I'm not who I was...

Thirteen years ago tomorrow, at 22 years old, I became a wife. It was a beautiful summer day, surrounded by so many family and friends. My dreams were coming true, and I was going to spend my life with the one who I felt God had chosen for me. We were going to do life together until we breathed no more.

I was legally married for nearly 10 years, and those nearly 10 years brought me so much joy, beautiful children, and cherished memories.  I look back on them and have so many memories where I could laugh until I cry. I have so many memories where I felt such love and joy that I did cry. And I have so many nightmarish memories that I try not to think about or I know I will lay in bed and cry until my eyes swell.  For the most part, honestly, I would say that it was worth it. I was blessed with the treasures I desired since I was a young girl, and that makes the entire journey worth living through.

The last few years of the marriage really brought me nearly a life's worth of stress and trauma.  There was so much darkness, too many surprises, and tons of huge mountains the children and I had to climb.

 Every year, now, I see the date come and go, I reminded of both the beautiful and the terrible memories that marriage brought to me. It's like a silent movie real that plays a rerun in my mind. This is my third year seeing August 5, my wedding date, as a divorced woman.

Each year, I look at my children and remind myself they were the best gifts ever given from that marriage and I am so grateful that God blessed me with the marriage that made their mommy. Each year that passes, I look back, and I see just how much stronger I am, how much wiser, how much more empathetic, how much braver, and how much more resilient I am than that young woman.

As the years carry on, I must say, on my wedding anniversary, I am able to look back and see that I'm not who I was, not entirely, but rather, how God continues to form me day by day, into the woman He always knew I would be.  I don't feel like I fully know this woman yet. Some days, she seems like a stranger I haven't really met. Many days are a blur, raising three young kids in a busy world, but I've been told this new woman is there and she's the one taking control of my life. I may still shed some tears, knowing my life is not like I had dreamed, walking down that aisle in my pretty white dress 13 years ago, but I think that's to be expected and likely very normal, even if my story is a little less than ordinary.  What I do know is that on my wedding anniversary, each year, I can look back and see a life lived with God, great friends and loving family standing by my side every step of the way.

This year is a little different, because after 26 months of near silence (again), my former husband is back in my life. It's been a few months in the making, but God has called me to allow reunification between he and the children that he willingly walked away from (again) in 2017. I've been pretty quiet about this, trusting my prayers and what I feel God has called me to do, instead of soliciting much advice.  I believe I am doing what is best for my children. On the eve of the anniversary, I ask for a gift this year, not for me, but for the children I was blessed with through this marriage.

Please pray for healing in their hearts. Please pray for healing in their dad's heart.  Please pray he will be a dad to them for real and forever. Please pray for patience, peace, and guidance for us all as we navigate this season with hopeful expectation and obvious reservation.

Not quite a re-run

Today, Little Miss Pippin met with an ENT. We left with an appointment to have her tonsils and adenoids removed, as well as tubes placed in her ears. The doctor is confident that this will ease her continual sinus and ear infection issues, as well as likely help her to sleep more restfully and soundly through the night. Because she is just barely two, she will be spending the night in th hospital. This will all occur at the end of July. Prayers are appreciated.

I left the appointment feeling hopeful, but also filled with heartache.

A little over a year ago, her brother, not much older at the time than she is now, had a tube and adenoid procedure done. He had two parents there, so I was not alone with three kids before it began because daycare wasn't open before we had to be there, but he had two parents to take turns holding him while he woke from anaesthesia and to comfort him while he cried so hard his oxygen remained low.

A little less than a year ago, baby girl was in the hospital for three days with a fever of nearly 105, being tested for meningitis, spinal herpes, and various other things. Her dad had run off and though was receiving info, wouldn't so much as respond to a single message from anyone regarding the potential threat upon his toddler daughter's life. I sat there for most of those hours, exception a few where her wonderful aunt came, so I could go back to the homeless shelter/transitional housing place and check in (mandatory) and shower, holding her as she fought off the unexplained fever.  She only had one parent.

One of my favorite songs has been in my head much of this evening as I sift through the outpouring of many emotions regarding these situations. "Scars are souvenirs we never lose. The past is never far... Reruns all become our history."

It feels so applicable tonight as I see so clearly the vignettes of last year, trying to mentally prepare for the upcoming procedures this year.

A dear friend pointed out we won't be alone. It's not just me, even if he isn't there, and quite frankly, I don't need or want him there to make a mess out of everyone's hearts. It may be true, but it doesn't make the ache completely vanish.

I know God's promises are true. I need to latch onto them again.

The Struggle

I apologize in advance that this post is not written in my typical fashion.

The past couple of weeks have been quite exhausting in my world.  Two weeks ago, my dad had a stroke.  I packed up the kids and drove to Minnesota to be with him in the hospital, freaking out internally the entire drive, so they wouldn't see my fears surface.  

My dad is recovering in a nursing home currently, with medications and therapy to help improve his life and hopefully get him back to where he was while attempting to disintegrate the potential time bomb in his carotid artery.  

I came home for Palm Sunday, so the children and I could be at church (and feed the cat), and I wept repeatedly in church, both out of gratitude for God allowing my dad to live through the stroke and to have a second chance.  I wept out of fear of losing him despite it all.  And I wept out of loneliness.  I realized in church that God is with me always, and I have friends and family to support me.  But, I also was presented, again, with the reality that the person who chose me, that I chose to spend my life with, well... he is still completely missing.  The one who promised to be my pillar of strength when I would someday lose my parents is nowhere to be found, and in his place, I have to place my trust in Him who I cannot see, cannot audibly hear, cannot feel him hold me.

As you know, I believe in God, devotedly.  I am striving to raise my children to feel the same.

But sometimes, it's still very difficult.

Fast forward two days, and I sat at work coughing and coughing and gagging and coughing.  I had been fighting off a cold for about three weeks as it was, and didn't think too much of it, other than it a continued nuisance.  But as Tuesday became Wednesday, and the cough got worse, and one of my ribs (which had admittedly been giving me issues for a few weeks after a coughing spell at the beginning of March) felt like it was piercing my side.  It made it hard to breathe, which made me cough more, which made my lungs hurt.  It was a mess.  Come Thursday night, I was actually a bit scared about it, but still trying to push through it, because I was sure it was just a cold and I was being ridiculous.  Then, my friend told me, "It shouldn't hurt to breathe," and I decided to bite the bullet and head to the doctor (uninsured, which is another story).

I saw a CPN who listened to me, felt my rib cage and could tell it was swollen and tender, took my temp and oxygen, and diagnosed me with bronchitis and a bruised/fractured rib, or possibly just swollen cartilage from forceful coughing.  She prescribed two medications and listed a bunch of others that I was supposed to buy and take.

I tried to tough it out and go to work the next morning, but it wasn't getting any better, and I just couldn't do it.

I haven't been back since.

Over the course of the weekend, I was blessed with the opportunity to sleep while my children were loved on by other people.  I missed Easter church, which would have felt incredibly devastating had I not been feeling so wretched physically.  Easter is my favorite holiday.  The kids and I watched it online, which was nice enough, and then they went to our "adopted" family's house for Easter while I stayed home and slept.

I cried quite a bit before I finally fell asleep.  Easter was the last holiday that the children and I had with their father before everything truly fell publicly apart.  And here I was, alone, sick, almost unable to function, and while my children were at the same place we last celebrated Easter.  This year they had no dad with them, and their mom couldn't be there either.  

That moment began the struggle I've been fighting most of the week when I'm awake.

Monday led into Tuesday, and by Tuesday night, I had made my rib worse and my coughing was not better, likely worse, and I was completely freaked out.  A friend met me and waited with my children while I had x-rays done proving that I had pneumonia and a fractured rib.  I was given more prescriptions and advice and sent back home.  It's insane how much a fractured rib hurts. It hurts to walk, to sit, to lay down, to cough, breathe, cry, lift, push or pull with that arm, drive... pretty much everything.  And then the pneumonia, where it hurts to breathe, to cough, and I cough every time I walk too far, or there's a slight breeze, and I get dizzy and lightheaded. It's a stupid combination.

It's been very rough being home this week.  My children are very energetic, and I have zero energy.  It hurts to breathe, even though my cough has finally began to become less frequent and forceful.  I still sound raspy and wheezy, but it's become productive, so I feel like there's at least some light at the end of this tunnel.

But the struggle to be mom while being sick has been intense.  The children have been pushing all the buttons and pressing boundaries, testing and trying, making mess after mess, fighting and needing and jumping on me and being mad that I'm no fun.  It hasn't been that way 100% of the time, but it feels overwhelming when it is.

I have found myself crying in front of them, because I feel like this week, I'm failing them.  They've eaten cereal for almost every meal.  They've been left to their own devices in the living room while I lie down in my bed from time to time, fending for themselves when they're able.   I know that's okay and kids need to be self-sufficient, but I still feel horrible.

I've had to ask them multiple times not to jump on me or hit me because of my rib, and it makes me so sad, because my middle child loves to climb and jump and I feel like he thinks I am personally rejecting him, even though I know that's not the case, and I would just love for him to sit calmly beside me or on my lap and snuggle.  But he's rowdy and he doesn't seem to have time for that.

I feel like I'm boring and no fun.  In fact, both of the boys have told me more than once they don't want to be here with me.  I don't blame them, because I'm so exhausted that I, as much as I hate to say this, wish they could be somewhere else so I could just sleep.  I don't let them know that of course and attempt to engage with them as much as I can, even if it means Netflix watching on my bed, reading books together on the couch, rocking Norah's babies, or watching videos of them on my phone.  It seems like every part of my body hurts and aches and is exhausted, so I don't blame them at all for thinking I'm such a bore.  I totally am.

But I'm trying. I keep telling myself that.  I hope that they know.  Because right now, I'm struggling feeling adequate and not a failure.  I'm struggling feeling like they think I don't care and don't love them as much as I should.  I struggle to feign the energy and excitement they need when they ask me to put up the basketball hoop yet again.  I struggle with the creativity to find things to engage them day after day in this apartment, because even being on the deck has made me cough so hard that I nearly throw up.

Then, I've been struggling with frustration and anger at their dad.  I have to tell myself that while I think "he SHOULD BE HERE" to help me in times like this, it's not the case.  But it feels horrible to know that he's chosen to not be here and care even a little bit and help me out during a week or two when I could have used his help so desperately.  I don't like feeling this way, especially when it seemed like a couple of weeks ago, I was at peace with this whole marital saga and how it ended.

I'm going to be better, and soon. I tell myself that.  I've been praying fervently.  And I will be returning to work next week.  It's going to get back to normal.  It just seems like it's been forever.  

Sorry for all of the whining and the incessant rambling  I am not looking for pity, I just needed to get it all out.  I know I've been incredibly whiny and negative lately, as much as I've been praying against it.  I've not had contact with many people for that reason, because I believe I am likely irritating in this state, and I feel bad for subjecting people to that.  I haven't been this sick before, ever, as far as I know, and I think I handled all three of my children's births better than I have been this pneumonia and broken rib combination.  It's quite a paradox though, not wanting to bother people and missing adult interaction so deeply.  I've been more lonely than I care to admit.

  I haven't blogged in quite some time, I know, but I haven't felt up to it with everything going on. 

A month has flown by!

Today, (or technically yesterday since it is after midnight now) marks one month since I first peered into Norah's eyes.

Yes, my newborn baby girl is a month old. 

The month has flown by so quickly. I know that's an overused phrase, but it is quite fitting. Also, I'm exhausted, and I'm finding trouble thinking of a more poetic phrase. Yes, tonight, the post will lack my typical style of writing. See... Wow.

It's amazing to me that 30 days have passed since Collin began his role of a big brother and Spencer first said "hi, baby sister!" I look back at her birth day and find myself swelling with both pride and disbelief that I went through without an epidural. That it was only approximately a 6 hour time frame from the beginning of the pitocin to hearing her first breath seems like the blink of am eye compared to the month of having her breathing in our arms.

Things have been changing around here, obviously. I used to pride myself on being on time and early for things, but I forget that having a newborn makes it a bit more challenging with a slightly (some days more than slightly) unpredictable schedule. I've been trying to show myself more grace and lenience in that area so I'm not frustrated when instead of making it to early church, the five of us go to the second service, or when we arrive 30 minutes "late" for a play date.

Nursing is going well, but the boys are a challenge there. If I'm lucky, they play nicely in the living room while I feed her. Often times, though, they're off creating mischief (anyone want to unravel a new spool of thread around the house?) and taking advantage of the situation. Sometimes, they take my nursing as an invitation to try to crawl up my back or sit on my arms. It's kind of a circus here at times. 

Collin has become more aware of Norah and is generally cautious around her instead of accidentally sitting on her feet and such.

Spencer loves to hold her. He also songs to her, consoles her, and offers her his favorite books (so adorable, and so unhelpful as it occasionally angers her more) or a pacifier if she cries. He speaks to her in the same tone and phrasing a that I use. It melts my heart.

Otherwise, things are shockingly... Normal. It doesn't always feel like a lot has changed yet. The boys have transitioned quite well, now even sharing a bedroom, and Collin being in a toddler bed. Heck, twice in three days we have found them nestled up beside each other in bed (or the crib, the first day), asleep at nap time. I wonder if this month has brought them closer.

Unfortunately, knowing a month has already passed, I know soon I will be returning to work. But, I'll write on that topic another time.

For now, I bid you adieu, and leave you with this photo of Norah and I taken today. She's already over 11 pounds, she holds her head up frequently and for minutes at a time. She's alert, tracks us as we move, and is starting to make "babbling" noises.  She is quite active, loves to "stand" when she is nestled against your chest as you sit, and moves back and forth across your chest. She sits well (assisted obviously) and already is beginning to attempt some scooting while doing tummy time. She loves being on her tummy. For the most part, she's very laid back, and super sweet and snuggly.

We all love her.

The first week

Last week, quite randomly, it seems, Jake was hired somewhere.  I'm a cruddy wife, honestly, as I have NO idea what the place is called that hired him.  Or his boss's name. Or entirely what he does.

But, he was hired.  I hope it's a permanent thing.  He's been working for a week now.  It's quite a relief.  Mostly.

It's tough, though. I went from having him home and helping with the boys the majority of the time to having him gone the majority of the time overnight.  Really.  He found out about the job and that they would hire him and started the next day.

The job is long hours.  He leaves before the boys get up and generally isn't home until way past supper.  Six days a week. The first few days were quite an adjustment.  The boys both started to get pretty sensitive and cranky around supper time, I assume missing daddy.   We plowed through, and by the end of this week, we have mostly adjusted, I think.

He came home early tonight, and I got to get out of the house.  I'm on "vacation!"  The past few days have been rough.  Spencer has been a bit whiny, and Collin hasn't really wanted to nap.  I feel like I haven't gotten a dang thing done at home, even though I know that's not true.

I've done 8 loads of laundry.  Countless loads of dishes.  I roasted a turkey. I made homemade soup.

And, I've cleaned the house multiple times.  Though, heaven knows you couldn't tell. Spencer is quite a tornado.  I feel defeated at the end of the day if the house looks like a toy-closet explosion, but, generally, it does, and I'm trying to not be too hard on myself.  

Somehow, today, both boys and I were playing in the basement, which is currently a toy den, and I got it mostly cleaned WHILE he was playing in it.  I call that a triumph!  I'm super-mom!  Of course, I'm sure by the time I get home again, it'll look like it did pre-cleaning, but that'll be how it is, I guess.

I don't have much more to say about this all, but I wanted to provide an update, because the past few blog entries have been a bit heavier and written with a less hopeful heart.  While we're still struggling, I think we're finally struggling upward instead of downward.   I'll take it as it is and pray that it continues to improve.

Transitioning

The past few nights, Spencer has been fighting sleep pretty badly.  Even for Jake the other night, he cried and screamed a few times before finally giving in to sleep.  My sister, Samantha, and I discussed it briefly tonight, as I was mentioning how it stresses me out, though I try not to let it.

After talking for a few minutes, we both concluded that it's probably a reaction to all of the transitions that have been going on the past few months, as well as those that he may be able to "sense" that are coming up over the next few months.

Now, I know I've mentioned some of these transitions and changes in blogs prior (though I truthfully haven't been keeping up with blogging as much as I would normally do, partially because Spencer's taking more and more of my attention and focus, and also I've been spending time with people when they're around and available), but tonight, I was thinking about them all over again.

I realized I'm more stressed out about things than I let myself show.  I guess that's okay, because I'm probably more pleasant to be around that way, but internally, it might be wearing me down a bit.  So, here I am, blogging again, finally.

As I've said, Jake has started a new job with Washington National. He loves it, and he's doing well, which is a huge blessing, because it's meaning I'm still able to stay home with Spencer and grow baby Bo.  But, of course, the three nights away/four days away in a row (most weeks) takes a toll on all of us.  We're still adjusting, I think.  It's hard sometimes to be the soul parent in the house for that many days, only to have everything thrown for a loop when Jake finally comes home.  Schedules differ, though I try to keep things consistent, and Spencer doesn't understand really, though he seems to be doing pretty well being flexible.

Jake and I have been trying to adjust, still, too, the two of us, and our marriage, to the new stresses and changes of his job.  Sometimes, it seems a lot harder and more stressful than I imagined, but other times, it seems like nothing's changed really.  But, it's hard, and I've been really emotional about it.  And he's been really busy, so it's not always worked out the easiest to sit down and talk things through or have one-on-one time.

Then, we've been a one-vehicle family for about two months now while our other vehicle has issues.  We haven't put the money into fixing it yet, because we've been saving up to move.

Yup, we're moving.  More on that shortly.

Two weeks ago, or so, my sisters both came to stay.  Allison, who is 13 now, stayed for two full weeks, and then on Sunday, left with my dad and brothers who came to visit.  Spencer loved having her here, and was really actually distraught when they all left us on Sunday.  He threw quite a little tantrum as soon as they walked out the door, actually.  Fortunately for him (and for me) Samantha, who is 17, is still here and is staying the duration of the summer (give or take a few days or weeks).  She's been an amazing help, I must say, in not only caring for Spencer (especially during these 100°F or hotter days when I still try to get him outside for at least a short period here and there), but also keeping me, miss hormonal-eight-month-pregnant-stressed-out-mommy in a somewhat stable emotional state.  Gosh, I'm so lucky to have her.  Seriously.

Allison is coming back in a few weeks, with my dad, who is going to help us move.  Yes, back to moving.  When Spencer and I went to visit my family in my hometown in June, we all came home to new neighbors.  Now, friends of mine on Facebook especially can vouch that I complain about our neighbors pretty consistently, and have since we moved in, basically.  I think we've gone through five different neighbors or sets of neighbors since we moved in, and only one of them (borderline two) were what I call "good" neighbors, who didn't party, stomp, slam doors, yell, etc. at various hours of the day and night.  The new neighbors are just as loud, if not louder, than ones in the past, and when we got home and found them (heard them) living above us in the middle of the night, Jake declared we were going to move.

So, I spent the better part of two or three weeks trying to track down a rental place (because we're still not in a position to really buy a home) that would have enough space, in our current budget (with Jake still acclimating to his job), and allow our dog.

Sadly, as we drew closer to our "deadline" for securing a place so we could move within our time-frame, we realized we weren't going to be able to keep Wendell with us this time.

We're blessed again, in that my dad (and siblings who live with him) offered to keep Wendell for the duration of our lease, until we can/will move again and can have him back.  Now, I will admit, our dog has the knack for driving me completely up a wall, but I love him very much.   We've had him since we were first married (minus a month and a half), and as I joked with Jake "I've spend more time with him than my actual husband" (because Wendell is always home with me, or at least 99% of the time).   Not only do I love him, but Spencer does.  Wendell is his puppy, his dog, his pal.  He talks about him and gets excited and calls all dogs "Wen-doh!" now, even though he knows that they're dogs/puppies and can say and identify them as such.

To picture the next six to twelve months without Wendell by Spencer's side makes me cry.  I'm not even kidding.  I've cried many times since realizing we couldn't have him this next move.  But, knowing that my dad will have him, and we can still see Wendell, and can and will have him back again helps.  Thank goodness!

We finally did sign a lease for a 3 bedroom, single family home.  It's a pretty nice, older place. It's got its perks and it's downfalls, but it will work for us.  We were really feeling stressed and rushed to find a place and move before our next child is born... sometime in the next 5-9 weeks, most likely.  It's less than 7 weeks until my official due date!  We knew it'd be easier on us all to move and get settled into the "new" place before we brought home a new baby, so finding one, signing the lease, and getting over there has become a main focus of our days.

Well, now it's to the packing part.  We signed to move in on July 14.  We did this last Friday, giving us approximately two weeks to go through and pack all of our stuff again. Fortunately, we're moving about a mile (maybe two?) from where we live now, so it's not a huge move, but it's still stressful.  I find it especially stressful, because, much like last time we moved, I'm nearly full-term in a pregnancy, and I'm not allowed to do what I would normally do while moving, lifting and hauling stuff.  Yes, I can fill a box, but after that, chances are I'm not supposed to be carrying it around.  And this time, we have a "helpful" toddler around who is making it pretty challenging to get much of anything done on a daily basis.

Then, we'll be moved... and transitioning to a new home.  Do we transition Spencer to his toddler bed before we move?  Right when we move?  A while after?  Originally, my reasoning for wanting him in the toddler bed was that it was physically straining me to lean over his crib railing to pat him to sleep over and over every night.  But then, we did the sleep training thing and for the most part, he is fine on his own (except the past few aforementioned nights).  So, is the necessity still there? I don't know. I don't know what would be easier on him and easier on us.  I know when we stayed at my mom's for four nights, he was trying to sleep in a new room, in a different bed (his pack and play) and he did NOT do well.  So, part of me is afraid to switch him to a toddler bed at the same time that we move, and wait it out, or do it now.  I just don't know.

And then... we'll have our second child.   We won't have our dog.  My sister may or may not be here for a bit after the new baby is born, I don't know, she hasn't really decided (either way is fine, I don't want to pressure her).  Jake will be home for two weeks or so to help me and Spencer (and himself) adjust, but then he'll be gone.. and it will be me, and Spencer, and baby Bo.  Will Spencer like having Bo around?  Will he hate it?  Will he act out?  Will I be able to handle it?  Will I be able to find help if I can't?  Will I ever sleep again?  Will we... will I... be okay?!

There's just SO MUCH going on!

Gah!

Okay, that was long.  I commend you, and thank you graciously, if you managed to read the entire thing, and have any input, advice, commiseration, or... anything... to say afterward.

Bless you.

Scared-y-Pants can hit a ball!

Two months, or so, ago, my reproductive endocrinologist told me that I was going to be put on birth control and Metformin for two months, to let my uterus heal, post D&C surgery, before he would feel that we could "safely" start trying for another baby.

Well, two months is almost up.

When he first told me that, it felt like a giant stab in the hope sector of my heart. I felt like birth control was the complete opposite solution to my problem (though, medically, I understood why he was suggesting it, and of course, agreed to take that route), prohibiting us from having another child (temporarily, of course). The past two months, I have struggled with that over and over, each night as I took the tiny pill. I swallowed it hard (literally and figuratively, haha), and what do you know, I made it through it without excessive amounts of emotional baggage. Woohoo.

Now that we're getting closer to "starting over" on our journey to bring a brother or sister for Spencer into this world, I am nervous. More nervous that I was before we conceived Spencer or Sprout, I think. Maybe not more nervous. Maybe different nervous. And somewhat scared. With the potential to be terrified.

I am not necessarily scared that we won't get pregnant. I believe that we will. I hope it is sooner than later, even.

But, I am afraid of being pregnant again. I know that sounds strange, but hear me out.

When I was pregnant with SJ, I was super excited. I was nervous because we found out before I was four weeks pregnant, and cautious about it at first, until we heard the heartbeat. Then, we shared the joy with the world, and a few months later, Spencer was born.

With Sprout, it was the same. I was nervous (more so than with Spencer, looking at the event retrospectively, but we found out just one day earlier than we did with Spencer, too), and when we saw the heartbeat for the first time, we shared our joy publicly again.

Only, of course, we lost Sprout.

So, when we find out we're pregnant again, I'm nervous of how I will feel about it, and how I will react. Will I be invested in it, filled with joy? Or will I be totally detached and terrified to lose another child? I can't know, of course, and I hope it's the first option, but knowing myself, I could see the second coming to fruition just as easily (hey, I'm being honest).

Will I be too nervous to be "normal" feeling about it? Will I be overly-cautious? Will I over analyze every little thing and foresee another miscarriage? I sure hope not. I will try not to. I will pray that I don't become "that kind of woman," but, the possibility is seriously there, and it makes me nervous.

When we see a heartbeat again, will we feel comfortable sharing? I feel like we would, because, following the same path of thought as the first two pregnancies, if we share the news, we enlist countless friends and family as a prayer and support system. So, probably.

But, will I ever feel "at ease" being pregnant again? Or will I just be terrified?

I try not to think about it, but I can't help it.

I know they say that a miscarriage doesn't usually mean and increased risk for another miscarriage. But, you just never know.

So, there you have it. I'm a big scared-y-pants who wants to be pregnant so intensely, but isn't quite sure how to handle herself when that time comes again.

New subject.

Racquetball! Yeah! I never really saw myself being a racquetball player. I won't lie. The most I'd had interest in racquetball courts was in college when Jake and I would sneak our guitars into the racquetball courts at SMSU, turn off the lights, and play guitar and sing in the dark. (If you've never done that, do it, it's a phenomenal experience acoustically.)

But, a few weeks ago, I decided I would like to join Jake at the wellness center, and by golly, he invited me to learn how to play racquetball. Feeling a bit spunky and daring that day, I agreed to do just that.

Now, I won't brag, but I am a great racquetball player.

Haha, no I'm not. I am a great loser though. Meaning I haven't scored more than 6 points total (if I recall correctly) in my entire career (which is about three weeks long now), but I tell you what, I have FUN. Yes, I will admit, I enjoy playing racquetball!

Jake is a really good sport about it. He doesn't play "full force" against me, and he intentionally avoids beaming with the ball, especially in the head (I actually haven't been hit once by Jake, and I have accidentally hit him at least 3 times (which I apologize for repeatedly as he tells me it's his own fault)). He doesn't hit the ball insanely fast either, so I actually have a chance of lugging my slow self toward it and may actually hit it!

I have scored points though (not sure if they were "pity points" or not, but I'll pretend they are legit), and I have caused quite a few (at least 9) side-outs, AND I HIT THE BALL many, many times. I can even serve fairly reliably! Yeah. That's right. I'm a player. (Haha.)

Some day, maybe I'll even start scoring enough points to warrant having my own racquet, and not have to touch the creepy over-used-super-germy-from-tons-of-sweaty-hands racquets at the wellness center. That's my goal. To be good enough I can buy a $30 Wilson Hope Racquet (because it's a girly one that donates to breast cancer research).

And, to note, while I am "not good" at racquetball, I think I might be even worse at Squash, which Jake taught me to play on Sunday. But, again, it was a fun game!

Of course, the extra perk to my new found interest in racquetball is that it is making me go to the wellness center more and utilizing the membership I've been paying for, while also benefiting my health. ;-)

And now, to check on Wendell, who has been whining in the bathroom for about 45 minutes after I gave him a bath because he got sick all over himself in the kennel earlier, and I wouldn't let him tear around the house soaking wet, but didn't feel like wrestling him dry.

Goodbye, Sprout.

This is one blog post I had never imagined having to make. I knew there was always the possibility that this situation would occur, but of course, I had hoped and prayed it would be avoidable.

Alas, what do I really know?

Seeing as how the Oxycodone I took two and a half hours ago did not make me fall asleep like I was told it probably would, and I cannot turn off my mind, I decided maybe I would share what was on it, and hope to find some peace... or at least wear myself out enough to fall asleep. Heck, at this point, I'd give for falling asleep in our computer chair....

On Monday evening, I started spotting. It was light, and when I called the doctor the next morning, they said it was normal and okay. So, I tried not to think about it.

Tuesday afternoon, though, it became suddenly heavy, and I started with light cramping. I called the doctor back on the way home from work, and she was more concerned. I was told to go home, rest, put my feet up, and do as little as possible. If it got worse, go to the ER.

Well, it got gradually a little worse, but come bedtime, it was starting to get better. Jake and I had been enlisting prayers all night, and I thought that perhaps, they were working.

Right before our scheduled ultrasound appointment on Wednesday morning, the spotting started returning again. I looked out the bathroom door at Jake, and simply said, "It's back." Right then, in the pit of my stomach, I felt like I knew what it meant, but I tried to remain positive, anyway.

One of the worst moments of my life came at about 10:40 on Wednesday morning. As soon as the ultrasound images showed up on the television screen, I knew. Before the ultrasound technician said anything about it, or even "looked" at Sprout, I knew. There was no movement at all. There was no pulsating little heartbeat. Just stillness.

And Jake knew it too, I think.

After she looked around at other things, she zoomed in. After a few moments, she uttered, "I'm sorry guys." Tears flowed freely from my eyes. I was right. Sprout was gone.

She asked if we wanted a printout of the image, and I said yes. Now, I have no idea why I did. I can still, very clearly, see the most haunting image in my mind. It's burned there. I don't need or want a photo of it to commemorate that saddest moment.

We cried in the room for a while before moving to the next, where they explained that at about 7 weeks, 6 days, Sprout's heart stopped beating and he/she stopped growing. There was nothing they could have done to prevent it, and it was most likely because there was something "wrong" with the fetus, chromosomes and the like. It was nature's way of protecting us and the baby, basically.

They explained options, and sent us on our way. I bawled all the way to my chiropractic appointment, and then somehow made it through, but on the way home, I broke down again. I laid in the bed, sobbing. Our baby died. The heart stopped beating. I thought I was going to throw up all over myself.

Then, I realized I was lying there with our dead child inside of me. They told me they wanted me to try to "pass it on my own" over the next week, but if I hadn't, they'd do the D&C surgery to remove the tissues. I decided, after talking with Jake, that I didn't know if I could go a week with the constant reminder of what was going on, and then maybe still carrying around our child, no longer living or growing, inside of me. And what if I didn't pass the tissues and have to have the surgery in a week anyway?

Emotionally, I just didn't think I could handle it. So, we called, and scheduled the D&C surgery.

I spent the majority of the day on Wednesday crying uncontrollably. I kept apologizing to Jake. I KNOW it's not my fault, and I was not in any way blaming myself (though, sometimes I feel it would be easier if it were my fault and I had someone to blame), but I was apologizing because I was genuinely sorry for him that his child was no longer growing inside of me, either. Sprout was not just my baby, after all.

I did have a few moments of happiness, of course, where I was not sobbing. Undoubtedly the best part of my day was when I was sitting in the chair by the window, crying so hard, and Spencer was on my lap eating a snack. He peeked his head around to face me, smiled, and shoved a puff snack straight into my mouth, then laughed. I couldn't help but laugh. And then, he kept doing it. It was the first time he willingly shared and allowed me to keep something without taking it back to be funny. It was the sweetest moment.

By the end of the night, I was terrified for today to come. I knew that Wednesday was hard, perhaps the hardest day of my life to date, but the next day was to be the procedure that really finalized our loss.

And to make matters worse, while at first, Jake thought he could/would be there for the procedure, by the end of the night, that wasn't the case. He couldn't switch his route days, and he didn't think he could wait until the middle of the afternoon to get going. So, we settled for him being there until I went in for the procedure.

I hugged him goodnight, and cried some more, letting him know how sorry I was that he lost a child. I couldn't stop crying, I didn't know how. Thankfully, he held me in bed so I was not alone.

This morning, I had a hard time getting out of bed. I prayed it could still be night. I didn't want to wake up, because I knew that in waking up, the nightmare would still be my living reality and there was really no escaping it. To make matters worse, I knew that I would be going through the procedure alone.

Not totally alone, of course. I had God with me. And my mother-in-law, Angela, was also there, as Jake asked her to come to be my support. And while I appreciate it greatly, of course, it wasn't the same as having my husband with me.

Angela and I left for the hospital, as I fought back feelings of being abandoned and alone, and Jake took Spencer to stay with some dear friends, because post surgery, I would not be able to care for him.

The ultrasound I had this morning to confirm wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, initially. But, tonight, I can see it again in my mind. I laid there, eyes transfixed on the screen, seeing the image of Sprout, even more lifeless looking than the day before. And no one was there to hold my hand. Following, the doctors and nurses went through the procedures with me, then I went to the lab for a blood draw, and then it was off to surgery.

Around noon, they took me through the freezing cold hallways into the even colder operating room, where, after a few agonizing and terrifying minutes, they finally put me to sleep.

The worst part of my day was what happened next. I woke up, cold, in pain, and alone, in a sterile, noisy, hospital recovery room with a bunch of medical personnel I did not know. I couldnt' even ask for my husband, because he was not there. I was there. No Jake. No Spencer. No Sprout. I began crying somewhat hysterically as the situation hit me. The nurse gave me oxygen and wiped away my tears as I tried to deal with the fact that indeed, I was no longer pregnant, and Sprout had gone to meet our Maker, instead of waiting to meet us in April of next year.

I don't know that I'd ever felt so lonely. It was truly overwhelming.

When I finally calmed down, they had me recover before meeting Angela back in my personal recovery room.

Seeing her helped me regain my calm. I was able to talk, to smile, to laugh again. We talked about our loss and the heartbreak, but we talked about the good things too. She reassured me that it wasn't my fault, and that these things, as sad as they are, happen.

When I was finally released, we came home, to find the door was locked. I had forgotten my key, so we ended up having to drive to meet Jake to get his. The car ride was a challenge. I felt very sick to my stomach and was fighting back emotions that I just did not want to deal with at the time. Angela was very helpful company then, too.

It wasn't until after she left for home that it started to hit me. I had been relatively numb for the majority of the day. But, I sat down on the couch, next to Wendell, and looked at the toys across the room. Spencer wasn't here, and he wouldn't be having a little brother or sister any time in the next 7 months, after all. I cried.

To cope, I went online and chatted with our friend who he is staying with, so I could hear how he was doing. That helped subside the tears a while. It was a nice break.

At 9pm I took the Oxycodone that they said would most likely make me dizzy and drowsy, and I went to lay in bed. I called Jake. He didn't answer. I waited and called again. No answer. Eventually, he called me back, but it's his busiest night on the route, so he didn't really have time to talk.

Needless to say, I felt abandoned and lonely again. I know, of course, that wasn't his intention, but with the huge loss of the day, the terrifying procedure, and all of the emotions I have been trying to deal with, I just felt... dejected.

I sobbed even harder than I had since finding out about our loss. I tried to call my dad a few times, to no avail.

I know that sometimes, it's easier for some people to cope or to deal by removing or distancing themselves from a situation. Unfortunately, it's really hard for someone who needs the person closest to them to be with them to deal with their own emotions. It's a huge conflict, really.

I can't sleep. When I close my eyes, I see the haunting image of Sprout's lifeless body on the screen. When I open my eyes, my husband and my son are gone. It's just me. When I wake up tomorrow morning, it'll be just me.

I just hope it's not just me for long. I don't know how to handle that.

I will admit though, that the countless prayers, the condolences, the kind words and sweet messages, on Facebook, in my email, and on my phone, truly are immeasurable in worth. I cherish every single one of them, even if I haven't the words or the energy to respond right away. I have never had to deal with something like this, and I'm just living moment by moment as I go along.

I know that it's not the same as losing a child you've given birth to, held in your arms, and watched grow. But, we loved Sprout from the very moment we knew of his or her existence. We were already planning for the future, shaping hopes and dreams. Sprout was definitely a part of us, and a part of our family. And while we did not get to hold Sprout in our arms, he or she definitely took up strong residence in our hearts. In that way, we very much lost our child.

And, I can't say that it'd be easier or harder to go through a miscarriage after struggling with infertility and the invasive and ruthless battle that it takes to conceive a child. I wouldn't know. I have been trying not to think about it. But, when it does cross my mind, I do feel like it is a double heartbreak for me. The rounds of assistance where you get a negative result are harder than I can describe. But then to have that positive result taken away from you... I just don't know how to deal.

I wish it made it "so much easier" to know that I'm not alone in this, and that many of the women I know have miscarried a child also. But, it doesn't. Well, it does, but it also breaks my heart. No one should ever have to lose a child, before or after they are born. It's a heartbreak I never would wish upon anyone.

I wish I knew a way to find closure in all of this. There's no funeral for a child lost before birth, really. It feels absolutely surreal at times. Did this all really happen? Surely it did, as I have the physical evidence and hospital discharge paper to prove it.

But don't worry. I am not angry with God. I refuse to lose my faith. God's what will really pull us through this. God, and the support we find in each other and in our friends and family. And of course, this doesn't mean that I do not appreciate the miracle child that I already have. Of course I do. I may even love him more now.

I am sorry that this was so long and disjointed. But, if you've read all the way through, I thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my broken heart.

Various Topics

As you may know (if you're a follower of my blog), I had a cystectomy on my tail bone in March. It was not a joyous experience, but it wasn't as bad as I imagined either.

Post-surgery, I thought I was very well-behaved, taking it easy for about a week, doing not much of anything (thanks to my amazing husband who was daddy, mommy, housewife, and provider all week), and then light activity for a few weeks after. I went for a few post-op visits and everything "appeared" to be fine.

So, I was disgraced and saddened when I realized that, in fact, it was not healing properly. I've been back to the surgeon a few times, and up until this past week, he didn't seem very concerned, which annoyed me and my husband. Following this last appointment, he verified that the incision site isn't really healing that well. In fact, as gruesome as this sounds, there's a hole in it. Sweet. NO wonder it's been uncomfortable and painful, among other things, ever since. So, he gave us a few instructions to helpfully help it actually heal, and I go back in a month or so.

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Lately, our little family is less financially stable than we used to be. I've been blaming myself for this a lot, especially since I make much less doing in-home daycare than I did doing center-based daycare, which was also less than teaching preschool, which was definitely less than social/community work. Ah!

--

Today, I took Spencer to the park, by myself. He and I have been to the park with Jake or Jillian and the daycare kids before, but never alone. It was a wonderful experience! I had him in the baby swing, and got to talking to another mommy there, whose baby is just three days older than Spencer. So we were comparing stories and stuff. It was pretty cool. He used the swing, then one of those bouncy/rocking sit-on toys (a duck, actually) until he bonked his face on the handlebars (I was holding him, and he still did it... whoops), and then we went on the play equiptment and played with the tic-tac-toe board thing for a while, and then back to the swing, together, then the toddler swing, then the baby swing. Then we played in the grass with toys. It hit me, while playing in the grass, that I was AT THE PARK with my BABY. I'd spent years driving or walking by parks and seeing mommies and their babies and children and I would just pray that some day I would get to take my baby to a park. And I WAS AT THE PARK WITH MY BABY. I almost started sobbing pure joy. It was overwhelming. I didn't have to wish anymore, I was living that dream! Ah! Pure bliss!

Then we went for an hour long walk, and came back and sat on the step with the dog watching the cars go by. Both Spencer and the dog like cars.

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Spencer surprised me today and scooted five or so feet on his bottom and got the dog food bag. Didn't eat any, but was sure excited about his find.

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My brother, who is 19 now, but my youngest brother, is in the National Guard. Right now, he's training in MN to be deployed to Kuwait for a month, followed by Iraq for a year. The send-off celebration is this coming Friday, in Minnesota. I don't know how to prepare myself, emotionally and mentally, for the event. I try not to think about it too much. It's funny though, because I'm not really scared he will die overseas... but that the events will change him and we won't know him like we do now. He's one of the most easy-going, funny guys I know, and I don't want him to lose that part of himself. I know he'll change, but I hope he comes back and we still know him, if that makes sense. Of course, I'm also concerned for his safety, but I trust that God will be watching over him.

Another thing that gets me about the entire situation is that, with the exception of a short pass in July that I just found out he'll have, before actually being deployed, I will not see him for over a year. In a year's time, Spencer will be walking (I assume) and talking (a bit, hopefully), and be a little boy, not just a baby. He'll be nothing like Bryan knows of him now. That's crazy! And you never know, there's always a chance that Spencer would have a sibling on the way by the time he comes back. He was in training/camp this fall when Spencer was born... and it's just... hard to wrap my mind around, I guess.

--

Anyway, the movie "Seven Pounds" is playing in the living room, and I should get to watching it, because it is almost to the area in which I fell asleep watching it last night (sorry about that, Jake, I had no idea I was so tired).

The Girl Who Never Entered a Wellness Center...

Up until a week ago last Saturday, I could have used "girl who had never entered a wellness center" as an identifying phrase.

After talking with Jillian about PCOS and the struggles it produces in our bodies, including being overweight, I was inspired to check out a local wellness center. I had seriously never done so, because I'd always seen them as scary, intimidating, and a potentially embarrassing rendezvous.

However, after talking with Jake about my initial interest in checking one out, and finding he was pretty excited about it, the idea never left my head.

We hadn't had much time as a family to go check it out, until almost two weeks ago. But, as soon as we did, I was latched on the idea of joining. We got a free week pass to try it out. The next day, Sunday, we took Spencer swimming. Shortly after, the center closed, so we didn't have time to do much else.

The following Wednesday, we again took Spencer swimming for almost an hour. That was followed by nearly two full hours of working out!

I have to tell you, I'm still proud of myself. On my very first visit, I did 27 minutes on the elliptical machine. I lifted some weights/used the weight machines (pardon me for not knowing what they're called), and realized I'm stronger than I thought I was! I can probably thank Spencer for that, I guess. Then we rode bikes for a bit (I did a bit over a mile while Jake tinkered on one to get it set right and then he quit and waited for me) and walked a mile on the track.

We haven't had the time to go back yet as a family because the next week was oddly busy and had a strange schedule with Easter holidays and everything thrown in, but I'm hoping we buy that membership this week and then make a regular event out of going. Generally, we're thinking we'll take SJ swimming one day each weekend, and again on Wednesdays, and work out together those days as well. Then, I just have to partition some time to go alone during the week.

So, while I can't report that I'm a sudden gym/fitness guru, I can proudly state that I HAVE in fact gone to a wellness center to work out, it didn't "kill" me, I was not at all embarassed, or self-conscious, and I did actually enjoy it.

Woah, right?

Never saw it coming!

11 weeks, 3 days

This is going to be a "pregnancy update" post, though I don't really intend on doing those all that often, because I know that not all readers want to read about pregnancy, babies, and children. And I totally get and respect that. But, it's the only interesting thing I have to talk about today, and then I can put it in my written journal later when I'm not so ready for a nap.

Well, as some may know, I "graduated" from the specialist back to my regular doctor, and I had my first OB appointment with her today. Ack, I adore her!

Jake couldn't come, so she was asking all about him, and I found I couldn't shut up about him and how cute I think he and how excited he is.

She was looking for the heartbeat with the doppler, but couldn't find it, so we had to go (oh darn, right?) to the ultrasound room and do another internal.

I can't believe how much baby has grown in a week and a half! I got to watch Horseradish jumping all over the place. I'm not kidding you, our baby is SO active. Dr. Jennifer and the ultrasound technician both were amazed at how much our little one moves around. It was cute, and totally funny, and I kept getting the giggles watching. You'd see baby kick, and then jump (down/upside down) from one end of the sac to the other and flailing arms and legs all over the place.

Anyway, they easily found the heartbeat, and it slowed some to 178 instead of 185, which is nice to hear. They printed some of the screen captures for Jake since he couldn't be there.

Got to see the heart, the brain developing, the spine, and the umbilical cord blood flow... map thing.

And they changed my due date to November 2, instead of the 3, so a Tuesday instead of a Wednesday and that's what is going in my official chart I guess. But baby is measuring "two days tall" for my due date. I gladly let them know Jake is 6'5".

Now I need to nap. I've been up since 5:30.

Next appointment is May 5, and I think they're doing the first trimester screening ultrasound.