Anger

This has been a hard one to write.  I feel very exposed, very raw.  But, it has to come out somehow.  Maybe my words will encourage someone else with this struggle, and perhaps I will also find encouragement.

I was raised with anger and bitterness in my house.  It was a way of life.  Passive aggressive in some ways, and just outright and blatant in others. Apologies were not a way of life, unless you were the one on the receiving end and desperate to smooth things over.  I declared long ago that I would not raise my own children this way.  My children will not know anger the way I did.

But, I'm an angry person.  And I hate it.  It makes me.... Angry.  I do not want to be this way.  I do not want my children raised with this in their lives, and I do not want this to be the example I'm setting for them.  When they do see anger in me, I want them to see me handling it in a healthy manner.  Unfortunately, this has not been the case.  I do not want to be this way.  I want to be easily forgiving of mistakes and missteps, and I want to be able to move on.  There are some situations (and people) I've learned to just walk away from, but unfortunately, it isn't always that way for me.

Recently, there have been many circumstances way beyond my control.  I don't like being out of control.  It makes me...  Yep, you guessed it...  Angry.  I've said things, and behaved in ways that have only embarrassed myself.  I forgot to be grateful, I forgot to laugh, and I wanted to blame God. Actually, I really just wanted to blame everyone.  My behavior has strained my relationships with my children, husband and friends.  I have not behaved in a Proverbs 31 manner... More like a head spinning, pea soup spitting, 666 manner. 

Anger is often my first response to a situation, especially when I feel out of control.  It is often my go-to emotion.  I say things I shouldn't and instantly regret them.   Sometimes I get so entrenched in my anger I can't see my way out of it.  It snowballs.  Anger breeds more anger.  My anger (wrongly) then sets the tone for my household and family; when I'm angry, everyone else finds reasons to be angry as well.  I forget to count to ten.  I forget to take deep breaths.  I forget to look for the humor in situations, and I forget to try to find something to be grateful for.  I forget to pray.  I forget that if there's nothing I can do about it, I need to move on.  I forget the things I can control--my attitude, behavior and outlook.  Instead, I fume.  I yell.  I'm not a pleasant person.  My family, and my friends, suffer for it.  And then I feel even worse.  It's not fair to them.  I know my responses with anger are wrong, and it's something I know I need to work on changing.  I need to make it happen for the sake of my own health, my family, and my relationships.  My life has not been a hard one. Sure, dog poop happens, and there are ups and downs. In the grand scheme of things, though, I have so much to be grateful for, and very little to be angry about.

Sadly, I'm seeing these responses in my children.  Children follow example, and this is the incredibly unfortunate example I've been setting.  I don't want this for them, as they deserve better.  I want them to be happy, joyful, successful human beings.  I do not want them to find fault with everything and everyone they come across, and I do not want anger to be their first, and ultimate, response.  I do not want them to be bitter and angry.  I want them to learn, and use, healthy manners of dealing with their emotions.  I want them to live lives of gratitude, and to know peace, grace and joy.  I want them to know contentment.  Their lives are not hard.  They have no reason to carry anger.

So, what point does anger serve?  It doesn't serve any point.  It gets very little done (although, I have to give a quick ode to angry cleaning.... Boy, do those toilets sparkle...), and it's not productive.  It makes me look like a fool, and it makes me feel immature.  It accomplishes nothing (unless we count those sparkling countertops and spotless floors).  There are times that anger is rightly justified, but it's all in how I handle it that is, or isn't, justified.  Anger only holds me back.  It holds me back from my relationships with my husband, children and friends, and it holds me back from enjoying life.  Most importantly, it holds me back from my relationship with Christ.

I need to change.  I need to work on this.  I need to remind myself that my joy and hope are in my Lord, and anger serves no purpose in my life.  My purpose, and energy, are better served setting positive examples for my children.  My energy is better spent teaching my children to find joy and gratitude. My kids deserve a calm household, and an emotionally healthy mom.  They deserve to have better examples set for them.  I do not want to be this negative person.  I want to be the person others are happy to see and talk with.  I do not want to be remembered for my anger.  Instead, I want to be remembered for my kindness; I want to be remembered as a happy person who encouraged others.

It seems God has taken this as a challenge, or perhaps the challenge has always been there, waiting for me.  Situations seem to be arising more than ever, testing my patience and limits.  Alrighty God, bring it on.  Let's do this.

"My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry." James 1:19

"Whoever is patient has great understanding, but one who is quick-tempered displays folly." Proverbs 14:29

"A wise woman builds her home, but a foolish woman tears it down with her own hands." Proverbs 14:1

It's Raining Sharks: Time Well Spent

I have a confession to make.

I love the Sharknado movies.  It's true.  Yes, the acting is terrible.  The special effects are laughable. The storyline is absurd.  It's campy, stupid, silly and outrageous.  And I can't wait for Wednesday night when the next one is broadcast.

I have an even bigger confession to make.

It's not really about the movie.  It's about Noah. It's about time spent with my son.

Noah loves these movies, and I love hearing him laugh.  I love watching him have a good time, and I love having a good time with him.  I love the way we laugh so hard we start hyperventilating and snorting.  I love that we have something special, just the two of us, something we don't share with anyone else in the family.  Sharknado time is our time.

These are the times when Noah opens up and tells me things he wouldn't normally share. He pauses the movie to share something with me, ask me a question, or just ponder life together.  Later, we repeat lines to each other and can replay entire scenes. My prayer is this is what he will remember when he becomes a dad, that I was silly with him, that I wanted to spend time with him doing nonsense things, because these are the things he enjoys.  My hope is that he will remember to be silly and do nonsense things with his children.  On that note, though.... Is it nonsense when the purpose of spending time together is served?  

These are the moments our children will remember.  These are the moments we cherish as their parents.

Thank you, Sharknado, for blessing me with time with my son.

Legacies

Shawn and I both recently lost our grandmothers.  My Nan died last September, and Shawn's grandmother died last week.  It's been hard losing the women who, for all intents and purposes, were the matriarchs of our families. Not a day goes by I don't miss my Nan, and I'm grateful for the daily reminders of her I'm given, and I'm grateful for the lessons she taught me.  Those were the real gifts she gave us grandchildren, and, in turn, her great grandchildren (and even a few great great grands), not the material things.  I was not close to Shawn's grandmother, but I am incredibly grateful to her for how she raised Shawn's mom, who then raised the husband I have now, and the daddy our children have.  Shawn is the real gift I was given by those two amazing women.  The ways these grandmothers led their lives has given us so much to think about, be grateful for, and aspire to.

Both grandmothers didn't necessarily have easy lives.  Both worked hard, both raised multiple children, and both faced various hardships.  Towards the end, they both suffered a great deal, physically.  Physically, life wasn't always peaches and cream. Is it really for anyone, though?

That's not my point here, though.  I don't want to concentrate on that part.  I want to concentrate on what they taught us, and the legacies they left behind in the wake of those hardships.

It's all in how you handle it.

Both women were women of Christ.  They were true believers, and they set the precedent for their families.  To the rest of us, they never wavered in their beliefs.  I grew up watching Nanny read her Bible daily, pray daily, attend church regularly, and lead a life worthy of our Father.  I cannot remember a time when my grandmother had an unkind word to say about anyone.  I don't remember hearing her ever complain.  Joy found in our Father was her preferred way of life. Shawn grew up watching his own grandmother do the same.  They loved as Christ does, leading by example. Despite their hardships, they lived lives of joy.  Right up until the very end, my grandmother was a happy, content, joyful woman.  They found their joy in Christ, and lived lives of praise.  Their love, and their joy, are their legacies.

One of the stories told about Shawn's grandmother this week was about her unwavering faith in the face of personal loss and devastation.  When asked how she could continue to believe, she replied, "How can I not?"

This had led to quite a bit of discussion in our family.  How can we not continue to believe, continue in our faith, continue to be grateful to, pray to, worship, praise and serve our Father in the wake of whatever happens?  If we do not, then what has it all been for?  If we do not continue in our path as believers, how could any possible good ever come out of what is handed to us?

God does not do these things to us, just as He did not do any of the things that happened to Shawn's grandmother.  What God does do is give us the tools to get out of these messes.  He's given us the ultimate tool, the best instructions--His written word--to handle what comes our way.

We've been given quite a bit to think about this week, and I'm grateful to Shawn's grandmother for this.  What will our legacy be?  How will we be remembered?  I want to be remembered as the person who never gave up on God.  He never gives up on us, and I want to live a life worthy of that.  I want to live a life worthy of the example my own grandmother set.

What will your own legacy be?

God's Goodness

Yesterday was an emotional day.  The grief center I volunteer with has published a book of stories.  These stories are sacred, dear and special.  They are stories of grief, emotional and physical pain, illness, and, most importantly, the journeys toward healing.  They are stories of hope, faith and deep love, God's love. They are stories of utter despair, and complete restoration.  My story is one of them.  It's not my whole story, but it is part of my story of how the grief center impacted my life.  It's a story from my volunteer perspective, rather than my perspective as a client.

We had a book signing at the center, and I was able to see people I haven't seen in years.  We joked that it felt like a high school year book signing, but it was really kind of like a small reunion.  Last time I saw many of these people, I was using a walker.  On a good day, I might've had a cane.  I was severely impaired.  I could barely stand, and walking was a major issue.  I was swollen from steroids, immunosuppressants and chemo; sadly, I was also usually high from antidepressants and narcotics that did little to mask the emotional and physical pain I was feeling.  I was on more meds than we could count, and I counted my doctors with two hands.  I was miserable, and it showed.  I made my family miserable, and that showed also.  It's not a time in my life that I'm proud of.  Much of the time, I would just rather forget it.

Yesterday, instead of the walker and meds, I had two more children.  It was a good feeling.  It was fun to see so many people, and it was as much fun to be an example of God's goodness and faithfulness.  It was redeeming.  Yesterday, they were able to see a child thriving (Noah), a marriage restored, and a woman really living for the first time in years.  They saw living proof of God's grace, mercy and healing.

Some call it remission.  Of what, we're still not entirely sure.  It's had many names over the years, and many theories.  So, if they need to call it remission, that's fine by me.  As for me, my family, our friends and loved ones.... We call it God.

Dear Formula, You Suck

We are a breastfeeding family.  I suppose you could call us lactivists.  Shawn has always been supportive, Noah knows more about it than more 14 year old boys should, and Avery has been a quick study.  I have unashamedly fed Noah and Avery everywhere I can think of, proudly, yet discreetly, baring my body for their nourishment.  I've smiled back at those who smile at us, I've glared back at those who stare disapprovingly, and even offered to share with those more brazenly rude.  I love being able to nurse.  It's one of my favorite things about having an infant.  I love the bonding and closeness it provides, and I love being able to nourish my children.  I love the snuggles, the coos, and the blissfully milk drunk baby.  There is a tenderness to nursing.  With Noah, it often felt like the only thing I was doing right.  With Avery, it was the only chance I had to hold him when he was in the N/PICU during his first week.  I had difficulties with both boys, most of them not properly explained to me until I had Avery, but I was willing to jump through hoops in order to continue to nurse them through their entire first years.  I cried when they weaned.  

My desire and hope was to be able to do the same for Ezra. While I did not have my heart set on any particular method of labor and delivery, I do have my heart set on being able to nurse Ezra as long as possible.  Shawn and I joked that when I was still nursing our last baby at 48 months, he was not to question me....  When Ezra latched on without difficulty two hours after birth, actively seeking out his food source, and knowing what to do, things looked promising.  We had a few issues to work out, but things started off very well.

Enter reality:  A c section and recovery.  Narcotic pain meds from surgery.  My malfunctioning thyroid.  Using me as a pacifier, and a subsequent lazy latch.

One morning I was producing between 7-10 ounces, and by that afternoon, I was down to less than an ounce, and my baby was screaming for more.

With our frozen milk supply running out, we had to make the decision to supplement.  My OB is working with us to help me get things started again, but in the meantime, our little boy needs to eat.

Standing in the store in the middle of a meltdown trying to choose the best formula for Ezra, I realized these manufacturers really prey on breastfeeding/supplementing moms.  Some of the packages claimed to be specifically for supplementing moms, but when I read the ingredients and nutrients, they weren't any different than the formulas with less specific labeling.  You've got enzymes and probiotics and vitamin this, and nutrient that.  Shawn and I finally made our choice, and we began adding it to frozen breast milk Friday night.

I cried as I fed Ezra, as he continued to turn towards my breast, rooting and wanting to nurse.  I hate formula with a passion.  I always have.  I've always rejected formula and bottles as impersonal.  When I already had what I needed to feed my children, formula and bottles seemed like a huge inconvenience.  Why bother with all of that? It kills me that Ezra has to wait for me to prepare his milk, warm it up, test it, and eventually--finally--get it to him while he cries, looking at me to just do something.  I hate it for him.  Noah and Avery never had to wait, I was always just right there. I know it's no big deal to some, but to me, it signifies a huge failure.  I cannot feed my baby.

I'm angry, I'm frustrated, I want to give up but I can't quite give myself permission to do that yet.  I feel judged, and I hate having to feed him with a bottle in public.  I want to wear a sign that says "I tried dammit, but my body betrayed me."  I know the reality is that the only voices I'm hearing are my own.  No one is actually looking at me and thinking, "Wow.  She doesn't love her baby enough to give her baby breastmilk."  Nope, that's all me. 

It's up to me to turn this around.  What I can do: the reality is, I can still feed my baby.  It may not be the way I want to, but it's how he needs it right now.  While I cannot rub his temple the way he likes when he nurses because I'm holding a bottle, I can still snuggle him, talk to him, sing to him and rock him.  I may not be able to nurse him while strolling through the park or wherever we happen to be, but I can promise him that mealtime will always be snuggle time, no matter where we are, and I will never prop a bottle up for my own convenience.

My prayer and hope is that we can get my supply going well enough again that this is the only container of formula we have to buy.  The rest of that prayer is that we can get Ezra off the bottle and back on the breast.  For now, I'm trying to take it one step at a time.  It's not my picture of ideal, but it's what has to work.

Processing Ezra's Birth Story

Here, dear readers, is where I need to process Ezra's birth story.  I've put it off, but a friend who went through something similar says it needs to be done.  I have ignored it (denied it?) because I don't want to make such a big deal out of it.  I haven't wanted to dwell on it.  It happened, we're concentrating on the end result (a healthy baby), I have to move on.  But it's not that easy.  Ezra's birth was traumatic, and unexpected.  There are parts Shawn and I still haven't discussed, figuring at this point, the less we know, and the less we speculate, the better.  Again, just concentrating on the fact that we were able to bring home a healthy little boy.

So, I'm going to tell you.... If you are pregnant or trying to get pregnant, please stop reading here.  There are some things we moms just shouldn't share with you, as it can be a little scary.  So, here is where you just share in our joy, and stop reading (please).

Few things in life go as planned; birth is certainly one of them.  I had a birth plan with Noah; the second things got heavy, it went out the window.  I didn't even bother with a birth plan with Avery.  We just decided to wing it, and expected things to go much the way Noah's labor and delivery went.  They didn't, and we barely made it to a hospital--not our hospital, but a hospital.  My doctors warned us Ezra's birth would most likely go the same way Avery's did... and it didn't.  I am not a 'birth warrior' and I did not have my heart set on any particular type of delivery.  I'm a huge fan of epidurals, and if that makes me a wimp, so be it.  My main goal was for things to go well, to just labor and eventually push out my baby.  It didn't really work out that way.

I will be honest, I wasn't ready to not be pregnant.  I was still loving every minute of it, even as exhausted and large as I felt.  Knowing this is quite possibly our last (again), I just wanted to revel in every bit of it, and enjoy it to the very end.  I worried the end would come sooner than I wanted, and it did, at 37 weeks to the day.

I had contractions for weeks with Ezra.  Very early on, and they were often hard and heavy.  It left us wondering when--and how early--he would arrive, especially when my doctors told us at 35 weeks to expect him any day.  Expecting a fast delivery similar to Avery's, Shawn planned out several routes to the hospital--our hospital--so Ezra would have our OB, our pediatrician, a proper NICU and pediatric cardiologist.  The night contractions started and didn't let up, we walked the court waiting for them to intensify enough to head to the hospital.  Even as it was, when we headed out, we still weren't sure they would keep us.  They did, and at first, things progressed quickly and right on schedule.  I jumped from 2.5 cm to 7 in less than two hours, but the contractions still weren't strong enough, and Ezra wasn't descending the way he should've.  I had an epidural, and that seemed to slow things even more.  Not only was labor stalling, but at some point my body began regressing.  They broke my water, added increasing doses of Pitocin, and still nothing.  Ezra's heart rate began plummeting, and he couldn't handle the drugs and stress of labor.  We went from my doctor telling us we had all day when I mentioned I was afraid we were looking at a C section, to her calling a second doctor in and making the decision less than 10 minutes after the initial conversation.  We knew it was bad when the second doctor was called in.  We knew it was bad when alarms went off and three nurses and two doctors came running into our room.  Things moved fast from that point on, and we were kind of caught up in a whirlwind of activity. I know Shawn was just as scared as I was, but he was a rock for me.  I saw the fear in his eyes while he watched our baby's heart rate, but he just kept talking to me and telling me everything was okay.  They literally prepped me on the way into the OR, headed down the hallway.  I laid in the OR by myself, surrounded by beeping machines and bustling doctors and nurses, wondering where my husband was (while he stood in the hallway waiting, wondering and scared until they told him he could join me), just needing him to be there telling me it was all okay.  I heard metal grinding, and knew they were using a spreader to open my abdomen, while I tried to not panic and wondered still where my husband was.  The anesthesiologist was amazing, talking to me, asking me questions, and drying my tears.  I'm not kidding, he gently wiped my tears with a tissue, trying to keep me calmer than I felt.  Shawn was finally able to join me, but I know they started things without him.  I remember they wiped me down with betadine, told me it had to dry for three minutes, and I wondered if we even had three minutes.  Before they wheeled me out of the L&D room, I looked at the clock and realized it was 10:30 am.  I watched the clock in the OR, and not more than 15 minutes went by, from the time they wheeled me out, to the time Ezra was born.  They moved fast.  I kept telling Shawn that once I heard him cry, I knew it would be okay.  They pulled Ezra out, and Shawn kept saying, "He's good, he's good"--later, he told me that he wasn't crying, and he was blue and limp.  It took them several minutes to make him okay.  Shawn went to be with Ezra at the bassinet while the doctors finished with me.  I did hear him cry, and it was truly the most beautiful sound in the world.  The nurse brought him over to me, laid him on me--and my son farted.  Yep, barely out of the womb and he was already farting on Mommy.  It broke some of the tension in the room, then I threw up, and I don't remember anything after that until I woke up two hours later in recovery.  Shawn said alarms started going off, and they ushered him out of the room with Ezra.  That's one of the things we haven't talked about, or asked my doctors.  We just don't want to know.  We were faced with the possibility of not going home with our child, and in that next moment, Shawn worried he was faced with the possibility of not going home with me.  When I woke up, my husband was holding our youngest, skin to skin.  It was one of the most precious things I'd ever seen.  Skin to skin was something we'd talked about, and it was important to both of us.  Shawn said he was worried he was taking something from me, but we had agreed beforehand that this moment of bonding was imperative.  Shawn couldn't just leave him in his bassinet, waiting on me.  I'm so glad he did that for our baby.  I'm so glad he had that time with our son.

I haven't even looked at my scar yet.  I have avoided touching it.  I'm not upset I had a C section; it certainly beats the possible alternatives.  It had to happen, and it did.  I don't feel robbed of my birth experience, I wasn't determined to overrule the doctors and see a traditional delivery through. I don't feel let down by my body, or angry.  I'm not upset by the scar, or that I have one--it's more what the scar represents, what could've happened. We could've lost our child.  I'm not worried about Shawn (or myself) not being able to love my body.  If anything, I know he sees me in a different and new light, and will help me embrace this newest imperfection.  I texted with my aunt throughout my labor, and when I told her my fear of needing a C section, she sent me an article she'd just read about C section moms: we are brave, we are strong.  I read the article right before the final decision was made, and I just kept repeating that to myself in my head: "I am brave.  I am strong.  I can do this."  Shawn and I prayed a lot.  We played our 'Jesus music' while we waited and labored.  We knew that God hadn't gotten us, and our baby--His baby--this far to not see us all through.  While we rested in that reassurance, it wasn't enough to completely erase our fears.  I did my best to not panic, but I was just plain scared inside.  My best friend told me when she opened her door to Shawn that night when he dropped our older boys with her, she could see the wear and tear in his face.  He still looked like a deer caught in the headlights, everything still sinking in.  He was strong for me, but I know he went through everything I went through, and then some.

I need to take this scar, and make it represent something else, something better.  I need to see it as a celebration of Ezra's life, and embrace it as a triumph.

We had a truly amazing medical team.  The NICU nurse was beyond fantastic, not just with Ezra, but with us.  My doctors were quick to act, and once things got moving, everyone moved quickly and honestly, well choreographed.  Our postpartum nurses were caring, helpful, and just plain good.  We had fantastic care our entire time there.

In the end, we're grateful.  We have a healthy little boy.  We were faced with possibilities that were less than favorable, but God got us through it all, and we brought our son home.

Three Weeks

I am so far behind...  Newborns will do that to you!

Introducing:

Jonathan Ezra Aaron (Ezra); born April 15, 2015
6 lbs 3 oz, 19 1/2 inches long

Ezra was welcomed into the world by two adoring brothers, a dog who has claimed him as her own, parents who think the world of him, and friends who can't get enough of him.  He is adored and loved, wanted and needed, precious in everyone's eyes. He's beautiful, and he's amazing.  Ezra has turned our world completely on its ear, and we wouldn't have it any other way.  It's as though he's always been a part of our family.  He was always meant to be, we just had to be patient.  He's ours.

Ezra's eyes are blue, he sports a full head of dark hair, and he's just an itty bitty baby.  He's got skinny scrawny little old man chicken legs, and he's too little for even newborn sized clothes.  His pants fall off him, and his diaper did too, for the first few days.  Like his older brothers, he loves to have his temples rubbed.  His softy blank is like an off switch for him, and he literally 'ahh's when we wrap him in it.  He still isn't too fond of his crib, preferring to sleep on us at night, and in his bouncer in the middle of the chaos during the day.  Ezra attends video lectures with Mommy, learning more about college life and the Bible than most three week olds.  He makes the sweetest noises when he nurses, and when he realizes he's being swaddled.  His little cry is more him telling us about his displeasure, saying, "Uh uh, uh uh" than actual crying.  It's been said he looks less like his older brothers and Shawn, and more like me....

Ezra's heart is still having problems.  We just saw his cardiologist for an EKG and another echo, and while everything still looks fine structurally, he is still having PACs.  His doctor also detected a slight murmur.  He had to wear a 24 hour monitor this past week, so now we've turned that in, and we wait on the results.  His doctors continue to reassure us this is not life threatening, and they are still confident it will go away on its own, and not become a lifelong problem.



These are just a few of my favorite photos (and you know we've hundreds already....):

Ezra's birth has put things in perspective for us.  No complaining.  We are blessed.  We are lucky.  He is a miracle.