Love and Loss

Everyone knows that there are two things you should never discuss in polite conversation: religion and politics. I would like to take this opportunity to add a third thing to the list, and that is death. Broaching the topic of death (or loss) is a surefire way to turn an otherwise friendly, casual conversation into a silent, awkward situation. There’s nothing like a tragic story to dampen the mood. That is why, with the exception of a privileged few, most of you have never heard me talk about this subject. As a rule, I avoid inserting it into my daily dialogue. I even waited until a Saturday to post this on my blog because most people have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon than read my sad story. Never the less, I decided to post this because there may be other women out there who are struggling with the same type of loss that I once did, who can find comfort in knowing that they are not alone.

(One year old Josie and me at 10 wks pregnant and blissfully unaware of what lay ahead)

In 2007 I suffered two consecutive miscarriages. I have relived the experiences in my head so many times that I can remember them like they were yesterday. On a typical Friday morning in July I was 10 weeks pregnant and I started having some light vaginal spotting. I went to an OB appointment that same morning so I casually mentioned the problem to my nurse, who assured me that some spotting is perfectly normal during pregnancy. But by Sunday the bleeding had intensified and by Monday morning it had become heavy. Out of concern, I called the nurse and she asked me to come in for an emergency ultrasound, just to be sure that everything was alright. The technician jellied up my belly and rolled the ultrasound stick around for awhile until she stopped and froze, left the room without a word, and returned with a doctor. The doctor sat down in the chair beside my bed and turned the monitor toward me. The image that I saw on the screen is permanently etched into the back of my mind- a tiny , peanut-like silhouette, and no heartbeat.

We would have celebrated that baby’s 3^rd birthday this month.

I dealt with my grief in various ways over the months that followed and then James and I conceived again. Two months later, I miscarried again.

A few of my family members and closest friends have asked me since then if I have “gotten over it” and “moved on.”  You know, now that I have three healthy children. People who have never had a miscarriage may not understand and people who have never been pregnant may think it’s bizarre, but my answer is: absolutely not. I doubt that anyone, even James, knows how much my miscarriages continue to affect my day-to-day life. As much as I love Josephine, Jamison, and Jonathan, I also loved those babies. I loved them from the very minute I knew I was pregnant and I bonded with them for the two short months I carried them inside of me. That’s not something you easily forget. I think about them at least once every day. I miss them terribly even though I never met them. I pray daily that God will watch over and care for my precious little ones until I can meet them in heaven one day.

The following is a little something I wrote in August 2007, a month after my first miscarriage, as part of my struggle with grief.

One week I was pregnant.  The next week I was not.

One week I was buying a little newborn sleeper.  The next week I was hiding it so that it didn’t make me cry.

One week I was avoiding sodas and candy bars because they weren’t good for the baby.  The next week I was stuffing myself with caffeine and chocolate, pretending that they made me feel better.

One week I felt confident talking about motherhood.  The next week I felt unworthy to talk about motherhood.

One week I was celebrating my daughter’s first birthday and thinking that this time next year she would be a big sister.  The next week I was wondering if she would end up an only child.

One week I was reading “My Pregnancy: Week 10.”  The next week I was reading “Understanding Miscarriage.”

One week I was so happy for my friend and I was celebrating the birth of her new baby.  The next week I was jealous and I envied her happiness.

One week the question “How are you feeling?” meant “Are you having any morning sickness yet?”  The next week the question “How are you feeling?” meant “Can you talk about it without crying yet?”

One week I was telling my Mother-in-law when we would know if the baby was a boy or a girl.  The next week I was realizing that we would never know.

One week I was filling my closet with maternity clothes.  The next week I was throwing them in a box in the corner.

One week I had a great relationship with all my family and friends.  The next week they felt distant because there were things I wanted to say but didn‘t know how to say them.

One week I was joyful.  The next week I was sorrowful.

One week I anticipated meeting my new child.  The next week I was struggling to say good-bye.

One week, life was routine. The next week, life was precious.

Life is precious, people, and I pray that you don't have to suffer the way I did in order to see it.



Beautiful Day for a Bike Ride

I consider myself to be both a Californian and a New Yorker and, as such, I continually find myself comparing my two home states to one another. After four and a half years of comparison I feel confident in saying that the biggest difference between New York and California is the weather. Coming in a close second is NY’s profound lack of decent Mexican food…

In general Southern Californians rarely consider the weather. The school calendars don’t have to leave room for snow days. Theme parks don’t have to close for the winter. And invitations to summer barbeques don’t have to come with the disclaimer, “Weather permitting.” Basically, it’s always pleasant in So Cal- heck, you can practically wear flip flops year round!-  and even when it rains people are in good spirits just because the rain is such a novelty. No one frets about the forecast in California. In fact, the only reason we watch the morning weather report is to find out whether or not we need to throw a hoodie into our beach bag on the way out the door.

But to New Yorkers, weather is everything. Our entire lives are impacted by the slightest change in climate. We hesitate to make plans too far in advance because we need to see the forecast first. Our hottest summers are unbearably humid and our coldest winters are far below freezing. So when it’s 30 degrees and sunny, like it was earlier this week, a New Yorker doesn’t hesitate to get outside and enjoy the beautiful weather!

When I saw the forecast for Wednesday I knew exactly what we were going to do that day. Jamie’s grandparents sent him a gift card for his birthday so I took the kids to Toys 'R Us and we picked out a couple of new bicycles. While checking out at the register I was asked if we wanted to pay the extra $10 for assembly and come back the next day to pick up our bicycles. I was very tempted, but knowing that the weather was supposed to take a turn for the worst, I declined and decided I’d assemble the bikes myself. Josie and Jamie were so excited about their new bikes that they refused to fall asleep on the car ride home even though it was late in the afternoon and they were both exhausted from a busy day. Jamie, especially, kept his eyes fixated on the shiny new bicycle sitting in the folded-down back seat beside him. I think he was afraid that if he was to lose sight of it for an instant it might mysteriously disappear. Once we arrived home I moved quickly to break open the box, locate the tools, and begin assembly before we ran out of daylight. I didn’t bother telling the kids to take their naps. There was no waiting until tomorrow to ride bikes, because tomorrow was bringing rain and snow.  I worked as quickly as I could and we hustled outside with our helmets. My construction work was faulty and the bikes were close to collapsing into pieces while the kids attempted to ride them down the street. But they didn’t care in the least. They were just too happy to be outside, breathing in the fresh air, playing and laughing. It was a beautiful day for a bike ride.

This scene reminds me of racing my brother and sister down the dirt road that ran beside our house as kids...minus the snow banks.

I am so happy that we took advantage of the opportunity when it arose because, sure enough, today we are snowed in. New Yorkers have a deep appreciation for beautiful weather that Californians will never understand. And what do Californian’s have (besides great weather, that is)? They have unbeatable Mexican food.

Sky Blue Splurge

There are times in our lives that we do things against our better judgment. We know full well going into them that we shouldn’t and that there will be consequences to pay afterwards, and yet we do them anyways. We eat an entire tube of store-bought Nestle cookie dough in one sitting. We spend way too much at the store because there’s a sale that we just can’t pass up. We watch a scary movie before bed…..And almost immediately, we regret our decision. Our stomachs ache from the sugar overload. We drive home afraid to tell our husbands how much we spent. We can’t fall asleep because bloody horror scenes keep flashing under our half-closed eyelids. If I had to put a name to this type of activity, I would call it a splurge.  It’s an act of extreme indulgence. Unfortunately, such immediate gratification almost always comes with a price.

Yesterday’s household activity would most definitely be classified under this category. For some reason or another I decided to let Josie and Jamie help me paint the upstairs bathroom. I’m not even going to attempt to explain how I came to make this choice because, as is true with all splurges, my decision making process was comprised of a long strain of meaningless justifications and very little well formulated reasoning. Before I knew it my 4 year old and 2 year old were up to their elbows in sky blue wall paint with smiles that stretched from ear to ear, and once my better judgment had kicked in there was no going back. Thankfully, I was thinking clear enough to strip both the kids of their clothes. There’s nothing wrong with an occasional lapse in judgment, but soiling perfectly cute Gymboree outfits is completely unacceptable. Every moment of the activity was supervised. I took turns showing each of the kids how to use the paintbrush and the roller and as soon as I took my eyes off one, the other would dribble paint across the floor or fling it on the walls.

Every time Josie splattered paint in an inappropriate place she would look at me with her big dark brown eyes and say, “Sorry Mommy.” But her face said more. It was saying, “I’m so sorry, Mommy. Please don’t take my paintbrush away. I’ll be more careful.” I just smiled and said, “It’s okay,” and reached for the paper towels. Then she would resume her energetic strokes. 

 Jamie in particular had very little understanding of the properties of wet paint. He bumped just about every surface of his naked body against the wall. By the end, his hair, his lips, his hands, his feet, his belly, both his butt cheeks, and even the tip of his little penis were a beautiful sky blue. (I realize that if he ever reads this when he is older he is going to be mortified, which makes writing it all the funnier).  

Every portion of the wall that the kids painted had to be repainted later, in order to flatten the thick, globby brushstrokes. Very little progress was made.

By the end, the kids were covered in paint that had to be scrubbed so hard before it came off that it left their skin raw, and even then we didn’t get it all. The bathroom floor, the bath tub, the toilet, and the sink are still speckled with paint and it will probably take me more time to scrape it off than it did to paint the walls.

But for a while it was really fun. I think the kids knew how special it was for mommy to have actually agreed to let them help. They were giggling with excitement. Maybe it was because the paint fumes were short circuiting my brain cells, but there were a couple minutes when I forgot about all the other problems facing me in the outside world and was able to just enjoy my little happy family, all crammed together in a sky blue bathroom. I love eating a tube of cookie dough as much as anyone, but letting my kids paint with me…now, that’s a splurge worth paying the consequences for!

Get My Kids to the Church on Time

My life is full of amazing moms. My friend Kristen works professionally part-time but always engages her children in heartfelt & informative conversations, giving them her un-divided attention whenever the opportunity arises, no matter how big of a headache she may have from her stressful day. My friend Chrissy uses cloth diapers, communicates with her babies using sign language, and cooks gourmet organic meals using flax seed and wheat germ. My friend Colleen takes her kids to weekly music classes, serenades them with her beautiful voice on car rides, and has instilled in them at an early age an inspiring passion for music and dance. To top it off, they all have rockin’ hot bodies, immaculately clean houses, and solid Christian marriages. I know that they will be angry at me for comparing myself to them in a belittling blog post, but that just further proves my point that they are truly amazing people! And it’s not just them. My friends Erin, Laura, Heather, Joy, Lindsey, and Shelby are all amazing women raising young children who continually go above and beyond. They take my expectations of what it means to be a mom and raise them.

Now I’m not one to back down from a challenge. I am eager to improve. I love to strive for bigger and better things and I am thankful to these women for their rousing examples of motherhood. BUT….

Being surrounded by amazing moms makes me conscious of my own perpetual shortcomings. I don’t sing to my kids, I don’t use cloth diapers, I rarely have the patience to answer my kids’ endless questions, I don’t make them eat all their veggies, I don’t take them outside to play every day, and the list could go on and on and on. At the end of every day, I am filled with guilt thinking of the things that I did not do but should have, and I am ashamed at the ways I am constantly depriving my beloved children of the upbringing they deserve. Sometimes it’s enough to make me want to throw up my hands in surrender.

And in that moment, when I am tempted to admit defeat and accept that I will never be as amazing as Kristen, Chrissy, and Colleen, I decide that it’s important to stop focusing on the things that I don’t do. I have to give myself credit for those things that I do do.

One thing that I do- and I do it well!- is get my kids to church on time. It might not sound like much, especially to those people who either don’t have kids, don’t attend church, or who aren’t without a spouse, but there’s something to be said about getting a family or four fed, dressed, and out the door by 8 AM. My mornings usually start around 5 AM, when I am dragged out of bed by the hungry cries of baby Johnny. By the time I am finished nursing him (for what is usually the third or fourth time of the night), Josie and Jamie have pulled themselves out of bed and are waiting for me by the nursery door. We all herd downstairs together in a big pajama clad mob. My first line of business is to crank up the furnace, then let the puppy outside before he does his business on the carpet, and finally to turn on some Sunday morning cartoons. Sesame Street doesn’t air this early so thank God for DVR’d episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. One twenty minute episode is enough time for me to email James and inform him of any and all important family developments (which is a vital responsibility of a supportive Navy wife) and I can usually sneak in a facebook status update here too. Next we shuffle into the kitchen for breakfast. I have found that it’s important to make a big breakfast on Sundays so that the kids don’t accost me for food between Sunday school and worship service. Of course, the kids want to help cook so Josie cracks the eggs and Jamie whisks the batter and I clean up the resulting mess. While the pancakes are on the griddle I empty the dishwasher, run upstairs to plug in my curling iron, flip the pancakes, fetch some meat from the basement freezer to thaw for dinner, and start a load of laundry. Some mornings I have to throw a sausage casserole into the oven because it’s my turn to provide snack for the Sunday school class. We all finish our food and after wiping the sticky syrup off little fingers and faces it’s time to head upstairs to get dressed. Picking out outfits is one of my favorite parts of the day and if at all possible I try to color coordinate the kids and sometimes even me. It never fails that an accessory or two of the chosen outfits has gone missing so I spend the next ten to fifteen minutes upending mattresses, combing the closets, or wrestling the dog to retrieve socks, belts, and curly hair ribbons. Around the time I have Josie, Jamie, and Johnny in their clothes, the littlest one decides it’s time for a nap- which actually works out perfectly to give me a chance to get myself dressed. I can slip into an outfit in minutes and then I twist some curlers into my hair. If mother nature necessitates it, this is the time that I pull my snow boots on over my dress slacks and head outside into the freezing cold morning to shovel my car out of the snow or chop the ice off my windshield. Once I’m back inside there is just enough time to pull the curlers out of my hair, slap on a thin layer of make-up, and then cram some fresh diapers into my diaper bag. On especially efficient mornings I am able to put all the toys that were pulled out that morning into their appropriate bins and run the vacuum over the living room floor, because there’s nothing worse than coming home to a cluttered house and tripping over a Potato Head as soon as you walk in the front door. Finally, we all line up in front of the stairwell and put on our boots, jackets, hats, and gloves and scurry out to the car. Off we go!

Six days out of the week I feel like a disappointment, but on Sunday mornings I feel like an amazing woman. I walk through the church parking lot carrying Johnny in one hand and holding Jamie’s hand with the other, who is holding Josie with his other. I am proud to be me in that moment. There are a lot of things that I don’t do, but I do get my kids to the church on time….and that’s really saying something.

Shameless plug: If you need more amazing women in your life then you can find lots of them here, at The First Baptist Church of Ballston Spa. Come join us on Sunday mornings! Sunday School @ 9AM followed by Worship Service @ 10:15.

Silver Lining

Are you annoyed at my recent negative attitude? Because I sure am. So I’ve decided to go on the offensive and turn my tone from that of victim to victor. In an attempt to do so, I have compiled a list of the things that I LIKE about James being gone. If every cloud has a silver lining, then here is the shiny side of deployment.

-I don’t have to constantly pick up James’ dirty clothes from the floor of whatever room he took them off, and most specifically I don’t have to find his stinky socks crammed between the couch cushions.

-I have complete control of the bank account, which does mean that I am responsible for making sure all the bills are paid but it also means I can budget a few extra trips to Gymboree.

-There are fewer dishes to clean, less laundry to wash, and less garbage to take out.

-I can nurse Johnny in public without having to shrug off James’ disapproving demeanor.

-I don’t have to listen to him whine about every sore muscle and runny nose. Men can be such babies, and I don’t need any more of those around here (at least, not right now).

-I have absolute power when it comes to the television.  You can rest assured that as long as I hold the remote there will be absolutely no Glenn Beck in this house.

-I can cook chicken alfredo, shrimp scampi, and serve corn on the cob (three things that James dislikes) for dinner or I can even just make PB&Js or microwaveable corn dogs (because the kids sure as heck don’t care!)

-I can mispronounce Tupperware as “tubberware” freely and without ridicule.

-I do not have to fear that my stash of Reese’s peanut butter cups in the back right corner of the pantry cupboard will be raided by anyone but myself. (Except, now that I’ve disclosed my secret location I’m going to have to find a new hiding place.)

-I am able to be as socially active as I please. I can schedule as many playgroups as is logistically possible to cram into a week, I can go out shopping into the afternoon hours, and I can talk to my mom on the phone for an hour and a half and not worry that I’m taking quality time away from my spouse.

-I don’t have to shave my legs or worry about my morning breath. Because, let’s face it, the only one who cares is me!

-I can leave my unfinished craft projects lying around the house for as long as I want, or at least until Jamie discovers the scissors and glue and I am forced to relocate them.

-I don’t have to deal with the frustrations I would feel whenever I was busily working around the house while James sat on the couch surfing the internet. Now I work knowing that he is working equally as hard and unceasingly.

-And lastly, I’m not given the guilt trip for not being “in the mood” after a long, hard day. Having no pressure to fake it is quite liberating, I must say.

So there you have it- being husbandless isn’t all bad. In fact, I think I’ve made it sound pretty good. After reading this some of my women friends might be tempted to ship their husbands off to join the Navy in order to get a little freedom once in a while. There is definitely some good to be found in even the most difficult of circumstances. I will say this: separation really helps us to re-evaluate our priorities and value those things that can easily be taken for granted. I can honestly say that I would pick up a million stinky socks in exchange for one good-night kiss, even if (or, right now I’d say especially if) that kiss came attached with underlying sexual expectations.

This picture has nothing to do with this post, but it's so incredibly cute that it's sure to leave you with a smile, even if my writing has not.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Happy Valentine's Day from the Family of Js!

Naked on the Battlefield

I have come to find that blogging is an extremely emotional endeavor. The best bloggers lay it all out on the line. The writer’s life is an open book; or more precisely, an open blog. She has to be willing to divulge her most embarrassing actions and intimate feelings to the general public. She offers her friends and family an inside look at her world, and though this affords them the opportunity to share in her joys, it also provides them the chance to scrutinize her every mistake. And in case you haven’t noticed, the world wide web can be a very judgmental place.

So a blogger must be courageous and confident.

Several months ago, when I started this blog, those were two things that I was sure I had….But now, I’m not so sure. A lot of things have changed since James was deployed one month and one day ago. I have changed. I question myself more now than I ever have before. It’s almost as if my protective armor was peeled from my body and I am now standing on a battlefield naked and completely exposed to enemy fire. I feel vulnerable. I feel weak. I feel scared. I feel like the smallest bullet could pierce me, and instead of ricocheting off my armor like it would have two months ago, it would cut through my body and disable me instantaneously.

I cannot afford to be debilitated right now. A world of responsibilities rests on my shoulders. If I were to be taken out of action then all those things I hold dear would be put into harm’s way. So that is why I have been protecting myself. I have neglected my blog and I took some time away from facebook for a while. I am a host to frayed emotions, shredded self-confidence, and a dejected personality and the cyber community preys on such weaknesses. Thus, if my blog posts and my facebook updates have to stay sparse then so be it, because there are much more important things at stake.

(This is not a declaration of intent to abandon my blog, it is only an explanation to those who may have questions about my absence.)