was well with baby with all that movement and an audible confirmation of the heartbeat.)

There is nothing--absolutely nothing--like seeing my baby on ultrasound. Skeezix was moving constantly, wiggling little arms and legs. We got to hear the heartbeat and, yes, determine the gender. We're 90% sure, but I have my 20-week ultrasound in three weeks so we'll confirm it then.

All I can say is: I'm in love with that tiny little soul that is already a mover and shaker. In my mind, all that movement is saying: I'm happy. Life is good. I can't wait to see what is waiting for me! Hey Mom, look what I can do!

All is well.

Wake-up Call

I was having a lovely dream around 3:00 a.m. when I awoke suddenly to the sound of my telephone ringing. In my supreme mid-dream drowsiness, I reasoned that either (a) it was important and they would call back or (b) it was unimportant and they would not call back. They didn't call back (wrong number?) and I fell asleep again quickly.

The real wakeup call came later in the morning when I met with a member of our Bishopric. I was recently released from a calling and knew that something new was in the works. As we sat down together, I hoped for something that would be spiritually invigorating and mentally challenging.

In particular, I hoped I would finally be called to teach in one of the classes. I come from a family of teachers and spent a few brief months teaching at a private school before my oldest son was born. Teaching is in my blood. I enjoy it and look forward to it. It's a real treat to me when I'm asked to substitute teach a class. Yet for some reason, I've never been called on to teach regularly in church.

I'm generally called to do very organizational types of things. This makes sense because I am extremely organized--or at least I can be and prefer to be--and because I have no trouble keeping track of several "loose ends." I'm a natural-born secretary, but pardon my indignation while I state that I am good at plenty of things non-secretarial. I'm intelligent and well-educated and I love a challenge.

You can imagine my inner reaction when I was asked to fill the easiest calling in the entire church--"church librarian." This involves making photocopies and taking pictures off a shelf. That is all, in its entirety. Making photocopies and taking pictures off a shelf. (I mustn't forget that I have to take our paper out of the machine at the end of the day to keep supplies in their proper places. Heaven forbid I forget that detail!)

I had all the enthusiasm crushed out of me, but we never say no when we're asked to serve in the church so my husband (who was released from a calling he loved for this) and I are now librarians. Every other week.

I'm still wrapping my head around how to humbly and gratefully magnify this calling. I'm trying to forget my impression that this calling is generally given to people who seem to be spiritually unprepared for more important things. I'm trying not to feel like this is a waste of my talents. I'm trying to remember that we were told this calling is highly coveted and we were chosen, partially, because we are being released from time-consuming callings. It's our reward, I guess, for serving well in other ways?

I'm trying to remember that callings come from a Higher Source and He knows better than I do. I'm trying to remember that I am pregnant and probably not fit for the most challenging calling right now. I'm trying to remember I could end up on bed rest again, just like with my other pregnancies.

I'm trying to remember that humbly serving anywhere in the church is taking the burden off of somebody else. I'm trying to remember a lot of things. I'm trying to be like Jesus and accept humble service without complaint.

It might take a few days to sink in, but I will be there next Sunday morning with a bright, cheerful smile on my face to make photocopies, hand people pictures and put the copy paper where it belongs at the end of the day. I will find out why everybody else is congratulating me on the best calling ever ... and then my gratitude sincerely overflow.

At least, that's the plan.

Hills and valleys

Life has been superb lately. I've been happier and more productive than ever before and I think I will be able to say, when it is over, that 2009 has been the best year of my life.

Some days, though, still knock me down and kick me in the gut. Today was one of those days. I realized that all "wrong side of the bed" mornings start out with a child making loud demands at ridiculously early hours. I grumbled (forcefully) to Joseph that I was going to come into his room screaming and turning on lights some time to see how he liked it. He informed me after school that he didn't scream. I told him that in my sleepy state it sure sounded like screaming.

Around 10:30 a.m., I decided to pen a blog entry that I've been considering for a long time. It was about rejection and friendship and deep-seated pain that I have to word very carefully to share publicly. I found that emotion took over and I wasn't up to the task in the end. The writing was lousy instead of meaningful and I couldn't express what I really wanted to say. So I hit "save" instead of "publish."

The emotional effort of rehashing past hurt left me bankrupt. I felt hollowed out and depressed the rest of the day. As I remembered some of the things I had written about, I kept fighting back tears. I bought ice cream for lunch, felt guilty the rest of the day for the splurge and skipped dinner in a misguided attempt to make up for lunch.

Around 3:30, I just collapsed on a couch while my kids snuggled around me watching television. I slept until almost 5:00 and woke up feeling even lousier. I never made dinner. I just laid around in a tailspin. My husband came home and had to leave almost right away for a scouting meeting. He ate a leftover hamburger from lunch but the kids still hadn't eaten a thing. Josh finally fed them dinner around 8:30 p.m., half an hour after their bedtime. I sat around feeling helpless and guilty and continuously on the verge of tears.

That's when the craving started. I haven't craved emotional eating like this in a very long time--months, probably. I used to feel this way constantly, like I had to eat until the pain went away. That's how I ended up at my current size. It hasn't been like that lately. I may be overeating, but it's for other reasons (not the least of which is a very hungry fetus inside me.) I hate that feeling.

As Josh got the kids ready for bed, I got down a package of marshmallows and resolved to make some Rice Krispy treats after the kids were in bed. I still haven't made them. I decided to try a little therapeutic writing instead.

Why do days like this happen? Life has been wonderful! Peaceful! Calm! Organized! In control! Optimistic! Happy! And then comes along a day when something is just not right with my pregnancy hormones or seratonin levels or spirituality or ... ? ... and the world is crumbling.

I don't write this for pity, though. Nor is this a cry for help. I write this knowing that tomorrow will be a fresh and happy day. The past will be past and the future will be gleaming brightly ahead. I have a game night planned with some good friends tomorrow night and a Girl's Night Out planned for Saturday afternoon. Thanksgiving is next week, which means that I will bask in the love of friendship and family ... and good food!

That keeps me buoyant right now. I know I'll float instead of sink. I just need to get to bed--preferably before I follow through on the marshmallow plan--and remember that tomorrow is another day.

Parallel Parking

I was in a lazy mood. When I pulled into a parking spot at Megasupercorpget, I knew I had parked a bit crooked but shrugged it off. I got out of the car and saw that it was one of my better BAD parking jobs. The front tires were on the left side of the space and the back tires were just kissing the yellow lines on the right side. The car wasn't too close to the ones next door, though, so I went into the store and did my shopping. I may be finicky about certain things in my life, but perfect parking is not one of them.

When I came out of the store, I was surprised to see that the car to my left had driven away and been replaced by a new car that had parked perfectly parallel to mine. Their front tires were on the left side of the space, with the right tires just kissing the right line.

"That's amazing parallel parking," I thought humorously to myself. It got me thinking. If a third car arrived a little later, would it follow suit and ignore the nicely-painted, perpendicular yellow lines in favor of the trendy new angles?

More importantly, it was a reminder that all our lives are interconnected. We may not be responsible for the way others react to us, but it's good to remember that our actions are influential. Like a finger touching the still surface of a lake, we create ripples of influence, sometimes fading into the obscurity of eternity and other times becoming tsunamis that destroy others' serenity.

During this season of Thanksgiving, I want to express my gratitude for the goodness of life by creating ripples of joy and laughter ... and by laughing when the ill effects of other people's choices wash over me.

Pie Time!

The women at my church got together last night to listen to a great speaker and eat pie together. Sounds like a winning combination, don't you think?

Part of the evening was a pie contest and women were allowed to vote for their two favorite pies. This seemed like a slightly flawed system to me since most of the women only sampled one type of pie. If you only try one slice, how can you compare to decide which is best? Is the decision based on which pie looks the best? Or do you just vote for your favorite flavor?

As I said, a flawed system. However, that was all forgiven when I won 2nd place for my "Pecan Pie Tartlets." I came home and told my boys facetiously that I'm now an "award-winning pie maker." Joseph's eyes got huge and his jaw dropped. I need to be careful how I talk to him because he was way prouder of me than he should have been.

In his and my defense, the pecan pie "baby tarts" were really adorable and delicious! While I prepared them, the boys groaned about how disgusting they looked ("Fine, don't eat any.") but when they came out of the oven, they devoured them.

Tonight, Josh and I made pumpkin pie with the other pie crust dough. It may not win any prestigious awards, but it'll win the most important one: the looks of delight when I offer my boys pie for breakfast!

Bonus Geeked Out Factoid: I read on Google Reader this week that if you write 3.14 on a paper and look at it in the mirror, it spells PIE! Whoa! I can't describe how happy that made me. Stop laughing. I already told you I'm a geek.

Wrong Side of the Bed

I think I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, which also happens to be the side of the bed where a four-year-old boy is screaming and demanding that I get out of bed NOW to go fix the computer, which incidentally isn't working because we set up parental controls which limit the hours that the computer can be used.

Sunrise o'clock ain't one of the approved times.

A Home for the Holidays

The clutter in my house has been slowly reaching its hands out to me--not in a plea for help, but in an effort to wrap around my neck to suffocate me. That's what it feels like.

As I was cheerfully thanking the pharmacist for a prescription last week, it dawned on me that I felt extremely peaceful, charitable and kind there in the grocery store--but never at my house. In fact, I feel fairly chipper and peaceful anywhere else--hotel rooms, friends' houses, department stores. But when I step into my house, I become a stressed out, mean, anxious *****.

This is wrong and deeply troubling. I realized that I always feel more peaceful when I am not at my house. Why? I love my family and I love being with them. I have a beautiful house with lots of space to stretch out.

A house, however, is not a home and I am craving a home. A few years ago, I spent New Year's Eve at my friend Craig's parents' house and felt more at home than I have ever felt in a house of my own. When I saw that house go on the market a few years later, I wistfully thought about buying it until I realized that without the people who lived there, it would just be a house. It's better to make my own house into a home.

When I contemplated having another child this summer, I asked my husband out to dinner and we sat on the grass next to Chili's while we waited for our table. I told him how much I wanted to have another child but worried that I couldn't handle the stress unless I got my house organized and decluttered. I don't know why this has to happen before I have another baby, but I feel it stronger than almost anything I've felt in my life.

Then I got pregnant and fatigued and nauseous and knew it wouldn't happen right away. The stress grew and grew and grew. That all changed when my friend Kathy posted a challenge to some of her friends. She said, "Would you like to have a beautifully clean and organized home during the holiday season? Let's start now!"


In my mind, I envisioned the HOME I've been craving with red and green garlands on the staircase, the scent of pine and cinnamon wafting through the air and the sound of relaxed laughter ringing through the halls. I wanted that more than anything I've wanted in a long time. I need it. I crave it. I must have it!

So I am taking Kathy's challenge and running with it. My goal is to declutter the main problem areas before Thanksgiving, in addition to making some major organizational changes that have needed to happen for years. I made a list of all my goals yesterday and decided which days I'll tackle which rooms. I called for help--asked the in-laws to help with some projects, asked my Mom to keep me company while I deep clean my entire kitchen and asked my husband to help me with some of the weekend projects like putting together new bookshelves, installing shelves in a toy closet and ... well, I can't say more because he reads my blog and I haven't sprung the other ideas on him quite yet. Ahem. (Don't worry, dear. It'll be easy.... or at least it'll be worth it.)

As I started in to my piles of gunk, I kept finding things that elicited this reaction: "Ugh.. Stress.. I don't know where to put that or what to do with it. Can't I just put it in a junk pile somewhere else until I get around to cleaning THAT pile up...? I don't want to deal with it."

That's when I realized where this anxiety I'm feeling comes from: little pieces of ignored stress that I've allowed to literally pile up around me in my house. There are little things in every room that haven't been dealt with because there is stress and anxiety attached to them. When I let those things hang out and stare me in the face, they mock me! They reach in to my chest and twist my heart around until I feel like I can't breathe. (Which may seem like a strange illusion since the lungs have more to do with breathing, but.... that's how I feel, whether it is logical or not.)

After 24 hours into my challenge, I've accomplished a lot and wanted to throw in the towel several times per hour. It is painful to confront the stress that is piled up around me--Where can I store that beautiful paper that I bought in Berlin? Will the kids hate me if they find out I threw this away? I don't have a box big enough to store this so I guess I'll just pile it somewhere else?--but with each small accomplishment, I am triumphing over the anxiety in my life.

I am such an anxious, depressed mess during my first 18 months postpartum that I have to do this for survival. We'll worry about "thriving" again in about four years when the baby is older. For now, I need a plan to just survive the chaos that comes when I get no sleep and have to deal with baby poop and spit-up and screaming and temper tantrums. Nobody in my family is built for the years of young motherhood--that's just the way it is when you're raised by a working Mom who was raised by a working Mom (in the '50s!) We may feel lost with the challenges of motherhood at times, but we're strong and we're smart ... so it's time that I start acting like it. Time to make my house a HOME for the holidays.

Thanks, Kathy, for the inspiration!

I Love Reading

I love reading.

Tonight I cried when I saw that the next page in my novel said, "Acknowledgements." In other words, "That's it, folks. The end." I didn't cry because it was a sad ending to the novel. I cried because I just wanted to keep reading and stay immersed in a world I loved with characters who had become dear friends. When I really love a book, I hate getting booted out on that final page, back into reality. Not that reality is bad--I just really love reading.

I have read the following books since I got pregnant three months ago:

October
The Help, by Kathryn Stockett (464 pages)
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built (No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, #10), by Alexander McCall Smith (212)
The Miracle at Speedy Motors (No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, #9), by Alexander McCall Smith (224)
The Screwtape Letters, by C.S. Lewis (175)
Strong Women Stay Slim, by Miriam E. Nelson (Okay, I only read about half of it, I admit.) (336)
Middlemarch, by George Eliot (1,024)

September
The Winter of Our Discontent, by John Steinbeck (304)
The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch (206)
Fablehaven #3: Grip of the Shadow Plague, by Brandon Mull (487)
Fablehaven #2: Rise of the Evening Star, by Brandon Mull (456)
Kissing Doorknobs, by Terry Spencer Hesser (160)
Forest Born, by Shannon Hale (391)

August
The Kitchen God's Wife, by Amy Tan (416)
Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert (334)

Total: 5,189 pages and hours of delight


I bought "The Help" on the same day that I checked out the latest two Alexander McCall Smith books from the library: Wednesday. Today is Saturday and I feel depressed because I've finished all three and I have nothing to read on Sunday afternoon. If this is an addiction, I don't want to recover.

I love reading.

The strength to try

Conversations with my Mom today, and what they really mean:

Me: "Mom, I'm starting a new strength training program and I think you'd love it, too."
Mom: "That sounds great! If you buy me some free weights for Christmas, I'll use them and let you know how it works." (Meaning: Give me a few months to think about it. This is new. It takes time to warm up to new ideas.)
Me: "That sounds like a great idea!" (Meaning: There is no way you're chickening out on me. I'm starting today and I want somebody to suffer with me. I'll be over in 25 minutes with new weights from the store.)

...25 minutes later...

Me: "Hey, Mom, I'm on my way over..." (Meaning: You have five minutes warning instead of five seconds. Think quick!)
Mom: "Oh, umm... I'm really busy." (Meaning: Go away.)
Me: "I'll be quick..." (Meaning: No. I'm determined.)

...five minutes later...

Me: Okay, here are two chairs to do this first exercise. It looks really simple. Sit down.
Mom: No, no, dear. You just show me how to do it and I'll do it tomorrow. (Meaning: Go away!)
Me: Two chairs. Two people. It takes the same amount of time to do it with me as it does to watch. Sit down. (Meaning: Have you ever noticed how the name "Jillian" sounds similar to "Juliana"? I'm channeling her influence. This is for your OWN GOOD!)

...five minutes later...

Me: Okay, I've done this next one before and I love it. Of course, I do this one lying down instead of sitting, so let's see how we do this. Okay, go like this... {GROAN}... UGH... Uhh, holy crap, these are heavy... {GASP}... See? {Pant pant} Easy!" (Meaning: Don't think you're superior to me just because those 5-pounders are easy to lift. These 10-pounders are a tad harder for this particular exercise... groaaaannnnn....)

I've done some strength training--simple, simple stuff--on and off for the last few years and my OB gave me permission to keep it up while I'm pregnant. So I'm going to try to commit myself to doing these simple things more often. I'm not going to the gym. I'm not doing anything fancy. Just a few simple things with free weights and the weight I'm blessed to carry every day, which is not insignificant. I wish I had people to do this with, but my neighbors are all light-years ahead of me, getting strong at the gym, and I'm a social chicken anyway. I'm a bit too timid to show my flab and weakness at the gym just yet, but maybe I'll grow into my confidence a little at a time.

(Meaning: I remember how weak and sick I felt after being on bedrest, having a c-section and caring for twins. I'm still terrified of feeling that way again. I'm so incredibly scared of feeling that sick again that I'll do whatever I can NOW to get my body a little healthier so I can weather than time when it comes... Or that's the plan, at least...)

A Letter to GE HR

  Dear General Electric Human Resources,

  No amount of sugar coating makes the introduction of a deductible palatable. My husband joined your company, in large part, because his former company's health plan included a deductible and yours did not. We hate deductibles that much. They are evil and they encourage loving parents to dismiss their children's sicknesses as "not important enough" because it costs $50+ just to be seen for five minutes. Ten minutes if I bring a list of questions.

  A deductible ensures that you collect our premiums every two weeks but pay nothing in return. I can see how that is a benefit to you. I can see how that is a great business model and lowers your increasing costs. The only down side? It does not provide your customers--who depend on you to provide what they need--with what they need and want.

  I would like to congratulate your propagandists, however. It almost sounds nice when you tell me that my new insurance plan will "expand preventive coverage, provide [me] with tools to be healthy, and will protect [me] financially in the case of severe illness." Almost. Let's break that down.

  (1) Expand preventive coverage. So you will be happy to cover doctor's visits when I am not sick. Okaaaay...

  (2) Provide me with tools to be healthy. Like a glossy brochure full of marketing pitches about how I need to eat more fruits and vegetables and exercise regularly? Gosh! What would I do without THAT?!? I mean, that's really earth-shattering stuff. Seriously. When you want to pay for my gym membership, let me know. Until then, I'm not impressed.

  (3) Protect me financially in the case of severe illness. So if I get cancer, you've got my back? That's good to know. Seriously. I'm not even being sarcastic. I understand that this kind of "insurance" is what you'd like me to focus on. I just wanted a lot more.

  (4) Make routine sick-child visits affordable so I can have my children seen before minor problems turn into major ones. Oh wait.. you didn't SAY THAT, did you?!?

  In closing, I'd like to thank you for making this change while I am pregnant. It's so nice to know that paying the HIGHEST premiums this year, in exchange for the lowest deductible which is $300 MORE than the deductible I had with our previous company, will be the right choice for me. It's great to be in charge of my own health choices. I feel so empowered.

  Sincerely, Juliana

  p.s. Please don't offer my husband a pay increase to help pay for this, because then we might be in the higher bracket of salaries and have to pay even more for our bi-weekly contributions. Oh wait. You didn't offer.

Sidelined

Thomas and I are sick.

It might not be H1N1, but the doctor didn't want to refer us to a place where we would find out. We're on vacation, people. The flu is the flu.

Or, technically, an "upper respiratory infection" is an "upper respiratory infection." It could just be a common cold because nobody's barfing ... yet.

What this all means is that we're supposed to be in Disneyland right now, but we're not. We're quarantining ourselves for most of a day and letting Thomas and I sleep, sleep, sleep... Elijah is always up for a good nap and Dad is happy to be out of touch with reality, too, since he did an emergency Ibuprofen run at 3:30 a.m. Only our oldest is at the happiest place on earth.

I'm just happy not to be doing dishes and laundry while I'm recovering from whatever-this-is. I'm also happy to be at a hotel that serves up Milano cookies with the nightly turn-down service. I've been swimming twice and I haven't cooked a meal since Monday. Who cares about some measly coughing and skyrocketing fevers (poor Thomas!) when I have so many great things going my way?

Rather (Rah-thuh)

I just finished a great classic novel, Middlemarch by George Eliot. It was quite an impressive epoch and I am glad I discovered it. However, I worry that it has had a negative influence on my speech patterns. I find myself using complicated, pretentious-sounding phrases because that has filled my mind so completely of late. (Ahem.)

Did it rub off on Joseph? He wanted to write me a little letter this morning and I told him to just write whatever was in his heart. The result:

"Dear Mom,

I do hope the baby will function."

I laugh every time I think of this phrase. I think, "Rather, dear!" with an overly dramatized stuffy, old English gentlemen accent. Rah-thuh! I do hope the baby will be perfectly functional, indeed!

Frail

I'm still unsure of how this happens. All is well. All is good. Then I wake up from a nap and uncertainty has overcome me. All my mistakes, all my blunders, all my imperfections are carved in front of me. I stare at them and feel so weak, so helpless.

Maybe I expect too much of myself, or maybe I don't expect enough of myself. I feel that both are true and that knowledge makes me wince.

Sometimes my words echo after they are spoken and I say, "I'm a nice person. I have a gentle voice and pleasant manner of showing others that I care for them." Then I think of all the proof that this isn't true and my words sounds harsh and unforgiving.

I want off this emotional roller coaster.

When I think about the so, so, so many imperfections that define me, I can't help but feel like the video below, which makes me cry every time I watch it. (Surprise, surprise.) If it was easy to perfect myself, wouldn't I do it? But life is not easy. I am bound and trodden down by how difficult it is to be something that I am not, that I want to be.



I know that I am progressing every day to the person whom I will some day be. I think I feel this furnace of imperfection more than many people. Now I will sit and mourn my humanity. Tomorrow I will resolve to see my own divinity.

Islands of Awake

Naps are like little islands of sleep in the middle of an ocean of wakefulness.

What do you call those little islands of wakefulness in the middle of sleep? Shouldn't they have a convenient, little word to describe them? Insomnia refers to a recurring problem and not to the little island itself, so I need something else. Let's see. Wakefulness. Wakeful times ...? WAkeFul Times? WAFT?

I'm sick of WAFTing. I wafted so much last night that I actually came up with the ridiculous little term "WAFT." That tells you how tired and groggy I was. When I waft, my brain goes around in circles and I feel grumpy. I was awake for about two hours last night and felt very grumpy about it. Charity was lost and all I could think about was those pet peeves that drive me crazy about people. How could he...? Why should she...? Why can't they...? I realized what I was doing and tried to rationally call a halt. Then I mentally revisited all the greatest mistakes and disappointments of my life and let guilt and regret seep in for a while. That seemed equally unhealthy and I tried to focus on breathing in and out... in and out... That lasted about two breaths.

I eventually fell back to sleep. I awoke to the sounds of my children talking in blurred excitement. I tried to be nice about it, but I snapped. "I didn't sleep well last night. PLEASE GO DO SOMETHING ELSE!" It wasn't too harsh, but I hate to make my children feel unwanted ... which they were, but I didn't want them to FEEL that way.

I forced myself awake 15 minutes before my oldest left for school, made him two pieces of toast and sent him out the door. Five minutes later I looked at the calendar to plan my day and realized I had missed school pictures. This is not too big of a deal, except that I can imagine my son's hurt confusion when he realizes everybody else has money for pictures, slick hair and a nice shirt. My son left for school with hair poking up in back and lying flat in front (sigh) and a 4-H t-shirt. That's high-class. This will be the class picture to be buried and never remembered. The class picture that Fox News will latch onto when my son is a famous something-or-other. This will be the class picture that his fiance looks at and says, "You certainly did end up looking nicer than you looked in 2nd grade. Isn't it marvelous that we grow up?"

So now I prepare myself for the grumpy little face that will come home. There will be accusation in his eyes and he will be holding back tears as he screams, "YOU FORGOT ABOUT SCHOOL PICTURES!!" Luckily for him, I have a Plan B. I'm going to make sugar cookies for a church activity tonight and they will be sitting here warm and ready to be frosted. I know I shouldn't bribe away anger with sugar, but sugar cookies are very therapeutic. At least, that's what I'm betting on.

Heart palpitations

I'm so disappointed. And scared.

I took a nap and woke up feeling disoriented and sick. Nothing new there. I laid down and watched "The Biggest Loser" feeling like a total loser of the wrong sort.

I forced myself to get up and prepare some semblance of dinner for the kids. I couldn't figure out why I was out of breath. I put my head in my hands and breathed in and out, in and out.

Oh no. Please not this. Not yet. It's only the first trimester and my heart is healthier than it was with the other pregnancies. Please, please, please ... not this ...

I walked over to the clock and put my fingers to my pulse. 128 beats per minute.

128 and I had just been standing in the kitchen. Just standing there, trying to breathe. For my age, a heart rate of 128 is right smack dab in the middle of my target exercise range. Right about where I should be if I'm doing a good cardio workout, which is the way I felt.

No, no, no...

Maybe 128 isn't bad. Maybe that's normal. That's normal, right? Is the breathlessness normal, too?

Although they do not currently specify any particular number, the American College of Obstetricians & Gynecologists used to recommend keeping your heart rate at under 140 when pregnant and exercising. At this rate, I'm getting in a great workout without doing anything.

To be honest, 128 isn't bad for this kind of episode. When I was pregnant with the twins, my pulse would spike to over 200 unexpectedly. It didn't matter what I was doing. It often happened when I was lying in bed. It scared the crud out of me every time.

It started when I was pregnant with Joseph. The doctor told me to go into labor & delivery if it happened again, so I dutifully went in but the episode had passed. This started a long line of heart tests and cardiologist visits. Sitting in the waiting room where the average age appeared to be 92 or so, I felt old and scared. What was wrong with me?

The cardiologist couldn't tell me. They never could pin it down right when it was happening, but my heart appeared to be working just fine. And after the pregnancies were over, the heart palpitations faded away. I've never forgotten, however, when my cardiologist lightly mentioned that my heart was having trouble doing what it needed to do and yes, technically, he could classify that as heart failure. Maybe the term "heart failure" to him is a broader, less "I NEED TO FREAK OUT ABOUT THE WORDS YOU JUST USED" kind of phrase than it is to me.

So I've been exercising since I had the twins. I've been losing weight. I swore to myself that I'd be healthier during my last pregnancy and if I worked hard enough, this wouldn't happen. I really, honestly, truly, sincerely believed it. Until it happened. Until I was standing there and couldn't catch my breath and my heart was suddenly racing and it wasn't until it had been going on for several minutes that I realized what was happening and got that magic number: 128, and I knew that it had probably been higher than that a minute before and all my best intentions and hopes for a palpitation-free pregnancy had just been blasted apart with a shotgun. And I knew that the tears that were starting to form were not going to be the simple "single tear on cheek" kind of tears. These were going to be big, sobbing tears of disappointment and frustration and if I tried to call anybody to talk about it, I'd fall apart faster than cotton candy that's been thrown in the toilet.

There were only two things left to do:

(1) Text my husband and ask if 128 seemed normal to him?

(2) Blog it away and try to cope

I'm still feeling a little, tiny bit out of breath and freaked out. But I need to move on. I'll call the OB on Monday and just let him know that "they're baaaaaack!" and pray that he doesn't make me stop exercising or start wearing one of those danged uncomfortable EKG holsters that I suffered with twice before. Maybe I should just not tell him...?

There's More to Life Than Pregnancy

* I understand why people call the wind "biting." As I stepped out into it today, jacket-free by (stupid) choice, it felt like a thousand little goblins were chomping down on my skin. I stung all over and thought, "Ahhh... the biting wind... I get it now..." I tried to think of how else I could describe wind that was slightly less cliche. Numbing? Cliche. Stinging? Cliche. I thought up a good one, but it's gone by now. Such are all opportunities in life: if you don't grab them, they'll flit away.

* At the last writing conference I attended, Jeff Savage taught a fun class and I had to laugh at myself for all the wrong things I'm guilty of. (Of which I'm guilty?) If I couldn't laugh when he pointed them out, where would I be? Crying? It's better to laugh than cry. One of the things he scoffed at was "Purple Prose." Umm... guilty! However, in my defense, my ridiculously metaphorical writing is not for show. It's not because I want to impress anybody. It's just the way I think! Similes and metaphors are the bread and butter of my imagination. (Wow, I did that without realizing what I was doing. Honestly. Do you see what I'm saying? I can't help myself.) I honestly imagine little goblins biting my skin when the wind whips around me. I honestly think the mountains are lazily sleeping when I look up at them. My brain functions in metaphor.

* When I dropped the twins off at preschool this morning, we heard a fire engine's sirens blaring nearby. We stopped and turned around to watch it pass, but suddenly the lights went off and the engine was silent. I watched the students across the street, waiting at the crosswalk, turn their heads together to watch the approaching engine. It came crawling through the street and I didn't understand why. Was the emergency suddenly cancelled? Never mind, folks. Let's head back to the station! Or.. what? Just as I started entertaining these questions, the engine roared back to life with a whir of sound and flashing lights.

It hit me suddenly: this is a school zone. Flashing yellow lights by the "20 MPH zone" trump the flashing red fire engine lights any day. Those kids all waiting innocently across the street could be my kids: my impetuous little Thomas or my speedy little Elijah. I don't know why it affected me so profoundly, but I cried as I walked into the school. Children are so valuable. Children are so innocent. Protecting the children is important enough for the blaring fire engines and ambulances to slow down and watch carefully. Am I slowing down in my life to protect my children emotionally?

* Winter popped its head around the corner this morning to say hello. "Hi! Remember me? Just wanted to check in and let you know I'll be home soon!" I'm delighted. The plunging temperatures are nothing but good news to my overly-hot, pregnant body. And the rain! Ahhh, if I were ever to compose a very Purple Prose sonnet, it would be about the rain. I love the sound, the smell, the clear air and even the swampy lake that develops in my back yard. (I could choose to be bitter that the contractor of the home behind us didn't put in a retaining wall to keep their bloomin' water where it BELONGS (thank you very much) but I try to enjoy the seasonal pond instead.) The kids put on rain boots and go stomping in the temporary marsh. What fun!

* Could there possibly be a more lovely season than Autumn? To me, Autumn is the time of year for falling in love. Perhaps it's because it was Autumn when I realized suddenly that I was in love with the man who later became my husband. What a shocking revelation that was to me! Now I fall in love with the whole world each Autumn: the red and orange leaves, the warm pumpkin pie, the apple cider, huge apples from the Farmer's Market. Ah, Autumn!

Night-time visitor

"Sometimes I wish I knew the nature of night thoughts. They're close kin to dreams. Sometimes I can direct them, and other times they take their head and come rushing over me like strong, unmanaged horses."

--John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

I know the nature of my night thoughts. They emanate from a tiny demon that likes to laugh at me when I'm too drowsy to fight off irrational anxiety. Perhaps the demon is not real, but that is how I picture my anxious brain. I think somebody somewhere must be laughing hysterically as I try to wade through the desperate illusions in search of concrete reality.

Which is to say: I've been having trouble sleeping. When I awaken in the darkness, my brain plays out all the irrational (and rational) stresses that are plaguing me just below the surface during the day. I struggle toward wakefulness to cast out these fears, but my body resists: Sleep! Sleep!

My inner demon has lately been whispering to me all my fears about this pregnancy. It alternately made me terrified of miscarriage and terrified of having FOUR children! I got out of bed grumpy and past my breaking point. My morning was scheduled to the minute until my first obstetrician appointment. I was sure that they'd have to give me terrible news.

When I arrived, the nurses welcomed me by name and told me how excited they were that I was pregnant again. My doctor put his arm around me and told me how much he loves being my doctor. I told him he must have forgotten my last pregnancy and he assured me that it is difficult patients that get under his skin and never difficult pregnancies.

I vocalized all my fears and anxieties and my doctor reassured me that I had all the right symptoms of pregnancy and my uterus was measuring at just the right size. They took me back to the ultrasound room and within moments of starting the procedure, the nurse exclaimed, "There is the heart!"

And then I heard it. I was unprepared for that little thumpa-thumpa-thumpa that means life. I couldn't help it: I cried.

If I cry when I watch "The Biggest Loser" or "The Apprentice" (for heaven's sake!), you can bet I'll cry when I hear my baby's heartbeat.

If I cry when I drive past a traffic accident and think about how somebody's life just got turned upside down, you can bet I'll cry when I realize there is a living creature, with a heart independent of my own, that has just turned my life upside down.

That little heart beat, coming out of a little tiny human bean, washed away all the anxieties and fears. Life is good.

Zen Forgotten

A few weeks ago, I mastered the art of handling Paper Cut Pain. It was swell. Now the pregnancy hormones are running wild and I feel like curling up in a ball and crying myself to sleep. Not so Zen.

This is why I approached the idea of another child with trepidation. Perhaps trepidation is the wrong word. The correct word would be something closer to fear, horror or sheer terror. When I become pregnant, I lose myself. I try not to. I sincerely try to stay grounded and tell myself that I am still in control, but I just don't believe it. There is this tiny, tiny bundle of cells that has made itself at home and has completely taken over my body. It's like the steering wheel has been stolen from my rational brain and been placed in the hands of an eight-week-old embryo.

This new driver, which I can't help but think of as an invited parasite, has switched the "appetite" lever from the "Let's Try to Lose Weight" mode to "If You Don't Eat Every 20 Minutes, You Will Be Severely Punished" mode. It has also wreaked havoc with the immune system (sniffle, sniffle), the bladder, my emotions and my sleeping patterns. And just last week I remembered with horror how the third trimester will bring me heartburn. That alone is enough to make me shiver in fear. I think that my Halloween costume should be an over-sized t-shirt that says PREGNANT on it. If that doesn't make the women in my neighborhood scream in terror, I don't know what will.

I still haven't decided, however, if I handle physical or emotional pain better. Pregnancy hormones make my emotions incredibly messed up. I was just relaxing in my bathtub--seemingly a perfectly happy situation--when the blues sneaked in through the window. I must have breathed them in unaware because I was suddenly crying. Life is terrible. Everyone hates me. I have no friends. I have no talent. Even my children would reject me if they had anywhere else to go. I'm totally inept at everything I try. I'm a lousy writer and people cringe when I sing. Loser. Loser. Loser!

Whoa. That was a fun emotional roller coaster. Thanks, pregnancy.

I couldn't decide if that was better or worse than the dry heaving I experienced after dropping my kids off at school. Being in the car makes me so nauseous, and I'm terrified of the road trip we have planned for two weeks from now. If I can't go 10 minutes to preschool without almost tossing my cookies, how am I going to handle that constant swaying motion for 10 hours?

I was wondering last week why my anxiety level had risen so dramatically--I can feel my whole body tense and on edge--and I think I'm slowly coming to grips with the answer. Happy life of "Mom with kids in school so she has time to herself" is gone. My life is changing every single day as the impact of pregnancy hits harder and harder. The tiredness has turned to fatigue and the queasiness has turned into dry heaving. It's just getting worse and worse every day. My first appointment is in less than a week and I'm thinking that if I get bad news, I'll be devastated for a while but that I'll find peace in ending my family at three children. I just don't feel like I could start this over and do it again.

And I know that even one minute with a newborn baby would offset all the pain and discomfort and crying. Even one breath would be enough for me to say, "It was all worth it. I'm so glad God gave me this one moment." That's how amazing it is to give birth. And that's why I decided to do this crazy thing one more time.

Pregnancy Q&A

Now you don't have to ask. But you can, just to make small talk, if you'd like. These is a fairly faithful re-creation of the reactions I've gotten from most people I've talked to about my pregnancy. The questions crack me up. Especially this first one:

Q: You're pregnant? How did that happen?
A: Why yes. Yes I am. The way it usually happens, thank you very much. Sheesh. Oh, do you mean was I on fertility drugs? Oh, well that makes more sense. Nope. Totally natural this time.

Q: Umm ... congratulations?
A: Thank you for your enthusiasm.

Q: Was this ... planned? Or was this a surprised?
A: Both. The time felt right, but with my history of infertility, it's still an exciting surprise. (I'm amazed with the number of people who think I could have gotten pregnant accidentally. I'm fairly certain that I can manage to not get pregnant if I don't want to be pregnant. It ain't rocket science, people.)

Q: So when are you due?
A: Early May. I am starting my eighth week today.

Q: Isn't this a little early to be telling people?
A: I've known for an entire month and kept my lips zipped. I call that the Accomplishment of the Year. Yes, it will be very unfortunate if I miscarry and have to actually change my header logo again, but I would have told people if I'd miscarried anyway. This blog is about being real and trying to let other people find solace in the inevitability of imperfection and trials. It's what I do here.

Q: So what do you want? A boy or a girl?
A: Yes.

Q: No. Seriously.
A: Okay, fine. I'd love to have a little girl. I'm already outnumbered FOUR to ONE in my household and I find myself staring at the pale pink, shabby chic home decor wistfully when I'm at the store. This is not natural. Plus, it would help the boys learn how to treat a lady right. Right? If it's another boy, I'll be fine with that but I will be bitter for a few years whenever I see my neighbors dressing their daughters up in those cute dresses with hair bows and matching shoes. Mildly to severely jealous, too. But I'll get over it. I adore my three boys and wouldn't wish them away. The same will be true of the next baby. I will love it because it's mine, whatever it is. Gender is only one part of the genetics.

Q: How do you feel?
A: Pregnant. By which I mean, I have the nine month flu. I'm hot, uncomfortable, dead tired 24/7, and I find myself longing for the days when I actually had the flu and could throw up to ease the nausea. I just feel like I'm gonna puke all day long but I never do. Riding in the car makes me feel so queasy that my twice-daily drive to the twins' preschool makes me seriously consider hiring someone to pick them up. I can't sleep through the night and my toilet is my new bff.

My house is becoming more and more cluttered and icky because I can't bring myself to clean for more than about 15 minutes at a time, and the smell of cleaners makes me ill. I have to eat something at least once an hour or I feel like my stomach is going to crawl out of my body and yell at me to hurry up and FEED IT. All of that while I am developing serious food aversions and can't even look at most of my favorite foods anymore. I bought water crackers and saltines today and nearly tossed my cookies while looking at raw meat and sugary cookies. Oh man. I think I'm gonna be sick just thinking about it...

Q: Sounds like fun.
A: I hate pregnancy. I'm super excited that it happened and I can't wait until I have another little member of the family but there will be SERIOUS divine intervention involved to make me ever go through this again. Ever. If I miscarry, which would be both devastating and heart-breaking, I honestly don't know if I'd have the courage to start over. That's how much I hate HATE HATE pregnancy. It's evil. Every time I'm pregnant, I have this recurring daydream where God is laughing at me. Laughing really hard. Because pregnancy seems like a cruel joke.

Q: Ummm, okay then.
A: Sorry. I'll get to the rainbows and roses and cheerful banter again really soon. I can't tell you how excited I am. I'm just also scared to death. My emotions are whirling around in circles faster than I can think and ... well, just give me a little time. The day after I found out I was pregnant, I thought, "God, have you seen how I'm managing with the other three you sent? Are you sure this is a good idea? Because I'm not so sure. I'm happy about it and I wouldn't mind having twins again, but... You know how inadequate I am, so.... are you sure about this?"


Q: Do you think you'll have twins again?
A: No, because I'm not on fertility medication this go around. However, I feel like I'm bulging at the seams already and I'm extremely annoyed with my body. I'm not gaining much weight (which is a miracle with the way I can't stop putting crud in my mouth) but my shape is already changing a lot. If I found out it was twins, I'd feel slightly less embarrassed about the way I look. And terrified about what was coming. And thrilled to get two for the price of one. (Which I learned last time is actually more like "two for the price of three pregnancies all rolled into eight miserable months.")

Well, that's it, folks. If you haven't learned way more than you wanted to know, I'm not sure what more I can do for you. One last note:

YEA!! I'M PREGNANT!! WOOHOO!!

... I'm gonna go take a nap ...

Sepia Sunset

The setting sun has cast the world in sepia tones. A reddish-brown aura infuses the world around me and I ponder my day.

12:15 Elijah runs happily toward the car. He slips. I see him falling. His knees hit the unforgiving concrete first and my knees start to sting in sympathetic pain. His momentum isn't spent and his nose is going straight toward the ground. I cringe in pain and then my palms burn as he raises his in time to protect his face. He cries all the way home and I speed, trying to get him to his placebo/bandaid as quickly as possible.

1:00 I meet a new friend. We both have twins. We both have dark hair and dark eyes. We're both ridiculously short but adorable anyway. We talk and sympathize and laugh together.

5:30 Thomas decides to do his best Zidane imitation and butt his head into mine while I watch a soccer game. It hurts and I sweep him off my lap as I cry out in pain. My neighbors gasp and turn to see the spectacle. I'm embarrassed that I swept Thomas away protectively. They tell me I'm really patient and that I handled it really well because I didn't lose my temper. My stake president is standing about 15 feet away. I wonder whether or not he thought I was patient.

7:30 My upper lip is still numb and my gums still hurt from the impact two hours ago. I'm developing a serious headache and I've informed the children they will all be in bed VERY SOON. Mom's had enough. Mom is tired. Mom's feeling sick and can't take any good pain relievers right now because ...

For those who don't know the Zidane reference, take a moment to enjoy one of the most unexpected, shocking and memorable moments in soccer history:

Spa Day?

Surprising conversations happen regularly when children are involved.

Today:

Joseph, as we round the corner near the pizza joint: "Are we going to Little Caesars?"
Me: "Yes. I need to grab some stuff from Grandma's house and I figured we could just grab a pizza on the way."
Joseph (whining): "Why do we always go to the same old places? You know. Little Caesars. Wendys. Burger King."
Me: "Ummm, last night I got you guys Greek take out. Chicken souvlake. Lemon rice."
Joseph: "I know. I just... I just want to try something totally NEW."
Me (mumbling under my breath): "If you weren't so picky, maybe we could get fast food that didn't taste like cardboard....."

A minute later Joseph is apparently still processing this conversation. He had picked up on my somewhat testy, not very sympathetic, what-kind-of-entitled-bratty-kids-am-I-raising? tone of voice. The conversation continued.

Joseph: "Mom? I wish you could just have a day to relax."
Me: "Umm what? You mean so I'll be more relaxed and fun? Sorry I'm in a cranky mood. You know it's not your fault."

As I start to gear up for my bi-weekly "It's not your fault when Mom is in a bad mood. You can choose your emotions and so can I. Remember that nobody else can define the way you feel...." lecture, Joseph cuts me off. His voice sounds kind of unstable and I look in the rear view mirror to see tears welling up in his eyes.

Joseph: "No, Mom. It's just that I know how hard it is to raise three boys and I want you to be happy. Couldn't you go have a day for yourself like... like... like a SPA DAY?"

What? Where has he even heard the term "spa day"? And how did the entitled complainer turn into my favorite little sweetheart on the whole planet? Sometime in the last two minutes apparently.

Me: "Oh, sweetie, that's so nice but I don't need a spa day. I have lots of fun with you guys every day. You make me really happy!"

Joseph wouldn't let it go. He brought it up again later and I said that we have a nice whirlpool tub and he gives great foot massages, so what more could I want? His reply: "You know. MORE whirlpool tubs. And cucumbers! We need more cucumbers."

Man, I love my kids.

Favorite Recipes :: Costa Vida Sweet Pork

I cannot claim to be (a) a talented chef or (b) a great photographer. So for me to side step into food blogging is a bit frightening & embarrassing. However, there are a few great recipes that I can't resist sharing! So we will take a break from our regularly scheduled rambling to bring you a brief culinary, domestic distraction.


As I said, I am not a talented chef. I am fairly adept at baking desserts, but I rarely find a good dinner recipe that I adore. It has to both taste great and be easy to prepare with three young ones demanding attention. Being inexpensive is always a bonus! Given those guidelines, my latest discovery is my favorite! It's a simple, 3.5-ingredient recipe for making Sweet Pork like you might find at Costa Vida or Cafe Rio. I am fairly certain that Costa Vida's is one thousand times better, but this is pretty dang sweet. (Pun intended.) It tastes great, was cheap and was a snap to prepare. Give it a try and let me know what you think!

Sweet Pork ala Costa Vida/Cafe Rio

Pork butt roast (mine was 99 cents per pound, 4-5 pounds, bone in, marbled with fat all through it. Ick. Yum. Ick.)
Enchilada sauce (I used two cans to cover about 1/3 to 1/2 of my roast in liquid. Adjust as needed for the size of roast you have.)
Brown sugar (This ain't science, so you can do this "to taste." I used about 1 1/2 cups of brown sugar, which is a ton, but... see title of recipe.)
(Oil for browning roast)

Method:

In a large pot (or crock pot), combine enchilada sauce and brown sugar and set aside.

Bring a large frying pan to medium-high heat and drizzle in enough oil to create a thin sheen on the bottom of the pan. Using tongs, lower the roast into the oil and let it sizzle and pop until a medium brown color. Use tongs to turn it and repeat until all sides are browned. Transfer the roast to the large pot (or crock pot) and make sure you have enough liquid to cover one-third to one-half of the roast in the liquid.

Set over low heat and let it cook all day (turning occasionally to let it cook evenly) or until the pork shreds easily with a fork. I allowed mine to cook for probably 8-10 hours, but this ain't rocket science. You don't want to under cook this, but a little extra time on simmer won't do damage too quickly. Give yourself plenty of time and experiment!

Note: I was VERY skeptical about this as it was cooking because it smelled overwhelming like plain old enchilada sauce and that wasn't what I wanted. Be patient. The final product won't really taste like that at all.

To finish it off, pull the pork out (piece by piece, because it should be falling apart) and let it sit for a few minutes to let the juices settle. Take the bone out, discard any fat you can find, and shred what is left. At this point, it won't be terribly flavorful so don't be disappointed if you pop some in your mouth and it tastes overwhelmingly like plain old pork.

While you are shredding, deboning and taking out the fat, turn up the heat on the sauce and let it reduce down to approximately half of the original volume. This is the trick to turning something so-so into something ooh-la-la! I also skimmed off any floating fat or gick that was left in the sauce.

Once your sauce has reduced and thickened up, put the shredded pork back into the sauce and simmer it together a while longer until you like the meat to sauce ratio.

Mine was better the next day, so I would recommend making it in advance, refrigerating it for a day or two and then re-warming to serve, but that's your prerogative. Mine just seems to taste better each time I try it. It's gone from "not too bad" to "pretty good" to "I know I shouldn't have another serving, but dang!" in four days.

Total cost: approximately $7 for many, many servings and more to freeze!
Active prep time: 10 min before cooking, 20 minutes to shred and prep sauce after cooking
Serving suggestions: taco salad, sweet pork tacos, quesadillas

Bonus recipe to go with this:

Corn ala Deliciousness
Do you love that corn they serve with your food at Bajio? Me, too! Try this as a super fast at-home alternative!

After you sear your roast and add it to the larger pot, drain off as much oil as possible from the pan and then set it over medium-high heat again. (Hey, why dirty two dishes, right?) Add a little* butter and let it sizzle until it melts and starts browning a few seconds later. Throw in a couple cups of corn kernels, chili powder, garlic and onion powder, salt and pepper. Stir it all together and let the corn get toasted a bit but not dried out. Dump that into a bowl and do the same with some precooked rice if you like! Add these spicy two-minute side dishes to your meal later on and turn up the heat a bit!

* By a "little" butter I mean a lot of butter, like a couple tablespoons! But don't cook this too often 'cause it ain't heart healthy!

Acknowledgements: I used the following resources to put this recipe together and you might find some great tips to make this recipe work better for you:

1. Methodology: the executive chef of Costa Vida, Dave Prows, braises his sweet pork, so I had to do it the same way. Here is some more info, which makes me already want to do things a bit differently next time! (I really debated whether or not to use two separate pans... I decided on two to minimize oiliness, but next time I might just use one for reasons mentioned in that article.)

2. Recipes: famfavoriterecipes, suite101, epicurious, recipezaar, bellaonline, mealsmatter, dinner-inspiration. Note: almost all the recipes use canned soda pop for making sweet pork, but I just refused. Why should I? It just seems gimicky, like you really want to have that "secret ingredient" to tell people. But it's just not necessary and it's not the secret to yumminess! One site I read said that the soda is for tenderizing, but if you're using the braising/slow cook method, that shouldn't be an issue. Mine turned out great without soda, but do your own thing if you want!

3. Other resources I browsed: Alton Brown's "I'm Just Here for the Food" and the Culinary Institute of America's "Professional Chef"

Under Construction

Things are under construction here at True Confessions. I am so sick of this pink crud that I could scream. It's just so... so... 2008, you know? ;)

So if you visit the blog in the next little while and things look screwy, I apologize for being too lazy to do this all in the dead of night when people aren't as likely to be surfing.

California Dreamin'

Joseph wants us to move to Nevada.

"Why???" I asked. Yes, there were at least three audible question marks after the question. Nevada???

"Well, if we live in Nevada, we're only one state away from California!" he answered seriously.

This was after Josh and I making up snarky songs about Nevada all along I-80. Almost heaven, West Nevada...

I informed Joseph there is no way in Nevada that we are moving to that hell. Well, I did not word it that way to him, but seriously folks: Nevada??? It's like one big hill of sagebrush interrupted only by casinos and never-finished highways. (I-80 in Nevada is a deep, gleaming black with sharply contrasting yellow paint. Large sections of this are being torn up, seemingly at random, and rebuilt as if they have to justify all the taxes they collect from gamblers. Once we hit California, the roads were in constant disrepair. I couldn't help turning to Josh and asking, "What the...? Is this state bankrupt or something?"

All the above is my long-winded way of saying we had a great family vacation. I was so shocked/thrilled by my children's lack of complaining during the 12 hours of driving each way that I wasn't even bummed by the vomit that erupted all over the car yesterday afternoon. We just dealt with it, thanks in part to some serious serendipity involving air fresheners.

I wasn't bummed when I asked Josh ten seconds too late, "How much gas do we have left?" and realized we had less than a quarter tank right after passing the last gas station in seven billion miles. (That's one more lovely thing about that scenic stretch of I-80 between Salt Lake City and the California border.)

I wasn't even bummed when Josh developed an allergy in our hotel room in San Mateo and we had to deal with the uncertainty of where that would lead us.

I was a little bummed about the Labor Day weekend traffic in Marin County that made my internal Mommy Clock cut our trip to Muir Woods short so the kids wouldn't be up too late. Josh was even more bummed. My internal Mommy Clock is a force to be reckoned with.

I think my favorite part of the trip was realizing that bad things could happen but it didn't affect my mood. It could have made me a screaming, stressed out banshee but... well, there was only a hint of that. In general, I was just thrilled to be with four cool boys who were so incredibly chill and funny and easy to get along with.

Who would have expected that from my boys? Seriously. Raise your hand. You know what I'm saying. They're cute. They're funny. But they're also wildly energetic and loud, and that doesn't usually translate well into a good road trip. Stepping into that car was a huge leap of faith and my boys shocked me with how awesome they were. Yea!

So now for the travelogue portion of the blog entry. We drove to scenic downtown Elko Wednesday evening and stayed overnight (just to get a jump start on the next day of driving.) We stretched our legs at the Salt Flats on the way, which is a family tradition. The boys got salt on their fingers and touched it to their tongues, which didn't gross me out. Then they went into the rest stop bathrooms and Elijah decided to lick the wall. That did gross me out. Enormously.

On Thursday we drove into California and drove straight to Emeryville (via a rather frightening "detour" in scenic downtown Oakland, which is not known for being a haven of well-behaved non-criminals). In Emeryville, we got to visit a friend at Pixar and give the kids a tour. The kids have never been there with me and they were incredibly stoked. We took pictures, stared at concept art (which I could do all day), played video games and got a special treat in the form of an open door.

An open door is not very intriguing, but an open door with a sign stating emphatically, "THIS DOOR MUST REMAIN CLOSED ABSOLUTELY ALL THE TIME NO MATTER WHAT..." is vastly intriguing. Out of respect for whoever left that door open, I won't comment on what I saw. We'll just say it was concept art for something that looked completely foreign to me. Josh said he thought it was connected to Toy Story 3, so we'll see if it looks familiar when that movie is released.

After Pixar, we went with our friends for dinner at Fenton's, which is featured in Pixar's latest movie, Up. It seemed appropriate. The Bay Bridge had just closed hours before, so we missed out on the treat of going over that anxiety inducer. (Does anybody else think of the San Francisco earthquake when they see a bridge with a double-decker design like that?)

On Friday, we took the kids to the Exploratorium for four hours. I had pencilled in two hours but the kids were really enjoying themselves. Afterward, Joseph said it wasn't what he had expected and thought it was totally boring. Yeah, kid, that's why I had to drag you out kicking and screaming. Because you were so bored. The highlight for me was the nauseating demonstration of a cow eyeball being dissected. Who would have guessed it looked like that inside?

Then we went to Ghiradelli Square, ate at Lori's Diner, got ice cream at Ghiradelli, walked across the street to the beach and cursed the freezing cold, windy San Francisco weather. Then we hopped in the car and drove up to Muir Woods, which I totally missed out on because the twins both fell asleep and my Inner Mommy couldn't wake them up, even for Redwoods. Josh and Joseph went for a 30-minute hike and then that mean old Mommy Clock made us drive away into two-inch-per-hour traffic. Ugh.

On Saturday, we met up with my sister and brother-in-law for breakfast and then drove down to San Jose for a memorial service for my Uncle who died recently. He was only my Uncle for a very brief time, and it makes me hurt inside to think about it, but it is what it is. The kids had a great time with my Auntie and we had a nice afternoon at the park. Then we drove to Half Moon Bay and let the kids run and splash in the ocean for a while. The water was a totally agreeable temperature after my feet went numb.

For dinner, we went to the most amazingly delicious restaurant I've been to in a long time: BJ's Restaurant & Brewhouse. Their pizza was... well, I'm almost crying right now just thinking about it. Some food is just that good. Why do they not have any restaurants in Utah? They would be wildly popular and packed all weekend long.

On Sunday, we drove around trying to find a church for 40 minutes and then enjoyed 30 minutes of the church service. Then we packed our hotel room up, cleaned it out (sort of), packed up the car and headed to Sacramento. Here comes the bittersweet portion of the blog entry.

We drove past my Dad's childhood home, 2700 Northrop Ave. This was where we came to visit my grandparents. This was our vacation destination when I was a kid. This was where I was wrapped up in a fresh-out-of-the-dryer sort of undeniable love that I'll never forget. Then we went to the cemetery where those grandparents are buried next to their daughter who died before she was 30 years old.

But that's not the bittersweet part. The bittersweet part was visiting another grave in that cemetery, a little distance off, in the children's section of the cemetery. A little gravestone bears the name of my parents' first child, my older brother than I never knew. I knew I'd cry. Obviously. This is my brother.

When I looked at his birth date and realized I was visiting him one day before his 40th birthday, the crying was much harder to keep respectable. We didn't have flowers so we sang him the song that was sung at his funeral: "Give, Said the Little Stream." It was his favorite, and it might be an odd "over the hill" birthday sort of present, but it came from the heart.

I wish I could have seen that mature-beyond-his-years, blonde-haired, blue-eyed two-year-old become a man. We would have been throwing him a crazy big birthday party today and ribbing him about his age with black crepe paper and "RIP" napkins. The RIP bit doesn't seem as funny, now that I think about it.

The drive home was uneventful except for the vomiting that started right after we left the cemetery, the numerous potty stops and the questionable hotel arrangements in Reno. The kids were amazing and never complained at all about the drive. Or maybe they complained so much that I was traumatized and blocked it out of my memory, but I don't think so. I'm stoked to do this all over again next month for a family reunion in southern California.

So much to be grateful for. All is well, all is well.