Remembering How Lucky I Am

Some time ago--as in years--I "liked" a page on Facebook entitled "October 15th, WORLDWIDE site of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day." I'm sure I was following someone that had lost their baby and made reference to this page. Every once in a while, I'll see a post from them pop up on my page and it will remind me that there are so many women out there that struggle to have the two things I managed to be blessed with so easily. 

When my aunt--she's my age--began trying, she had a lot of miscarriages. A lot. Her first occurred at 12 weeks, which most of us feel relieved to reach as the chances are significantly lower. Over the years, she had more and more and one ectopic pregnancy that was particularly draining. I remember all of this, but I didn't understand the devastation it could cause. I didn't have children and wasn't considering children.

I have known others over the years that have either struggled to get pregnant or struggled to stay pregnant. And it was after I became a mother that I began to understand how painful that process must be. 

With Ethan, I spotted a couple weeks in. I had my levels checked. I worried. I was frantic. I was so unsure about wanting a child yet knowing I had this tiny baby inside me was so amazing. And I did not want to lose him. And I didn't. 

I've been so blessed. I have never--to my knowledge--had a miscarriage. I have had two relatively uneventful pregnancies. Sure. Ethan made me think I was losing him early on and Dylan gave me the heart scare late in the game, but overall, my pregnancies were healthy and normal. And getting pregnant was easy. We never even tried. It just happened. And for all of that, I am eternally grateful.

There are times when I hear of women losing their babies late in their pregnancies. Or in the months following birth. And I have heard others make statements about not having known the child before it was born. That it would be easy to get over. But any mother knows that's not true. 

You see, that's the thing about motherhood. For mommas, the moment of unconditional love begins the very second that stick says "Pregnant." Even if it wasn't in the plans. Even if it was the last you wanted. It becomes the most important thing. You begin to change. You begin to think like a mother. Even if your mind isn't there quite yet, your heart is. And if you really want it? Your heart was there before the stick told you it should be. And a loss at any point, I imagine, would be dreadfully painful. 

And so there are moments when I read about a woman losing her child at 37 weeks. Or I read about a woman that got to hold her sweet angel baby in her arms before she was taken away, that I am so very much reminded of how incredibly fortunate I am. I have two beautiful children. I have experienced two beautiful pregnancies. I have been lucky. 

Because what no one likes to tell you is that pregnancy is risky business. People act like it's no big deal. It's normal. It's natural. It's RISKY. There are a million and one things that can go wrong. With Momma or Baby or Both. To have a normal pregnancy is to be lucky and blessed in deed.
And I definitely feel blessed.

The One Year Stats

We had Dylan's well-baby visit yesterday. My little chunk weighs a whopping 15 lb. 14 oz. That's still super small, but he's progressing on his growth chart. In the past, he's been up and down, so it's nice to see him moving up. He's still below the 3rd percentile, but we got the okay to kick out one night feeding. YAY!

Dylan has, pretty consistently, been waking up around 11 and 3. While I know there are many mommas out there that would tell me he won't do it forever, I also know that he's not taking the time to drink his milk during the day and making up for it at night. So do I feel bad if I'm trying to switch his schedule? If I'm trying to get him to eat more during the day and less at night? No. I don't. The plan is to cut that early feeding session out of his routine. How?

Unfortunately, I think it'll come with a bit of crying, but I can handle it. I know there are lots of mommas out there that would tell me that crying is stressful and that it will make him trust me less and leave lasting damage. But here's the thing. I've done the research. Extensively. I've read both sides. I've traced the journal articles cited in most no-cry debates. A few nights of crying is not going to cause lasting damage. A few nights of crying may be stressful on the little guy, but it's not like he won't experience stressors throughout his whole life. And it's not like I'm going to leave him in there to cry until he falls asleep. It'll be controlled crying. I'll comfort him. But I will not feed him a bottle.

Because here's the thing. At some point, this all just becomes a part of the routine he's established. And it's a bad routine. He's old enough now and moving on to whole milk that I know he can switch that routine and take in more calories during the day. And we'll all be happier for it. Should he choose to continue that 3 a.m. feeding, I'm all over it. But not 11 p.m. There's no need.

So my little walker....because crawling is a thing of the past....also received one vaccines yesterday. I have been slow on getting his vaccines. For good reason. Again, I've done the research. I've seen the studies. I've reviewed the VARS site. And I will not subject the little guy to too many chemicals. Too much aluminum. Traces of thimerosal.

And here's the thing about my method. As we reviewed the vaccines he hasn't received and I ask which were the most important in order, she said, "Well, since he's past one, he only needs one of each of these." ONE opposed to FOUR. And that is one reason I wait.

Overall, Dylan is on-track. He still jabbers with no discernible words, but I'm far from worried. His brother was not a talker either. He knew all the sounds of his alphabet by 18 months and could identify letters. Once he decided to talk, he took off. He'll do it when he's ready!

Ethan's Brain Doesn't Play Nice

My mother did it. I did it. Ethan does it. Lots of people do it. And it drives parents crazy. It's that moment when they're in trouble and instead of looking remorseful, their faces look distorted. Not because they're trying to make funny faces but because they're trying so hard not to crack that smile so evident on their little faces.

It raises my hackles. It increases my anger. It makes me feel like he's not getting the point at all.

Ethan notoriously smiles when he's in trouble. I'll ask him why he got in trouble. I'll ask him how he can make sure he doesn't repeat the offense. And the entire time, he is trying to hide that little crack of a smile that gets to me every.single.time. I'll ask him if he thinks it's funny. If he needs more time to think about his actions. "No!" he says, still cracking a smile. It's aggravating.

Apparently, my frustration has not gone unnoticed by the eyes of my little one.

Conversation out of the blue....

"Mom, my brain doesn't like my mouth."
"What?" I ask, perplexed.
"My brain is trying to get my mouth in trouble."
At this point, I'm expecting him to tell me that it makes him say things he shouldn't.
"Why?"
"Because when I'm in trouble, I tell my mouth not to smile but my brain doesn't listen. It just tells my mouth to smile, even though I don't want it to. It's not being very nice to my mouth."

How does one respond to this line of reasoning, especially when I completely understand what he's talking about. I imagine his internal dialogue goes something like this...
Don't smile.
Brain says, smile.
Quit smiling, brain!

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I just said, "Well, that is a problem, isn't it?"
"Yes. My brain is supposed to do what I say, but it doesn't. I don't think it's funny when I'm in trouble. I don't want to smile. But apparently my brain does and I can't make it stop."

And so the next time Ethan finds himself in trouble, which will undoubtedly be tonight, I think I'll say, "Your brain isn't helping you out kid!"

Dylan Turns One!

This sweet, beautiful boy turned one yesterday.

 It's hard to believe that a year ago, I gave birth to this sweet boy. I remember the moment I went into labor, wondering if I was experiencing another long round of Braxton Hicks contractions, as I had experienced hours of them--all 20 minutes apart--in the days and weeks leading up to this moment. I remember realizing that this was the real deal. I remember the drive to the hospital. The moment when they told me that I would indeed be having a baby that night. I remember every single moment of that experience--good and bad. I remember going to the bathroom with my husband's help, looking up at him and seeing a wide smile on his face. And I remember saying, "What the F*&k are you smiling about?" because I was in pain and he seemed so damn happy. I remember the moment this little guy entered the world and how elated I was, high on natural drugs. I remember holding him for the first time, feeding him for the first time, snuggling with him for the first time. It's all so vivid, and I imagine those memories always will be, as they are etched indefinitely on my brain.

 So here we are. A year later. And this little guy is such a light in the world. His personality shines and even when I've had to worst day imaginable at work, seeing his smiling face makes me smile.

 I love hearing him laugh and jabber, and I love watching him explore his world.

Even if that means he gets a nice taste of a dandelion.

At a year, Dylan is a full-fledged walker. I don't know his stats because he doesn't have his well-baby check up until next week, but I imagine he's around 16 lbs. He's still drinking formula, and I'm trying to get him to show some interest in milk. He jabbers, and he's said some words in the past, but he doesn't really have any discernible words at this point. He has a tooth just beneath the surface of his gum, but it has yet to pop through, so for now, he still has that gummy little grin. 

Dylan is so full of life. He's so interested in everything around him and gets a kick out of his big brother. And while Ethan is still just as in love with Dylan as he was the moment they met, he has discovered that his baby brother can annoy him. Naturally, this makes me chuckle, but I'm sure in the years to some, I'll be saying "leave your brother alone," a lot. 

As we move into year one, I find myself at a bit of a loss in terms of food and drink. I'm ready to move on from formula, but Dylan still wakes at least once a night and sucks down a 4-ounce bottle. I wonder if I'm not giving him enough table food, but I can't exactly make him eat. I know that food should begin to take over, providing him with all the necessary nutrients, but how to make that transition when he still wakes at night is a little baffling. Do I move him from formula to milk during the day and keep some on hand for night-time feedings? 

I didn't struggle with these questions with Ethan because he was on a sippy full time at one and he was no longer eating at night. It was such a smooth, easy transition with my first. Dylan, on the other hand, is partial to one sippy and won't use others. He likes the one most like a bottle. 

All of these questions, I know, will work themselves out. But that doesn't mean I don't think about them. 

We're having Dylan's first birthday party Saturday. I still have so much to do to get ready, even though there won't be many people there. I'm making a sugar-free carrot cake and I hope it turns out well. For the guests, I'm providing sugar-filled cupcakes (store bought). I know people think I'm crazy for not giving into the whole cake thing, but I honestly believe there's no reason. He can get just as messy with a "healthier" version. 

And so, as we enter his second year of life, I know it'll be no time before I'm here again, writing about this child turning two. It's amazing to think about how quickly the last year has passed. I'm so fortunate that I got to spend the day with Dylan yesterday as he went about his normal business and I reflected on the year. 

Happy birthday to my very sweet, very vibrant, very laid-back Dylan Thomas Craft.

Conversations with Ethan

Sometimes conversations are just too good not to document. I had just that kind of conversation with Ethan yesterday. The way that kid's mind works amazes me! This is a snippet of a conversation we had in the car. It continued later with more talk about different worlds much like our own.

"Mom, our sun is never going to explode, right?"

"Well, I don't know. It might. But I don't think we'll still be here."

"Did you know that there's another world where the sun did explode?"

"Really?"

"Yeah. My dad's dad is dead, and he lived in the other world and then the sun exploded."

"So there are two worlds?"

"No! I said the sun exploded, so that world is dead."

"Oh, but there used to be two worlds?"

"Yes. But not any more."

"Do you think there's more than one Earth?"

"No. There's only one outer space, Mom."

"But we live in a galaxy, right?"

"Yes."

"Are there more galaxies?"

"Yes. There are lots of galaxies."

"So could there be other planets like ours with people on it?"

"In other galaxies? Yes. There's more than one sun."

"There is?"

"Yes. The sun is a star, and there are lots of stars."

"True."

The conversation shifted abruptly to DNA at the Discovery Center. A couple weeks ago, we went to the "free" day at the Discovery Center, and they offered to help him extract his DNA, but he chickened out. When he found out we were going back, he wanted to give it another try.

"So when we get to the Discovery Center, we're going to go to the place where we can extract my DNA, right?"

"Yes."

"And it's okay if you accidentally swallow the stuff they tell you to swish in your mouth, right?"

"Yes, it's just water."

"Well, last time we were there, I didn't want to do it because I thought it was poison and it might kill me if I accidentally swallowed it."

"I can assure you that they wouldn't ask you to put poison in your mouth. Promise."

Unfortunately, DNA extraction is only for 2nd grade and up, unless it's a free day in which they help the kids with the process. Ethan was a little sad that he didn't get to do the "experiment," but we were there with another friend, so he quickly moved on. I find it aggravating that most things Ethan is into are prohibited to him based on age. He asked me why he couldn't do it, and once again, I had to say, "because you're not old enough." How am I supposed to foster his love of science and encourage that kind of love for learning if every chance available is met with, "he's not old enough?" Why do we have to structure education by age? And why do we think that's okay? But that's a conversation for another day.....

On Child Abuse

This morning I graded two essays that brought about this post. One was about adolescent violence and the other was about foster children and how they come to be there. In the first, she stated that children that experience four or more events of physical, mental and/or sexual abuse and/or neglect and drug abuse are more likely to become violent in adolescents. In the second essay, the student stated that children of abuse react in different ways, some becoming violent and distrustful, exhibiting behaviors seen at home. Others become withdrawn and termed as "shy." I fall into the latter category.

She also referenced a woman that wrote about her experiences. This woman, Brenda Della Casa, described an evening in which her father held a gun to her 8-year-old head and threatened to end her life. I wondered how a child could be left in such a situation. How is it that no one saw what was going on? How is it that no one tried to help her out of this nightmare? And how can I possibly think my own experiences even come close to what this poor woman experienced as a child?

But that's the thing. Abuse is abuse. It's horrific and the scars left are unique to each child touched by abuse. We carry them with us, even if we miraculously manage to move beyond the statistic that is supposed to be our lives.

When I was in college, I had a conversation with my grandmother. We were talking about my brothers. Likely, the eldest was in trouble with the law again. My grandmother felt sorry for their childhoods because the boys had been beaten. For some time, I could not remember a day when they weren't hit in some way or another. "We all had it hard, Nan," I said, "but look at me; I'm not in jail." She had a way of not holding them accountable for their adolescent actions because they were beat as children. "It was different for you," she said, "you weren't beat. That's worse." Because sodomy somehow doesn't equal physical abuse. Granted, I don't believe my grandmother realized the extent of my abuse. And I think she was reasoning something else in her head that is not my story to tell. Nonetheless, my wounds were opened and my pain was real. My hurt at her disregard of my own abuse stuck with me.

That wasn't the last time she made such a comment. I know she didn't understand what she was doing to me. And don't get me wrong, I loved my grandmother in way I can't truly describe. She was my rock for so many things and in so many ways. But in this, she was wrong.

One of the essays I read said that few fight for normalcy. That few make it beyond the bounds of their lives. This I know is true. I know that where I stand today is so far from where I should statistically be. I often say, "If I were a statistic, I'd be living in a trailer park, barefoot and pregnant with my fourth or fifth child drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette high on cocaine." Because by all rights, I should be. And I know it.

The problem with moving beyond the binds that tie a person to a life of hardship is that those things that happened don't move. They stay firmly planted within your mind. They color your world in shades imperceptible to those that haven't been there. They shape your decisions and the way you interact with those around you. They bleed into your heart. And just when you think you've moved beyond the pain they caused, something will happen or something will be said or something will be read that opens those wounds because they never really healed. The trick is learning how to make sure they don't fester within your mind spreading the infection throughout your soul.

I do not pretend to have experienced the worst of abuse. I do not pretend that what I experienced far outweighs what other abused children experienced. We all perceive our own abuse in our own ways. And mine lives on in me. It challenges me more than I'd like it to. It controls me at times and I am in a constant struggle to keep the control I have gained over my life and my past. But there was a time when I had so little control.

I have a student that has an obvious chip on her shoulder. It screams, "you have no idea what I've been through. You can't understand anything from that perfect little pedestal of a life you've experienced." I recognized it because I had it. In college, I was angry when people would talk about money or their childhood or their great relationships with their families. I would cringe when they would talk about what needs to be done for the poor. Why? Because most of these people were getting help from mom and dad. Most of these people lived in what I considered perfect houses with perfect families and perfect high school careers. And I had none of that. I was bitter. And I had something to prove. I want to tell that student to hang on tight to that chip because it will get her through. It will push her and drive her to be more successful than anything she came from.

Until it doesn't. And that time will come when that chip firmly planted on her shoulder will begin to create roadblocks in her life. There will come a point when she will have to let go of the pain and the bitterness. I know because I had to learn to do the same.

I still get defensive when the "rich" people start talking about how to save the kids. The people who have never experienced the kind of life their trying to save them from. How can they possibly understand? But I also realize that we need these people. Because despite their lack of experience, they are willing to do something that a lot of these kids don't have. They're willing to care.

Regardless of experience, it's these people that are so willing to care for and encourage abused children that can make such a huge difference. Because with the right connection with the right child, these people have the potential to give a small inkling of hope to a child living in a hopeless situation. No child should ever feel hopeless about where they are and what their future holds. Is it always easy to love and break through the barrier of an abused child? Hell no. We're a sketchy lot. We don't trust anybody and we don't think anybody has our best intention at heart.

Yet for me, there were people who broke through my barriers. There were people who gave me hope and believed in what I could be some day. And to them, I am eternally grateful. I cannot begin to express in words how grateful I am for the gifts of just a few people that could see beyond my shy behavior, my tattered clothes, my run-down house, and my white trash life.

And while I will always struggle with the memories firmly locked in my head, I know that I am in such a good place. There are times when I get so upset that I can't just forget all of this. Because it doesn't matter how great an abused child is doing in adulthood. Even then, we're plagued by a whole host of things. As an adult, I know nothing that happened to me as a child was my fault. I know I did nothing to deserve those things. I know it because I'm rational and as I moved into adulthood, I gained the cognitive ability to realize that I was a product of my circumstance. I was forced into situations I had no control over. But that doesn't mean my mind always agrees with this reasoning or that my heart wants to listen to logic.

I am fortunate because I have gained control over most aspects. I have moments that spread further apart than they used to be and I will always have these moments, but the time they are allowed to fester has become shorter and continues to grow shorter.

These days, I see the major impact my childhood had on me in my parenting. I'm constantly striving to be that "perfect" parent, even though I rationally realize perfect parents are non-existent. I feel so much stress in that arena of my life, realizing the impact that a parent's decisions can have on a child. The lasting impacts that will follow them throughout the rest of their lives. While this kind of pressure is probably hard on any parent from any background, the impact to those of us that survived abuse is exponential. We have few strong resources to fall back on and we're in a constant struggle to make sure our children feel loved and healthy and whole. But there are those brief....very brief....moments when I think, "I'm just going to beat the hell out of him. Then he'll get that I'm serious." Of course, I never would do this, but to describe how much I chastise myself for even allowing such a thought to enter my mind is impossible. In those moments, I feel like the lowliest of parents.  And there are times when I want scream: "You have no idea how good you have it!" Because they don't. But that's the thing. I don't want them to know my life. I don't want them to feel the things I felt as a child. I don't want their adulthoods tainted by abuse. And I will do anything and everything in my power to ensure that. I'm constantly aware of that goal, and it's exhausting.

There is a war raging within me most of the time. It's between the me that I've become and the me I was supposed to be. As I get older and continue to grow, I can feel the me that I've become winning the war, even if the me that I was supposed to be wins a few battles here and there. I imagine I will always struggle with these things and that those wounds carved into me as a child will always be just below the surface, ready to break open, but the me that I've become refuses to let them sit and fester because I have so much to be thankful for and I have so much love to give and so many people that love me in return. I am a product of circumstance, but I am also the creator of my present and my future.

A Little Truth About Me

So I've been having a really hard time at work. I mean HARD. I wish I could talk about it, but since this blog is public and people around here do know about it, I can't. However, in my conversations with my husband, I have inadvertently discovered something I've probably always known.

Ethan is like me. I am like Ethan.

You see, when Ethan gets bored with something or has no interest in something, he no longer reaches his potential. He loses his fire. He moves on to the next thing. It drives me crazy that he won't stay focused on something I know he can do.

I can now see this pattern in myself.

Thing is, when I begin a new endeavor, I go full speed ahead. I rock it out in a way that causes people to tell me I'm a rock star. Or lament on how bright my future is and all the potential I have. But then I master it and I lose focus. I lose drive. I lose the desire to continue to prove my capability. I'm ready for the next challenge.

And while that may sound like I'm bragging about my capabilities, I assure you this is not a good thing. I become stagnant, and my work suffers.

And so I've been talking to my husband about my situation, and he brings all this up to me. He says that when I'm interested in something, I simply absorb it. Information, tasks, the whole deal. I know it like the back of my hand. So when I was slammed with a set of expectations, I didn't say, "What am I going to do? How can I meet all of this?" No, that's not me. I said, "I can do this in my sleep. They have no idea how easy this is for me." The proverbial gauntlet has been thrown down. And I shall pick it up and run with it.

It's your new challenge. Of course you can do it. Of course you will. My husband assures me. 

Because it's too easy not to and I have no problem proving everyone wrong. I have no problem proving that I don't fail and that the demise people are so anxious to see is anything but. I am strong and I have been through much worse. I got this thing.

Sometimes, people must rise above the mediocrity that surrounds them. It's a good thing I'm just the kind of girl that's willing to rise up and best them all.