But Why Mommy

Run

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Mon, 13 May 2013 15:24:00 +0000

I am a runner.

The ability to write that statement is amazing to me.

I've lived my life in fits and starts. I've jumped into things with both feet only to pull out before my feet hit the water. Sometimes, I would wade around in the shallow end for a while before deciding the water was too cold, too hot, too watery, too wet. I would get out never to return again.

I've started things for the wrong reason. Everyone else was doing it. I thought it would make me popular, prettier, thinner, happier, something. I was lured by the shiny, not knowing that real work lay beneath the pretty exterior. The work, the effort, the monotony, the tedium always turned me off.

Start then stop. Join then quit. Activities, jobs, diets, crafts, novels, plans, life.

My motivation was always wrong. That dangerous space between my ears allowed doubt and fear creep in. I don't want to. I won't. I can't.

Earlier this year I started again. It was a nice day, warm and sunny when I had forgotten what warm and sunny looked like. It was an exercise day but instead of hitting the elliptical at the gym, my body itched for something different. So I laced up my shoes, turned on some tunes and ran.

I've run before. Couch to 5K, an ill-fated attempt to train for a triathlon (really?!?) were started and stopped. I've run races, at least one per year for the past few years. One and that was it.

But this time was different. I felt the difference from the first run. I felt good, happy, euphoric. I felt the rush of endorphins I had heard so much about. I felt strong. So I did it again and again. I felt happier, stronger.

On an endorphin high I decided to sign up for a race on Mother's Day. I did not immediately regret the decision as I might have in the past. Instead I trained.

The race was yesterday. I woke up happy. I had a spring in my step.

As I stood at the starting line and looked around at the 400 plus women, I fought this overwhelming urge to cry. But it was not a desire born out of fear, nerves or panic. I was ready to breakdown and cry huge, ugly tears of joy. I knew I was meant to do this.

I was happy. I ran and it made me happy. I had done this because I wanted to. It was for me and me alone.

I might have walked more than I wanted too. I might have been passed by women in their 70s and girls in their teens. But I ran and I finished.

I am a runner.

Lady Killer

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 13:52:00 +0000

I knew it from the first moment I saw him. The eyes, the smile, the ability flirt like nobody's business all spell trouble. I knew the girls would love him. I just didn't expect it to happen so soon.

We were at the coat rack after preschool. He was goofing around rather than putting his coat on. A little girl came up and looked at Lion. She told her mom he "was one of her handsome boys". We laughed. She gave him a hug and then a KISS on the LIPS!

His first kiss! At age four!

But I'm sure it won't be his last.

Quiet Time

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 20:24:00 +0000

It's quiet time. Quiet time is mine, one hour that I can do whatever I want and not have to worry about what the children are doing.

I could catch up on a show. I could fold one of the 37 loads of laundry waiting to be folded. I could waste time on the internet. Usually I am doing one or more of these things.

But not today. Today I am listening. I am straining my ears for the sounds the children are making.

They are each behind closed doors, wrapped up in their own little world. Bunny is playing with her dogs, Lion his superheros. Their play is imaginative. They tell stories. They make up voices.

I drink up the sounds they are making. I store away the way the stories are told. Their voices open up the beauty of their worlds.

I move closer to their closed doors. I don't want them to know I am listening. Bunny is likely to shut down if she heard me. This is hers, not mine. Lion is the opposite. He craves an audience. He would fling open the door and demand my presence. His becomes ours.

I do not stay long. I cannot. It is theirs, I must be contented with the glimpse I have stolen.

Bigger

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 13:00:00 +0000

The other day someone asked how old my kids were and I automatically answered six and three. The second the words were out of my mouth I realized my mistake. They are not six and three, they are seven and four.

They are not who they were, they are something more. They are bigger, older. They are further away from that place where they fit neatly in my arms. Now they sprawl across my lap or worse yet find their own spot.

Slowing it down, stopping time is not possible. I know, I've tried. I repeatedly asked Lion not to turn four. "You are so perfect now" I argued. "I sorry momma. I turn four, I no know how to stop it." It can't be done. Bigger happens. Older happens.

Bigger is good. Older is good. I have conversations with Bunny that astound me. She understands so much. I am beginning to share my interests with her in a way that was not possible before. She, in turn, has opened her world to me. The stories she tells, the secrets she shares are beautiful. I am blessed with a glimpse of the woman yet to be, serious, silly, talented, exquisite.

Bigger is fun. Older is fun. Lion is pure joy. He experiences life, he does not sit on the sidelines waiting for something to happen. It is inspirational, something that in my 40 some years of life I have never really been able to get the hang of. I want to nurture that. I want to wrap that gift so that he can carry it with him. Remember the time when you were getting bigger, remember that boy, be that boy always.

Bigger makes me nostalgic for smaller. Older makes me miss younger. But bigger also leads us to better. Older leads to more.

Six became seven. Three turned four. Bigger. Older. Better. More.

Together

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 19:56:00 +0000

Sunday is family day. It is the one day a week that we all spend together, no matter what. Usually we do something, a visit to the museum or the zoo. Sometimes we do nothing. We hang out at home playing games, making crafts or whatever. It doesn't matter what as long as we are together.

Today the plan is to go ice skating at the Pettit Center. It will be a fun experiment. The kids have never skated and I haven't hit the ice in, well I'm not quite sure when it was.

Afternoon trips are tricky. Lion still naps. He needs it. Without a nap, we don't know what child we will have. It could be nice Lion, fun Lion or crazy Lion. So he naps and we wait.

Bunny and I snuggled down on the couch, me with my laptop and her with my phone. We sit side by side engrossed in our own little media worlds. I show her pictures of family and friends from Facebook. She reads over my shoulder, carefully sounding out each word. She shows me the contraptions she is building on Bad Piggies. We laugh and giggle when it falls apart and cheer when it makes it through.

Frink comes in carrying a tired Lion. He can't sleep laying down, the cough he's been battling won't allow it. Frink settles in on the couch next to us with Lion. Finger in mouth and more comfortable in an upright position, Lion drifts off.

The four of us together on our big red couch. It's what family day is all about.

Hold on tight

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 22:32:00 +0000

I was out all morning. I heard the news on Facebook. I was stunned. There were no words to express the thoughts and emotions swirling in my head and heart.

I prayed. I cried. I prayed some more.

I grabbed my children and held tight. "Do you want ice cream? Hot chocolate? Anything you want, it's yours". You are here. You are safe. I am lucky. I am blessed.

I now sit on the couch with a kid snuggled in close on either side, sipping smoothies. Scooby Doo is in the TV. On Scooby the kids always win. They solve the mystery. They catch the bad guy. The bad guy is never truly evil, instead driven by greed or selfishness. The hair brained scheme is easily solved within 30 minutes. The meddling kids and their talking dog save the day.

I wish life was as simple as it is for the kids on Mystery, Inc. But it isn't. It's scary. The bad guys are evil, driven by hatred and mental illness. They no longer lurk in dark alleyways. They are hidden in plain sight. They have access to guns. They lack access to the mental health care they need.

Things need to change. Politicians need to find solutions. We need to add our voices to the debate.

And tonight we need to hold our kids a little bit tighter.

Charade

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Mon, 03 Dec 2012 16:31:00 +0000

This weekend Frink lost his voice. Communication with him was reduced to pointing and motioning for this or that.

During a trip to Target, I had to introduce him to the notes feature on his phone. When he wanted to say something, we had to wait patiently while he typed it out. Bunny can read so he was able to communicate with her but I had to translate for Lion. "Daddy said we are not buying any toys." "Daddy said to watch where you are walking." "Daddy said ..." well you get the picture.

As we were wandering the aisles, he held up two bags of M&Ms with a questioning look on his face. "Should we buy these?" Dude, do you not know me? Of course we should buy those. Carry on.

After a successful trip, I opened the bag of white chocolate peppermint M&Ms so everyone could have a snack. (Quick aside: Run, do not walk, to your nearest store and buy some. They are amazing.) Frink looked very excited when he tasted the candy. He made some gestures, one of which looked like pouring M&Ms into a bowl. The other was more difficult. He slid his hand into the imaginary bowl with a scooping motion.

I had no idea. He repeated the gestures. Again, nothing. Another round of gestures. "You want to eat the M&Ms with a shovel?"

My response was met with a stare that said, "no, you idiot."

One last time he poured the imaginary M&Ms into a bowl, scooped with his hand and flipped. Oh. Ohhhh! "You want to make pancakes with these? That would be awesome."

Vigorous nodding. Success! This was followed by 5 minutes of laughing at anyone wanting to eat M&Ms with a shovel. That is just crazy, handfuls shoved into your mouth are much faster.

Writing on the Walls

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Bunny has always been a creative child. She can spend hours drawing and painting. She writes and illustrates her own books. She creates detailed scenes for her animals to play in. I am always looking for ways to nurture that creativity. I love to follow her lead and see what she can come up with.

A while back we watched the movie Tangled. Bunny loved the way that Rapunzel had painted her room. She asked if she could paint her room in the same way. It took a while for us to get our act together but she finally got to start this weekend. I wasn't sure what she would come up with but the outcome was wonderful.

We had recently organized her room so all of her animals had a place. She decided to paint a home for them.

A bird nest for the birds.

A stable for the horses.

She is working on a hospital for the injured animals. I also anticipate a dog house for her dogs.

When Lion found out that Bunny was painting her room, he wanted to join in the fun.

So he got a Captain America shield on his wall. It is totally bad ass.

Family

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Tue, 30 Oct 2012 18:39:00 +0000

Six years and one day ago, my family consisted of two people, just Frink and I.

Six years ago to the day, two became three.

It's funny how the addition of just one teeny, tiny person changed everything. One day earlier, I thought I knew who I was and what I was doing. That day I knew nothing. I didn't know up from down, left from right. I just put one foot in front of the other and muddled through the best I could.

Three eventually became four. I had successes and spectacular failures. I learned. I grew.

Mornings where I just wanted to throw in the towel and run away led to afternoons of laughter. I think nothing of sneaking around the store like a ninja. Stories I have heard over and over again become gloriously new when read to me by my child. My house may never be clean. I may not get a shower every day. I won't know what I am doing more often than not. But I know who I am. I am a mom. I am part of an amazing, crazy, perfect family. Just Write

The Red Couch

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 21:29:00 +0000

There have been times I've wondered if it was the right one for us. It's so red, so big.

The back cushions are bulky and uncomfortable. We've long since let the kids toss them off to be used in whatever building projects they've dreamed up that day.

But there is something about it, something that makes me love it.

It is red, so so very red.

There are times when I catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye and I am transported half way around the world to a hotel lobby filled with red couches. Red couches where so many anxious parents took so many photos of beautiful babies. These beautiful babies and anxious parents were now families. Frink and I sat on those couches, taking pictures of our beautiful baby, creating memories of the time when we became a family.

Red couches mean family.

It is big, so so very big.

It takes up a lot of space but it provides lots of space too. In the afternoon, I often (but not often enough) spread out and doze on the couch while Lion is napping. Sometimes he joins me. He curls into me, gets comfortable and sleeps the deep sleep of those without a care in the world.

There are times when we are joined by a cat or two. And there are rare, special times when Bunny will join us. She forgets that she is six. She forgets that she no longer naps. She surrenders to the warmth of the afternoon sun, the comfort of the couch and sleeps the deep sleep of those without a care in the world.

Big couches mean togetherness.
And that is how I know it is the right one for us.

Breakdown

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 16:48:00 +0000

We've all seen her. She is standing alone, struggling against an angry torrent. Tears, screams, feet stomping, tiny fists flailing. She tries in vain to soothe, to calm, to stop but she cannot. Once the tantrum train has left the station, it is impossible to stop.

Tantrums are frustrating to deal with in the comfort of your own home. Tantrums in public are heartbreaking. You dread the stares in the grocery store. You fear the unspoken judgements of those around you. All you want to do is to run away, to scoop your child up and flee to the safety of your car. No one can see you then.

But you aren't in the saftey of your car or your home, you are in the aisle of a store. Your cart is full with needed items, milk, laundry detergent, diapers. If you leave without buying these items, you know you'll just have to go back. Do you stay and check out? Do you leave and hope to return with out the kids? There is no right answer, no easy thing to do. You are alone facing a furious, heartbroken child.

We've all seen her. You want to do something to help, to let her know it's okay.

We've all been her. Wishing, hoping that someone, something could help, could make it okay.

I was her yesterday. We were in a craft store across town. I was buying things for Bunny's Daisy Scout troop. It was too close to lunch, too close to nap time. We'd been there about 10 minutes too long. I knew these things. I knew it could be a problem. But I had to get the supplies, the meeting was the next day. I didn't know if I could make it back.

So I pushed on and Lion pushed back. It started in the checkout line. We were so close to the exit, close to the car, close to freedom. But it was too much and he lost it. I tried to hold him, to soothe him. I was rewarded with kicks and a tiny bit of hair pulled from my scalp. Putting him down resulted in a bolt for the door or tossing some impulse item on the floor.

I was lost. I was broken. I did not know what to do.

And that's when it happened, the kindness of strangers helping me, soothing me. A mother with an infant let me skip her in line. She knew it would be her time soon. She could be me, she would be me. The cashier who followed me out of the store with my gloves and Lion's book. I had forgotten them in my haste to exit the store.

Their kind gestures helped so much. For just a brief minute, I did not feel alone. I did not feel judged. And for that I am forever grateful.

Clearing Out

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 20:07:00 +0000

I'm surprised at how easy it was.

It seemed so big, so overwhelming. Everytime I looked at it I would freeze up. I. Cannot. Do. This. So I would just close the door and move on. The door kept it hidden from view but I knew it was there.

A friend came over. She said she needed to get her mind off of her own stuff. She wanted to help out in whatever way she could. Use me she said, I'm here for you.

I was embarassed to open the door to show her the chaos within. But she didn't flinch. We can do this. It's not that bad.

So we did it. We worked through the mess. Toss or keep? Toss, toss, toss, toss. Keep. Slowly but surely until the floor was clear. The piles on the tables had shrunk to manageble size.

I cleared out the wreckage, the external clutter that had been keeping me down. Now I no longer have to navigate a path to the computer. It's no longer a room of doom but an office. I can enjoy being in here.

I did it. We did it.

Feel It

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 17:32:00 +0000

I read a post today about feeling our feelings and grief that really hit home with me. With all of the physical pain I have been going through, I haven't really let myself feel the frustration and emotional pain. I always feel the need to be strong. I can't let you see any weakness in me. Feelings, grief and pain are weaknesses. I stuff them deep inside, never letting them out. Occasionally I will sate them with a bowl of ice cream or a box of cookies (okay maybe more than occasionally). So they stay hidden, if I can't see them or feel them no one else can.

I don't ask for help when I am in physical pain. I am superwoman. I can do it all. I am in control. Because of this it's hard for me to ask for help when I am in emotional pain. I can't ask for help, I don't know how.

So I do the only thing I can think of, I radiate the pain and discomfort out into the world. Looking at me you would see a giant wound. If you got close enough, you could physically feel the pain coming off of me in waves. You have to see the hurt. You have to feel my pain. You have to share my misery. You have to help me because I cannot help myself.

But at no time do I allow myself to express those feelings, to deal with them in a healthy way. I need to take the time to feel the physical pain, the limitations it has placed on my life. I need to feel the frustration of no diagnosis. I need to curl up in a ball on my bed with Bunny's stuffed dog in my arms (which I totally stole because I love it). I need to cry, big, huge, gut-wrenching sobs. I need to experience the pain, to name it, to own it and to move on.

I can't be the woman, the mother, the wife I want to be unless I take care of myself.

Unknown

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 19:30:00 +0000

It started innocently. I was sitting in a meeting in a church basement, listening, learning and growing. The metal folding chair was uncomfortable. I shifted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Eventually my right leg fell asleep.

I thought nothing of it. Things like this happen all the time. On my way to the car, I stomped my foot, hopping up and down trying to regain feeling. It didn't come. My leg felt heavy and sluggish.

At home, the sensation spread to my right arm and eventually the right side of my face. This was not normal. I was scared.

A trip to the ER in the middle of the night, allayed some of my fears. No stroke. No lesions. Nothing serious.

My primary care doctor thought it might be a pinched nerve. A referral to a neurologist led to multiple blood tests. I had MRIs of my neck and brain and and MRA of my neck. All of these tests revealed nothing.

Nothing. We don't know what is wrong.

I was still having symptoms. Numbness, pain, headaches, neck aches. The pain was real, I felt it. I continued feeling it for months. Months with no answers.

A referral to a rheumatologist revealed nothing. A painful nerve conduction test, nothing.

Nothing. No answers.

I began to question myself. If the doctors can't find anything, is there something really wrong? Is this real? Am I imagining it?

The seeds of my doubt had been planted earlier in life. Physical symptoms were discounted by doctors. I was told it was stress, depression. I was given anti-depressants with no follow up.

I didn't question. I thought doctors knew best. I was crazy. It was in my head.

But it was not. There was a real problem. There was a solution, a treatment. If it was true then, I have to believe it is true now. I cannot live in the unknown.

A Moment

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 08:23:00 +0000

Our relationship has been tough lately. You are growing up so fast, hurtling towards 3 at a breakneck pace. You can do it, you want to do it, everything, anything in your own way, on your own terms.

You listen. I know you hear me. I know you understand. You are smart, very smart. Your brain processes the information and chooses to do the opposite, sometimes in outright defiance, sometimes because you feel your way is better.

The word no, or any correction in behavior brings forth a storm. You immediately lash out, hitting, biting, kicking or looking for something to destroy. I am the frequent target, it's only natural given how much time we spend together.

There are times I wonder if I am helping or hurting the situation. I know how to calm you, it could be so easy to soothe you and move on with our day. But often exhaustion and frayed nerves win out, I have to make a point. You will have a time out. You will finish it, even if it takes all night.

So here we are, both of us warily circling the other like boxers looking for a weakness. Time that could be spent playing is spent fighting, trying to win control of the situation. It's exhausting and it does not bring out the best in either of us. Resentments creep in. You run to daddy. I gravitate towards Bunny.

Just when I am ready to throw in the towel, it happens. On one of our many visits to Starbucks, you fling yourself into my lap, climbing up to make yourself comfortable. A finger goes into your mouth. The other hand reaches for my ear. You are calm.

I relax. The breath I was holding waiting for a tantrum is expelled. I see you, the real you. I press my face into your forehead. Tears prick my eyes. I whisper silent prayers seeking forgiveness.

How could I have ever doubted you? How could I have ever doubted myself? You own my heart.

Magic Snow

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 17:13:00 +0000

This winter in Wisconsin, my kids were yearning for snow. Every day Lion would ask if it was going to snow. Every day I would tell him no.

Instead of snow, we enjoyed 40s and even 50s. We went to the zoo. We played outside. We had loads of fun. But we missed the snow.

Finally last week the snow came. The kids were overjoyed. Snow pants, boots, hats and mittens were donned so they could get down to the business of playing. Tracks were followed. Angels were made. But most of all they wanted snowballs, oh how they wanted snowballs.

Snowballs to throw at trees and cars. Snowballs to throw at daddy. Snowballs to throw at mommy. Snowballs to throw at eachother.

When it was time to come inside, the snowballs had to come too. They must be saved for later, for that one special moment when it will be just right to throw. So the snowballs went into the freezer.

As the week wore on, our collection of freezer snowballs grew.
"This one is perfect momma."

"Dis insyde momma. I wov dis one."

"Momma look a heart shaped snowball."

"Maybe we could save enough snowballs to build a huge fort. Wouldn't that be cool?"

I think we are going to need a bigger freezer.

Six

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 13:45:00 +0000

Bunny is six.

She is growing up so fast. Her days are filled with kindergarten, learning and friends. She runs around the playground pretending she is a dog. She laughs, she plays, she has fun.

At home she draws and plays with her Littlest Pet Shop. She makes up songs and stories. She shares her knowledge with us. She is silly.

She tolerates Lion, "he may be a jerk" but he's her brother. At times when we offer to do something with just her, she asks to include Lion because she loves him.

She is such an amazing girl. Everyday I am so proud to be her mother. And everyday I pray for her family in China, I will never forget them.

Happy Birthday Bunny!

Momma, What Would Happen If . . .?

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 08:52:00 +0000

Momma, Daddy and I are going to discover a new planet and call it Hubble. Hubble is such a funny word. Hubble. Hubble.

Daddy? What planet would crash into the Sun last?

Daddy? Is Pluto in our solar system? Is it a dwarf planet? Why isn't it a planet anymore?

What's that red thing on Jupiter? How many moons does Jupiter have?

Daddy? How do scientists discover new things? Could we discover something?

What would happen if . . .

The questions come at a rapid pace. The thirst for knowledge drives her. She has to know everything there is to know in this exact moment. Later is not good enough.

We answer the questions as best we can with the help of Professor Google. Answers are accepted. She quiets, returning to play. Her animals utilize the knowledge she has gained in their travels to distant planets.

Part of Just Write at The Extraordinary Ordinary

Holiday Hello

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 17:17:00 +0000

It seems that I often come here, hat in hand, to say I'm sorry I've been gone. But it happens, more often than I would like, it's life.

Life has been lived in that time. Children have grown. We have been happy and sad. We have loved, laughed and cried.

We celebrated family.

We celebrated Hanaukkah.

We celebrated Christmas.

We sang.

And it was fantastic.

Quiet

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 14:26:00 +0000

It's a special day. The energy is different. The kids can sense it too. Their behavior is different, not better just different.

Daddy is home today. Daddy is theirs for the day.

The door closes. The voices and laughter are drifting away. A car starts and then backs down the driveway.

It's quiet. It's middle of the night quiet. It's quiet, beautiful, peaceful quiet.

It's 8 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. I am alone. The day stretches out before me full of possibilities.

Fear

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Nighttime is the worst. Alone in the dark, it finds me. Slipping in bed next to me, it's long cold fingers wrap around my heart. It's grip tightens with each breath.

It whispers to me, filling my head with unwanted thoughts. Thoughts that can be pushed aside in the light of day, become obsessions in the dark. Pain. Dying. Death. Children motherless once again.

Thoughts growing like tendrils in my brain, filling the empty crevices. I begin to question my sanity. Maybe it is all in my head, maybe none of it is real. I am crazy. I am crazy. The words repeat, echoing through my head. I welcome the thought. Alone in the night, insanity is preferrable to death.

I am suffocating. Drowning in an icy cold lake. My lungs fill with water. My limbs flail, trying in vain to keep me afloat.

I am alone in the dark. Isolated.

I can see salvation in the distance. Reality, sanity is there just out of my reach. The space I so desperately wanted, the few extra inches of room I reveled in just hours before seems like miles.

I reach across the tangle of blankets. I find solid mass. An elbow. A shoulder. A life preserver in a warm body. I hold on with all I have. I let it pull me towards reality. I feel the grip around my heart lessen, the thoughts dissapate.

I am safe for now. On this night the fear does not win. Not yet.

Giving Thanks Today

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 16:02:00 +0000

This week the we made a gratitude tree. It's a place for all of us to share the things that we are grateful for.

Bunny and I painted leaves and pressed them on the tree.

Then we each took turns writing what we are thankful for on the leaves.

The tree is now hanging in our dining room as a reminder of what we are blessed to have.

We are thankful for family, friends, home, health,pets, China, Ethiopia and so much more.

Furniture Shopping Can Lead to An Existential Crisis

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 12:00:00 +0000

This past weekend, we spent an afternoon shopping for a couch. Our current couch was purchased 14 years ago to furnish our first apartment. It was part of a set that we bought for under $1,000. It was not high style nor was it high quality. We needed a place to sit and the couch filled that need.

I have hated that couch for the past 13 1/2 years. It's not my style. It doesn't really match the rest of the room. It's kind of ugly. But it was comfortable so it stayed.

I am embarrased to admit to the present state of the couch. But after 14 years, two kids and two cats, I am sure you can guess that it is not good. Finally, I got sick of looking at the tears and sitting on broken springs. It was time to buy a new couch.

We went shopping. We sat and layed on a bunch of couches. We saw some we liked and some we did not. But nothing really jumped out at us and said "this is it". I pondered do we do a red couch with neutral walls or a neutral couch with color on the walls. I asked Facebook the same question. I had no effen idea what to do. Comfy couch? Nice looking couch? Color? Neutral? It was all too much.

Then I turned to my husband and asked a profound question "What do we want from this couch?" It was followed by an even more profound question "Is this couch for right now or for the next 15 years?" Deep, heavy stuff. Profound and profoundly stupid.

I think the root of my problem is a question of "What do I want from my house?" I do not know if I want to keep the living room as a family room. I think I would rather re-finish the basement (that has been partially finished for the past 4 years) and have that be the family room.

Family room downstairs = nice fancy couch upstairs
Family room upstairs = nice comfy couch upstairs

What do I want? How do I decide? And given my track record of finishing the basement, are we going to be stuck with busted couch for the next 10 years?

National Adoption Month - Stacey

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Throughout November I will be sharing stories of families touched by adoption.

This is the story of Stacey who blogs at Is There Any Mommy Out There.

Perspective is a funny thing. There is no way to predict how the pain of now will translate into joy in the future.

When Matt and I lost our first baby to a late first trimester miscarriage, it was - by far - the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I didn't know where to turn or what to think. I had no markers or guideposts to cling to in such grief. The pain was so constant and overwhelming that it seemed certain that others could look at me and see the hole left by the end of my pregnancy. Lost expectations choked me daily and clinging to the fragile hope of a second pregnancy did nothing to ease the drag of days.

Matt tried to help me. He held me as I sobbed. He drove me to the surgery and held my hand through the IV and the cramps and the pain. He let me talk and talk and talk about our disappointment and my grief and my fears that I would never be able to have a baby. That this would be my experience of motherhood.

I have a strong belief in doing. I don't sit passively and let anything happen to me and I refused to let grief happen to me. If nothing else, I would be an active participant in distracting my own thoughts. I researched miscarriages and fertility. I comforted myself with the statistics that said that miscarriage was common and a couple able to conceive so easily had a high chance of eventually carrying a baby to term. I applied for a new job overseas because - dammit - if I couldn't be a mother, I would have the dream career that I wanted. I wouldn't sit still and hope for something out of my control to change my life. And, I researched adoption. Matt and I had talked about adopting often before we decided to try and have a baby. We had always felt open to different ways of building a family. I applied to volunteer at a small orphanage in the mountains outside of Port au Prince, Haiti. Just to see, I told Matt, for information and so that we can start to understand the process.

Months past. I got the job and we began the arduous process of relocating our lives overseas for the second time in our marriage, but I didn't get the baby. Despite our best efforts, the pregnancy tests I took so hopefully "three days before the start of my period!" stayed resolutely negative. Each one took its own little chip out of my hopes. At Christmas time, I heard final word that they had room for me to travel to Haiti and work at the orphanage for four weeks in January.

I kissed Matt, promised, futilely, not to give my heart and soul away to orphaned children half a hemisphere away and left ridiculously early on a freezing cold January morning. After a long night on the gritty airport floor in Miami, I arrived in the oppressive, tropical heat of Haiti, drove the rutted, mountain rode to the orphanage compound and promptly gave my slightly battered heart and soul away to orphaned children who now sat in my lap, clamored for my attention, slept in my arms and filled my days and my thoughts. Grief lost the battle for my consciousness to industry and giggles and dirty diapers and an exhausting routine with "my" eight children to love.

It was a life-altering month in a life-altering year. I flew home changed. I wanted to be a mother through adoption. I was already a mother a second time. I missed my period in Haiti.

Eighteen months, reams of paperwork, several ultrasounds, an endless labor, endless waiting and hoping and filing and an exhausting series of flights across the country later, I held my fourteen-month-old daughter and my twelve-month-old son together in my arms for the first time.

I thought it that day and still think it now when I watch my six-year-old "twins" play and laugh and fight and giggle.

Just maybe, losing a baby was the best thing that ever happened to me.

National Adoption Month - Jamie and Jeremy

noreply@blogger.com (Renee) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 12:57:00 +0000

November is National Adoption Month. I will be sharing stories of families touched by adoption. This is the story of Jamie and Jeremy. Jamie has a wonderful design blog Kreyv .

In August of 2004, I was diagnosed with Hodgekin Lymphoma. I was only 24 at the time and was not concerned about any infertility issues. After all, the disease had an excellent cure rate and, in most cases, patients in remission were able to conceive a year following treatments. Unfortunately, the cancer relapsed in April of 2005, and in July of that same year, I underwent a stem cell transplant. It was during my second round of treatments that I was told that it was very unlikely that I would ever be able to become pregnant.

Of course this news was absolutely devastating. I think we all imagine our lives to be a certain way, and the thought of not being able to have children had never crossed my mind. As odd as it sounds, this news came at a good time. I was fighting for my life, and that's what I needed to focus on at that time.

A few years later, when it came time for us to start our family, we already knew that adoption would be the best choice for us. We chose domestic adoption and our agency. After becoming eligible, our profile was made public on the agency's national database. Potential birthmothers were then able to look through our profile and decide whether or not we were a good fit.

Our profile was posted in late April of 2009. We were contacted by Stella's birthmother in June and met her almost a week later. She had studied our profile, followed our family blog, and prayed for confirmation of her decision. She knew we were the right parents for Stella.

Everything happened so fast up to this point. I felt so many different emotions all at the same time. I was so happy, but so overwhelmed and very scared. As I quickly got to know this girl, the girl who would be giving us the most precious gift we could have ever imagined, my love for her grew, and I knew that the baby she was carrying was meant to be in our family.

From then until November, we were as involved as possible with the pregnancy. We listened to ultrasounds over the phone, recorded ourselves reading books so that Stella would recognize our voices, and had weekly calls with our birthmother. We could not have asked for a better experience.

In late November, I flew to Utah where my husband joined me a couple of days later. I was able to witness the birth of my daughter and hold her immediately after her birth. All of my fears and uneasiness disappeared at that moment. I knew that Stella belonged in our family. And though she didn't get to us the way I once thought she would, she was our daughter. Nothing else mattered.

We completed the adoption paperwork a day and a half later and took Stella home. She has been such a blessing in our lives, and we never could have imagined loving someone so much. We are so grateful for and blessed by the decision that Stella's birthmother made. We still keep in contact with her and visit her about every six months. I never would have thought that our path in life would have looked like this, but this path is better than anything I ever could have imagined.