I peed in the holy water!

There is an old joke about 3 nuns who had lived completely sinless lives. One day the monseigneur came to them and told them that only Jesus could be perfect so they were going to each have to go out and commit a sin.

They all went out to commit their sins. The first nun returned sobbing. She said, "Father, I did as you said. I went out and I crossed the street against the light." The monseigneur said, " very good Sister, now go drink some holy water and you will feel better."

The second nun returned also sobbing and said, "Father, I did as you told me. I went into the convent and tore the tags off a mattress." The monseigneur comforted her and said, "Go drink some holy water and you will feel better."

The third nun came back laughing and laughing. The monseigneur said, "Sister, did you did as I told you?" she replied "Yes Father, I did." He asked, "What did you do?" She answered him, "I peed in the holy water!!!"

I remembered this joke the other day when I was changing Andrew and after I changed his diaper, I changed his clothes. As I was snapping up his outfit I felt his diaper and I asked him, "Did you already pee in your new diaper?!!" He grinned at me, the biggest grin I've ever seen on his face, and all I could think of was, "I peed in the holy water!!!"

Someone's gotta have the homely baby...

The first time I was hospitalized I had a conversation with one of my nurses one night. I told her that I kept having these lingering fears that I was going to have a homely baby. She said, "Oh, your baby will be beautiful!" I looked at her and said, "Come on. We all know there are homely babies out there, and the law of averages says that someone has to have the homely baby." She paused for a moment and then she said, "Yeah, we call them FLK's. It means 'Funny Lookin Kid."

I laughed really hard at that, and we spent the next several minutes discussing what you say to the proud parent of the homely babies. She said that she usually picks a feature and focuses on it, for example, "Look at those adorable little toes!!"

Matt and I made mental notes to listen carefully for the term FLK when our son was born. When I got sent down to Seattle, I talked with some of my nurses there about the FLK's and picked up on more of their "code." Apparently the "pick a feature" method is quite popular. At my one week checkup, the nurse told us that she can't lie if she doesn't think a baby is cute, so she will simply say, "Congratulations!! You must be so happy!"

So of course I had to pull out my phone and show her a picture of Andrew to see her reaction. We laughed and said that after telling us that, she would have to lie to us if she didn't think Andrew was cute. Thankfully she is either an absolutely fantastic liar, or she really thought Andrew was cute.

In our 4 weeks in the NICU we never heard an "FLK," and believe me, we listened for it. My fears of having the homely baby were allayed rather quickly. Obviously every baby is beautiful to their parents, so I wasn't sure that I wasn't just seeing what I wanted to see. But as the days passed we overheard enough conversations to know that wasn't the case.

A Journey of Faith, a Story of Hope Part 2...

When I went in for my 1 week check-up, and again at my 6 week check-up one of the things that the doctors talked to me about was post-partum depression.  At the 1 week check I had to take a little test to see if I was depressed.  Apparently my responses ranked me at a mild depression, which I don't actually agree with, and my doctor in Seattle wasn't too concerned.  He agreed with me that the wording of some of the questions was debatable and that I was probably just fine.  But I had a lot of factors in play that made them want to watch me closely.  First of all the abruption, and then the extended bed rest, and then the traumatic birth, and finally my baby being in the NICU were all things that made me a higher risk for depression.

When I went in for my 6 week check back at home, my doctor explained it a way that I would never have thought of.  He told me that I could very well be mourning a loss.  I hadn't lost my baby, but I had experienced a loss in a different way.  I didn't have a "normal" birth.  I didn't get to have that moment after the birth of my son where they lay him on my chest and I could look at him.  To this day, I have absolutely no clue who cut Andrew's umbilical cord.  I wasn't able to see my son until he was over 3 hours old, and I didn't get to hold him until the following day.  It was perfectly normal to grieve over these things, but I don't think that I really did.  I don't feel like I was cheated out of these moments because I knew all along that if any of those things had been possible, they would have happened. 

Every birth story is an amazing event, and I don't think that mine is any more special than anyone else's.  I do however think that when your child begins their life in a NICU, there are aspects of your birth story, and the hours, days, weeks, and sometimes months that follow that only a fellow NICU parent can truly understand.

                                             Andrew Christopher - on the night he was born

The first time I saw my son was not right after he was born.  In the OR I was able to glimpse a little bit of his leg through a sea of scrubs and gowns.  This picture was shown to me in my recovery room a couple hours before I was able to meet my son.  On this night, I still had no idea what was in store for us.  I honestly didn't think that he would be in the hospital for more than about a week because they told me that he was breathing on his own, but just needed a little help.  

The next morning, after a short and mostly restless night, I was anxious for 3 things to happen.  1.  I wanted to go see my baby  2. I wanted those damn squeezers off my legs!!! 3. I wanted my catheter out.  The "Squeezers" are the things they strap to your legs following surgery that inflate every few minutes and squeeze your legs to maintain circulation and prevent blood clots.  They made me so miserable because I was just getting the feeling back in my legs from the anesthesia wearing off and I already had that "Pins and needles" feeling, and having my legs squeezed on top of that was terrible.  Also, I had a reaction to all the drugs and was incredibly itchy all over for several days after Andrew's birth.  (This got worse when I developed an infection under my incision and then had an allergic reaction to the antibiotics and got a rash all over my abdomen and legs.)  The nurse told me that I couldn't take the Squeezers off until I was up and walking, and I couldn't get up and walk until the catheter was out.  I said, "OK, take the catheter out and let me get up."  She said that I couldn't get up until at least 12 hours post-op, except I could move to a wheelchair and go up to the NICU.  Matt got me in my robe and took me up there.

Upon my arrival in the NICU I asked if I could hold him.  Because he was so little, and had all his monitors, IV lines, and CPAP machine hooked up, I had to hold him wrapped up in his nest of blankets they had him in.  When they placed him in my arms, I started to cry.  It wasn't the typical new mother, brand new baby, tears of joy moment that is seen in every TV show or movie.  In my case, as I cried and looked at my tiny son, I was apologizing to him.  I was saying over and over again, "I'm so sorry.  I'm so sorry.  I tried so hard to keep you safe, and I wish I could have done better."  This was one of those moments where the rational part of me was AWOL.  Every time I look at the picture of the first time I held him, I remember those words I said to him.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I did everything I could, as did the doctors, but that Andrew just wasn't able to make it full term and that he needed to be born early in order to survive and eventually thrive.

Andrew did thrive.  He continually amazed all of us with his strength and determination.  He was off the CPAP machine in less than 36 hours.  I was at his bedside when they took it off and put him on a high flow nasal cannula instead.  I watched as my tiny newborn son immediately and deliberately reached up and grabbed that tube and pulled it out of his nose.  I thought, this had to be a fluke or an involuntary movement because no baby that new could have that kind of motor skill.  The nurse replaced it and Andrew again reached up and pulled it out.  Twice.  In 10 minutes.  The respiratory therapist who placed it was puzzled.  He had to come and redo it and re-tape it more securely.  Within another 24 hours, Andrew was off the nasal cannula and just breathing room air all on his own.

At all times there were at least 2 other babies in Room 6 with us, and usually there were 3 others.  The occupancy of Room 6 was 4 babies, and sadly we were never at less than full occupancy for more than about 12 hours.  We got to know some of the other parents, and we knew all the babies' names and a little bit about why they were there.  

Every single day Matt and I talked about how grateful we were that our son was just so small and needed to get bigger and stronger, because aside from that he was perfectly healthy.  The same could not be said for so many of the other babies that came and went from that unit.  Some were transferred to Children's Hospital, some were stabilized and released, and sadly one poor little baby died.  We counted our blessings and knew how very lucky we were.  Even though Andrew's "events" seemed like the biggest and scariest thing in the world to us, we were continually reassured that these were all normal occurrences for a preemie.

I worked around the clock to make sure that Andrew had enough milk for every feeding, and in the beginning it was very hard work, and before too much longer, I probably could have fed all four babies in the room.  I spent all day every day at his bedside, leaving only to eat, use the restroom, or go to the "Quiet Room" to pump more milk.  

The wonderful night nurse that took care of Andrew for his first few nights was such an encouragement to us, and she urged me to spend as much time holding him and doing "Kangaroo care" (skin to skin contact) as much as I wanted because it was so good for both of us.  I took a few naps that way, with Andrew and his wires and tubes carefully arranged and tucked in, and both of us wrapped in warm blankets.

It was a very strange thing to come to terms with, having a baby in the NICU.  Andrew wasn't sick, per se, but he also wasn't totally healthy.  He wasn't able to leave that room, and even though the nurses and doctors constantly told us how great he was doing, every day the reality of it would hit me.  He wasn't just in a hospital nursery, he was in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.  

My son was 13 days old before I ever saw his whole face with nothing at all attached to it.  He was 27 days old before I could pick him up and move more than 6' away from his bed because he was tethered to the monitors.  It took 3 tries for him to pass his carseat test.  

Most people I know will never have to worry about those things, and I am so happy for them.  I pray that no one I know will ever have to worry about these things.  Most of my friends and family were constantly commending us for how well we were dealing with all of this, and as they did, I felt almost guilty that we had it so easy down there.  My heart was breaking for the other families in the NICU, for the babies who were so much sicker than Andrew.  Every day I thanked God for my beautiful son, and I prayed for the health of the other boys in the room, and for their parents' state of mind.  I would feel guilty for feeling like we were going through so much when so many others were going through so much more.  

It's a very bizarre thing to spend so much time there, and have that unit become your whole world.  Matt and I would go for walks to get some air and we would laugh at the smallest things because we were so tired and so overwhelmed that the littlest things were hilarious to us.  For example, when you get in the elevator in the parking garage, if you don't press a button, the elevator won't actually go anywhere.  Sadly we stood in that elevator for a good 30 seconds before we realized that we weren't moving and that neither of us had pushed a button.  We would sit by Andrew's bed, both playing on our iPads or texting or doing something and we would hear an alarm go off and immediately we would look at Andrew's screen and if it wasn't him, we'd go right back to what we were doing, while silently saying a quick prayer for whichever baby it was that was alarming.  It got to the point where we would be talking with our visitors at Andrew's bedside and an alarm would go off somewhere in the room, and Matt or I would say, "Oh, that's just a Brady," (The screen would say "Extreme Brady" which means Bradychardia, their heart rate would drop alarmingly low) or "That's just an occluded line on an IV.  Nothing to worry about."  It became completely normal for us to toss around those terms and think nothing of it.  It was more difficult for us to imagine leaving that room for good and not having all those monitors and alarms around us at all times.

All the doctors and nurses would tell us, "This will all be a distant memory for you before you know it."  And each time we heard that, we would think, "Yeah right."  In that moment it is hard to imagine ever being out of there, or ever putting this all behind you.  We would watch those lights flash, and hear those bells going off and encourage Andrew to pull out of it by himself, because if he required intervention, it was an automatic 5 days more in the NICU.  Each time an event happened we would feel more and more uneasy about taking him home, because how would we know if he had one at home without all the monitors?

I know that the doubts and fears we had were universal in the NICU.  It's a strange sort of paradox.  Each family's NICU journey is simultaneously unique and the same.  None of us thought we would be there, all of us worried about our babies and how we would cope, all of us wondered how long our lives would revolve around those rooms.  And while I can't say this with any authority, I am guessing that all of those other mothers also had moments of fear and guilt and self-doubt where they berated themselves for not being able to do more for their child.

On the first day that we came home and left Andrew there, it was a Friday, and one of the worst days of my entire life.  It was the day after he was originally slated to go home, but his events and failure of the carseat test had made that impossible.  I knew that leaving the hospital was the best thing for us to do because we needed desperately to have a little time away.  But as much as I knew that, it couldn't penetrate the wall of doubt and guilt surrounding me that day.  I took Andrew out of his bed, and sat down in the recliner and held him.  I broke down in tears and sobbed, "I'm so sorry Baby.  I wish that I could have kept you in and safe and growing big and healthy.  I wish that I could have done better for you.  I'm so sorry.  I love you so much, and I'm so sorry."

The nurse taking care of Andrew's neighbor heard me and she got up from her charting and came over to me and said, "You can't do that to yourself.  You can't blame yourself.  You did everything possible, there was nothing you could have done differently and none of this is your fault.  You need to believe that."  She told us that we needed to enjoy our time away and not feel guilty, that we needed to take advantage of the most expensive babysitters we would ever have, and just let them take care of Andrew while we took care of ourselves.  She got me a box of tissue and gave me a big hug and told me again to stop blaming myself.

I am so glad that she was one of the nurses working the day we took Andrew back to visit, and she got to see how big and healthy he is now because she helped me through one of the darkest moments of my life, and I will always be grateful to her.

We have been home for almost 12 weeks now and Andrew is absolutely thriving.  He is gaining weight at a rate that both stuns and pleases the doctors.  He is a happy, healthy boy, and a smile from him makes my entire world better.  And, just like everyone said, those weeks in the hospital have faded to a memory.  Every day that passes, those first weeks fade further and further, they have lost  their sharp focus in my memory, and I don't think about it as often.

My hope is that other NICU families who are in the midst of their journeys would know that they are not alone.  That the feelings they feel, the fears and doubts they have are all a normal part of this process, and that there are many others who have been where they are now.  As corny as this may sound, I often thought of the Barry Manilow song, "I made it through the rain." The line, "I made it through the rain, and found myself respected by the others who got rained on too, and made it through" played in my head a number of times.  I don't know about the "respected" part, but we made it through the rain, and we know others who got rained on too and made it through.  And that is what I would want to share with those going through it now, you can make it through.  I know that not every family has a happy ending to their NICU journey.  I know that to some, we had it really easy.  Andrew was only there for 27 days and he came home with no monitors and no serious consequences of his premature birth.  We were incredibly blessed, and I will never take that for granted.  

I've heard the old saying that there are no atheists in a fox-hole, and while I don't know how true that is, I know that the NICU was my fox-hole and that I could not have made it through without my faith in God and my ability to trust in His plans for Andrew and me.  

A Journey of Faith, a Story of Hope... Part 1

I have been meaning to write this for quite some time now, but I haven't been ready.  However, for the past week, since we made our first visit back to the UWMC to show Andrew to his doctors and nurses, I have not been able to stop thinking about writing this story.

There will be some overlap to previous posts in writing this story, but bear with me, it all plays a role.

When I found out I was pregnant, I experienced the usual thoughts and emotions that I imagine any expectant mother would have.  You think lovingly of this tiny little being growing inside of you, and you touch your stomach all the time looking forward to the day you will feel those first movements.  You worry about the possible problems and then you focus on the joy of your new baby to come.

I knew from the beginning of my pregnancy that I was "High Risk."  I had a big red dot sticker on the front of my chart that signaled that fact to all the doctors and nurses.  I was high risk for several reasons; first of all my mother had a very difficult time carrying a baby to term due to an incompetent cervix and a tilted uterus.  My sister had blood pressure problems in both her pregnancies that led to early deliveries (4 and 3 weeks respectively), I had a history of high blood pressure and heart issues that had been under control for the past 5 years, and last but definitely not least, I was in the Advanced Maternal Age Group.  The fact that I would be 36 years old when the baby was born bumped me into that group.

My very first appointment ruled out a tilted uterus, and it was determined that we would monitor my blood pressure closely and also have more frequent ultrasound appointments to check my cervix.  At 12 weeks I had the first round of genetic screening done, and my risk factors came back the lowest that any woman of any age can have.

We progressed along, and all my tests were good, and my cervix was showing no signs of incompetence.  I was relaxed and feeling like we were going to cruise along through this pregnancy just fine.  

                                                   12 Weeks - All is Well

About halfway through my second trimester I began having contractions.  Nothing serious, just Braxton Hicks, but the doctors told me that if I had 6 or more in an hour I had to call them.  And they said that I could not continue to work the hours I was working, I had to cut down to only 8 hours a day.  Later that week, I arrived at work and promptly had 8 contractions in the first hour I was there.  I called the doctors' office and was told that they wanted me to come in.  I called Matt and told him and he said he'd meet me there.  I took Lucie with me just in case I wasn't coming back to work that day.  Sure enough, my instincts were right.  After an exam which determined that my cervix was still closed, I was told to go home for the rest of the weekend and take it easy.  I was not on bed rest, but I was supposed to sit down with my feet up as much as possible.  On Sunday I decided to go to church, and it was my week to sing on the Worship Team.  I explained to everyone that I was supposed to stay off my feet as much as possible, so we brought a stool on stage for me to sit on.  All morning long I was having some fairly sharp pains in my cervix.  It worried me a bit, and I talked it over with my friend Rachel.  We decided that I should call the doctor just to be on the safe side.  After talking with Dr. Mallory, I decided to go get checked out at the Childbirth Center because my motto was (and still is) "I'd rather over-react than under-react.  It was determined that I was fine, I had an irritated nerve as a result of the exam I'd had on Friday.  At that check though my work hours got cut from 8 a day to 6 a day, and I had to take at least 4 15 minute breaks during that time.

I continued on that path for a few more weeks until we hit the Bump in the Road that was my Placenta Abruption.  From that night on my life consisted of hospital rooms and bed rest.  Even during my first few days in St Joes, and the subsequent bed rest at home for the next couple weeks, it never occurred to me that I would have any real complications.  I honestly thought that we'd be able to stick it out and that I would deliver a few weeks early (my goal was 37-38 weeks) and that I'd have a 5-6 pound baby.

The day I was transferred down to the UWMC I realized that the likelihood of making it to 38 weeks was pretty minimal.  But I was still determined to do everything I could to get as far as possible.

                                                       34 weeks - Bored and Pregnant

After my first few days in Seattle, all was calm and we were chugging ahead with the plan of "Stay pregnant until 35 weeks, and then look at delivery."  Then things were so stable that they bumped it out to 37 weeks.  We knew that chances were good that our son would go to the NICU for a couple days, and then we would be headed home.  I had never even entertained the notion that my baby would not follow that pattern.  Honestly I thought that chances were good that we'd skip the NICU all together.  That was not meant to be...

Throughout this whole period of hospitals and bed rest, I was completely at peace.  I was relying heavily on my faith and trusting with all my heart that God was in control and that He was taking care of us.  I don't know what I would have done without my faith.  I know that I wouldn't have maintained my good spirits during 7 weeks in bed, I wouldn't have been so at peace, and I wouldn't have been able to so easily give up any semblance of control that I thought I had over my life and my circumstances.

We had a number of doctors and nurses comment to us about our great attitudes and how well we were handling this.  We kept saying the same thing in reply, "What other option is there?  What good would it do to be angry or upset?"  If I had been angry or upset I wouldn't have been trusting in God.  That's not to say that I didn't have my moments where I doubted myself.  The logical, rational part of me knew that I had done everything I could to keep myself healthy and the baby safe, but there were a few moments where the logical, rational part of me was AWOL.

I won't go into the birth story again, but there are a few parts of that day that I didn't mention in the previous post.  From the time that I was induced, and began bleeding again, I had the 3rd (I think) verse of Amazing Grace stuck in my head.  "Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come.  Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me home."  At shift change that afternoon, my wonderful morning nurse went home and my evening nurse came on.  It was a sweet woman who had been my nurse a few times in Antepartum, and her name is Grace.  I thought that was so perfectly appropriate that Grace would "lead us home" down the final hours of my pregnancy.

And I have to end Part 1 with a funny story... I knew that I would have to take my belly button ring out if I had to have a C-Section.  That was something I was not looking forward to because I was afraid that if I had to keep it out for too long that it would start healing up again, and I knew I would have to let it go because at 36 I wasn't going to wait for it to completely heal up, and get it pierced for a third time and go through that healing process again.  When Dr. Maserie gave us the news that we were moving to surgery immediately, I held off as long as possible and took it out at the very last minute before they wheeled me down the hall.  When they brought me back to recovery, I was shaking from head to toe.  When Matt came back into my room to check on me, I asked the nurse if I could put my belly button ring back in yet and she said that I could.  I, still shaking fiercely, took the ring in my trembling fingers and managed to, by Braille because I couldn't see my belly (nor could I sit up), get the ring back into place.  Then came the fun part, putting the threaded cap back on.  I tried several times and couldn't get it because I was shaking too hard.  Then my poor frazzled husband tried, but alas he was shaking too  much too.  Finally between the two of us working together, and after several deep calming breaths which stilled some of the shaking, we managed to get the cap threaded back on.  I had to laugh at how ridiculous that must have been, I was less than an hour post-op, I had not seen my son, I had no idea what was going on, and all I could fixate on was that stupid little piece of steel.

A Night to Remember...

I'm sitting here with the baby monitor receiver next to me, listening for Andrew to wake up.  I can't believe that he is one month old already.  In some ways it feels like its been a long time, and in others it feels like it has just been a few days.

One month ago today…

I was moved from my Antepartum room where I'd been residing for the past 3 weeks to a Labor and Delivery Room at 2:00 am because the doctors decided it was time for me to have my baby after they reviewed the results of the growth scan ultrasound I'd had done on Monday.  Tuesday the doctors got the results and came in to discuss them with me.  First of all Dr. Flandermeyer, one of the residents, came in and told us the overview of the results.  The baby's abdomen had mostly caught up to his head and legs, but his head and legs had not grown in the past 3 weeks.  Now his body was measuring in the 31 week range, and we were just 2 days shy of 35 weeks.  Later that afternoon, Dr Easterling, the attending OB came in and said, "We didn't like your ultrasound.  It's time for you to have your baby."  Matt and I asked when, and he replied, "As soon as we have a Labor and Delivery room available, so probably later tonight."  We were a little shocked at the speed that things were moving.

Another resident, Dr Roemer, came in to talk to us that evening and explain some things, and then she said that she wanted to check my cervix to see if I'd dilated any further since it hadn't been checked since the day after I arrived at the hospital.  She proceeded to perform what felt like the longest cervical check in history.  She said, "I'm sorry this is taking so long, but I want to be sure, I think I feel a hand."  I replied, "Hey, what a coincidence, me too!"  Then I said, "I'm willing to bet that the hand you're feeling is smaller than the one I'm feeling."  She didn't seem to share my sense of humor, she said, "The hand you're feeling is mine."  Really???

At midnight, my nurse came in to start an IV and take vitals, and then tell us to get some rest, they'd be moving us as soon as a room was available.  Two hours later, she was back with yet another new doctor.  This time it was Dr Maserie.  She was explaining things to me as we were moved into our labor room and telling me what was going to happen.  She told us how they were going to induce labor.  Instead of using a medicinal method like Pitocin or Cervadyl, they were going to insert a Foley Bulb.  Let me tell you, any time they say "Insert" you know you're in for a good time.  The bulb is basically a balloon they inflate to dilate the cervix and it can't come out until you're dilated enough.

After explaining this, they said that they had 3 other deliveries in progress that they had to get back to, and they'd come get things going for me as soon as they could, and then they left the room telling me to get some rest.  Yeah, right.

At 4:00 am Dr Maserie returned and began my induction.  She told me that the Foley Bulb usually works in 12 hours and in rare cases up to 24 hours.  Needless to say, I'd been hoping for something a little quicker, but they were doing a slow induction for me to see how the baby and I tolerated it, and if either of us were in distress, they could stop it quickly and move to a c-section.

In my case, the Bulb worked its magic very quickly.  I was contracting within the hour, and this time, unlike all the previous contractions I'd had but never really felt, these hurt!  I had also started bleeding again as soon as they put the Bulb in.  The doctor said we'd just monitor it and make sure it didn't get worse.

I kept on contracting, and gripping the rails of my bed, and breathing long deep breaths for the next few hours. At 8:00 am the day team came in.  That is one thing about being in a teaching hospital, you never suffer from a lack of doctors.  This time I had an attending, a couple of residents, and a nurse, and it was one of the smaller teams I'd been visited by.  Dr Simmons, the attending, came in and assessed my situation and determined that it was time to remove the Foley Bulb.  I was a little shocked that it had worked so fast, only 4 hours.  My nurse commented that it was the fastest she'd ever seen one work.

As I ate breakfast (between contractions) I joked with Matt, "We should be able to knock this out by lunchtime."  Well, after breakfast my contractions slowed down a bit, and thankfully so did the bleeding.  When I wasn't bleeding, my contractions didn't hurt, when I was, oh boy did they hurt!  And it was all in my back, which the doctor tells me is very unpleasant.  Again, Really???  I hadn't figured that out yet.  She also strongly encouraged me to get an epidural.  I told her that I didn't want to get it too soon, and she told me there was no too soon, and just to get it whenever I was ready.

I decided to hold off for awhile because I wanted to be able to get up and walk around.  So we got the portable baby/contraction monitor and I donned my very stylish hospital robe and off we went.  I was allowed to walk around the labor and delivery hall, but no further because my monitor wouldn't work beyond that.  So we made a few laps around L&D and then went back to our room.  The nurse got me a rocking chair and then started my Pitocin drip.  I sat in the rocking chair for the next couple hours while my contractions got steadily stronger and closer together.

The doctors were all very encouraged that I'd be able to proceed with a natural delivery.  I wanted to believe them, but all along I just had a feeling that it wasn't in the cards for me and that I'd end up in surgery.

We kept at it all afternoon and evening.  I ordered dinner (a cheeseburger, mashed potatoes and gravy, steamed baby carrots, and tapioca pudding) because I knew that once I got my epidural, I was back on clear liquids.  About and hour and a half after I'd eaten, the anesthesiologist came in for my consult and asked how I felt about pain control.  I told him that I was highly in favor of it.  He decided that we should just go ahead and do the epidural now.  He left to get his supplies and returned shortly with the attending anesthesiologist and a cart with all kinds of stuff on it.

The epidural was the worst part of the entire labor and delivery experience for me.  For most people it isn't too bad, but when one of your biggest fears is having your spine touched, having an epidural is about the worst thing you can imagine.  I was also contracting frequently and painfully during the whole process and they had to stop every time I had a contraction, so it took longer than it normally would have.  I was so relieved when it was finally in, for two reasons.  One, they were no longer poking my spine and stabbing needles into it; and two, suddenly all my pain was gone.  At this point I saw the name tag on the resident anesthesiologist.  His name was Daniel.  I pointed it out to Matt and said, "Good thing it's already on the list, otherwise we'd have to add it!" (We had narrowed down our choices for our son's name to our top 3.  Andrew, Daniel, and Samuel.)  However, once they were done and they went to get me back into bed, I began bleeding heavily.  The doctors looked a little concerned by the amount of blood and decided to watch me closely.  Over the next hour things did not improve and now Dr Maserie decided that it was time to consider a c-section.  She said she was going to talk to the rest of the team and recommend it.  We asked her what the time frame for that would be and she said, "About 30 minutes."  Once again we were a little stunned at how fast things moved.

She left to talk to the team and came back a few minutes later and said they agreed with her and that they were going to start prepping me.  The anesthesiologists came back in and starting pumping even more drugs into me, and the nurses came in with a whole bunch of gown kits, and gave one to Matt so he could be with me in the operating room.  A few minutes later they were wheeling me out of the room.  Matt kissed me and told me that he'd be in there in a few minutes.

As they took me down to the OR, I was praying.  I just asked God for peace and comfort while I was in there, and told him that both my life and that of my son's were in His hands and that I trusted Him completely. Then I began repeating the words of the song "Always" that had been somewhat of a theme song for me during my hospitalizations and bed rest.

They moved me to the operating table and the anesthesiologists began making sure that I was numb enough and the nurses were making the room ready.  Just as they were finishing the preparations, a monitor started beeping and the nurse yelled, "PAGE EMERGENCY, RIGHT NOW!!!!" Another nurse looked at the monitor and said, "That's Mom's heartbeat."  The first nurse said, "NO, that's Mom's heartbeat," pointing at another monitor, "That's baby's heartbeat! PAGE EMERGENCY NOW!"

In that instance, my prayer simply became, "Please God, please God, please God."  Suddenly there was a flurry of activity.  The doors opened and a whole crowd of people flooded in.  My two main doctors that evening were on either side of me, and Daniel, the anesthesiology resident who did my epidural was at my head.  His attending counterpart was further down the table by Dr. Warner, the Chief Resident.  I could feel some pressure on my stomach, but nothing else, and the next thing I knew, I heard Dr Warner say, "Ok, placenta is out."  I started thinking, "If placenta is out, shouldn't baby be out too?"  Then as I was feeling more pressure on my stomach, I heard a tiny little cry from somewhere off to my right.  Daniel leaned down and said, "Do you hear him?  That's your baby, he's crying."  I said, "Oh thank God!" And then I began to cry.  I asked, "Is he ok?" but Daniel didn't have any answers about my baby because he was not part of that team and he told me that a member of the NICU team would be over to talk to me soon.

A moment later, as I was still feeling lots of pushing and tugging on my stomach, and could hear muffled conversation between Drs Warner and Maserie, I heard Matt talking to me.  He had suddenly appeared at my head, and asked me how I was.  I guess I was still crying, and I asked him how the baby was.  He told me that he was fine.  Then he told me that the team was getting ready to take the baby to the NICU and asked me if I wanted him to stay with me or go with the baby?  I told him to go to the NICU with the baby, and that I'd be fine.  Dr Warner told me that everything had gone well, and that it was a record for Dr Maserie.  From the time they began until the baby was out was less than a minute.  A NICU doctor came to talk to me as the rest of the team took our son to the their unit.  She told me that he was fine, and that he'd come out breathing on his own, but was having a little trouble so they were giving him some help.  I honestly don't remember if they told me in the OR that he weighed 3 lbs 11 oz, or if Matt told me afterwards.  I think I heard it in the OR.

Daniel came back to my head and handed my some little cotton pads to use as tissues because they didn't have any tissue in the OR.  I didn't realize I was still crying that point.  They removed my oxygen mask, and then another team came in to take X-Rays.  Dr Warner explained to me that they usually do an instrument count before a procedure but they didn't have time, so they had to X-Ray me.  It didn't become clear to me until about an hour later when I was back in recovery what that all meant.  They worked so fast to get the baby out that they didn't have time to count their instruments before they started, so they had to make sure that they hadn't left anything inside me.

After the X-Ray, they moved me back to the gurney to take me to recovery.  They put warm blankets on me, and I became aware of the fact that my entire body was shaking.  In my recovery room, I asked for my phone and called my mom and my sister and told them I was ok.  Matt came back to my room and told me that the baby was ok, and that they had him on a CPAP machine to help him breathe easier.  He showed me a picture of our tiny little boy.  Then he asked me how I was doing, and I told him that I was fine, but that I couldn't stop shaking and I didn't know why since I wasn't cold.  He patiently explained to me, "Honey, you just had the most massive adrenaline dump of your life."

I asked him what he thought the baby's name was, since we had said all along we had to wait to see him to determine his name.  He said that he didn't know.  Then he asked the nurse how much longer I'd be in recovery.  She said about another hour, so he went back to the NICU.  He came back again and got all our stuff gathered up to move to my Postpartum room.  He took the stuff down, and then met me in the NICU.  They wheeled my bed right up to the isolette that contained my teeny tiny little son.  I was able to open the little door and reach in and touch him.  We stayed there for a few minutes and then Matt asked me, "So, what is his name?"  From the day I found out we were having a boy, I'd loved the name Samuel.  It means, "Asked of God, heard by God."  I thought that name was appropriate in my case, because this baby was certainly asked of God, and the fact that he'd hung in there as long as he had told me that he'd been heard by God too.  I was in recovery thinking about the names and still feeling that his name was going to be Samuel.  And then, in that moment when Matt asked me what his name was, I looked at his little face (what I could see of it) and said, "I think he's an Andrew."  I just knew that Andrew was the perfect name for him because it means strong and courageous and I knew that summed up my little fighter just perfectly.

Matt and the nurse, Lacey, exchanged a look and then Matt told me that when he'd been in there looking at him, Lacey had asked what his name was and Matt told her that we didn't know yet.  He told her the 3 we had it narrowed down to and she said, "I don't want to influence your decision in any way, but I think he's an Andrew."  Matt said, "That's what I think too, of course now Steph will come in and say, 'He's a Samuel.'"

And that is how our little Andrew Christopher came into the world.

Oh No No No, Not the Yogurt!!!

To explain that title, I have to tell you about a song that was well known and loved by all the children who went through Blaine Elementary School and had Mr. Gray for their music teacher.  I have no idea what the song is called, but it went like this:

Amma Lama Kuma Lama, Kuma La Pizza
Amma Lama Kuma Lama, Kuma La Pizza
Oh no no no NOT the pizza
Oh no no no NOT the pizza
Aynie Maynie Dixie Paynie Ooh Ah Thumbelina
Otchie Cotchie Lemon Rotchie XYZ…

The other thing that you need to know is that several days before I ended up in the hospital, Matt was diagnosed by symptoms, not a culture, with Whooping Cough and neither of us had gotten the vaccine yet.  He was put on the Z Pack antibiotics and I was put on a 2 week twice a day course of horse pill sized antibiotics.

I ended up in the hospital on a clear liquid diet for the first 36 hours.  When the threat of surgery was lifted and they said I could have food again, I was ecstatic!  We decided that starting with soft foods was a good idea because I was still so tired from the medicines that I wasn't sure how well chewing and swallowing would work, let alone trying to manage a fork! The nurse asked me if I liked yogurt.  I said yes I do.  (In fact, I'd just bought myself some a couple days before.)  She said she'd put in a request for it.  She told me that when a request is put in, I'd probably get it with every meal, but if I didn't want to eat it then, I could put it in my fridge and take it home with me when I left.

My first real meal arrived, turkey in gravy, carrots, and squash (all diced) and some soup and a container of vanilla Greek yogurt.  I ate everything but the soup, wasn't feeling the cream of celery, and then had the yogurt as a dessert.  That night when dinner came, again everything diced, I ate it all, saving my raspberry yogurt for later.  Since dinner came at 4:15 in the afternoon and bedtime was closer to midnight, I knew I'd be hungry later.  When Matt got there after work, he brought his dinner in the room and I had my yogurt as a snack.

The next morning breakfast arrived and on my tray with my eggs and toast and fruit was a container of Yami peach yogurt.  I ate my whole breakfast including the yogurt.  Lunch came and on the tray was a container of Yami peach yogurt.  I saved that one for later, eating it between lunch and dinner.  Dinner arrived that night and Matt was there with me when it came in and on the tray was a container of Yami peach yogurt.  I put it in the fridge to save for later.  I think I must have eaten that one later that night too, not out of a strong desire for peach yogurt, but just because I was so hungry.

Tuesday morning arrived and my breakfast tray came, and on the tray was, you guessed it, a Yami peach yogurt.  I knew that I just couldn't do it 4 times in a row, so I ate the rest of my breakfast and put the yogurt in the fridge.  Lunch came, and I was already so excited about the fact that I got to go home after lunch that I didn't care what was on my tray.  I got macaroni and cheese and green beans, and yep, a Yami peach yogurt.  Five meals in a row, same exact yogurt.  I put it in the fridge and planned to bring the last two home with me.

The previous night, my nurse had told Matt and I that I would need to do a round of probiotics or eat yogurt when I got home because of all the antibiotics I'd been given.  I'd had 48 hours of penicillin in addition to my regular course of antibiotics.

Matt took her words to heart and proceeded to make me eat yogurt with each meal.  Thankfully he mixed it up a little and brought me flavors other than peach.  The night after we got home, his parents came over and his mom made dinner for us.  When I finished my dinner Matt told me that he'd let me wait a little while before he brought me my dessert.  I asked what it was, thinking his mom had made something.  He said, "It's a surprise."  I said, "It's not peach yogurt, is it?"  He said, "It's not peach…"

My dessert was a Greek yogurt parfait with granola.

Over the last few days, he has been regularly bringing me yogurt and making sure I eat it.  On Sunday when I went to my parents' house my mom went to the store to get yogurt because she didn't have any. I texted Matt a picture of the empty yogurt container to prove that I was eating my yogurt.

Well, I have to go now… my dessert of, you guessed it, YOGURT just arrived and I need to eat it.

A Bump in the Road...

Sorry, but this is going to be long, even for me.

When last we left off, things were sinking in and feeling real.  I knew from the beginning that I needed to take extra care during this pregnancy because I was considered high risk.  Given my own history of high blood pressure, and heart issues (all of which thankfully have been controlled without medicines for at least 5 years) and my Mom's history of miscarriages, and my sister's blood pressure problems during both her pregnancies, I was on the doctors' radar.

We had been cruising along and everything was going well.  At 16 weeks we learned that I had a complete placenta previa, meaning that my placenta was completely covering my cervix which makes it impossible for a natural delivery.  Luckily for me, it was early enough that there was plenty of time for it to move.  By 22 weeks, we were in the clear with that, it had moved completely out of the way, leaving a little tiny tail piece down low.  Around this time, I had my hours cut down at work because I was on my feet too much and was having too many Braxton Hicks contractions.

So, I adjusted my hours and took more breaks, put my feet up, and did everything the doctors told me to do.  At my last appointment I told the doctor how my husband was worried that the baby was going to come early and that we'd end up down in Seattle.  She said, "I don't think so, I've got a good feeling that everything is going to be just fine."  I finally felt like I could breathe easier and kind of coast along keeping up the same reduced activity routine.

Any of you ever heard the joke about the guy in the army whose mother died, and his commanding officer had to break the news to him, so during morning formation he says, "All of you whose mothers are still alive take two steps forward, not so fast Jones!"  I kind of felt like that on Friday the 6th of July.

I'd worked my 6 hours, went grocery shopping and stocked up on a bunch of stuff, including 5 containers of yogurt (two of which were peach) and that will come back into play later.  Then I picked up dinner for Matt and I at Dairy Queen including a Blizzard for each of us.  After dinner, I went home to unload groceries.  I brought them all in and put away anything that needed to be refrigerated or frozen and left the rest all sitting in their bags on the counter.  I'd put my Blizzard in the freezer too planning on eating it a little later, and then I let Lucie drag me to the neighbor's house where they were having their annual 4th of July party, a little later than usual.  I hung out there talking with neighbors for an hour or so, watching while they lit their fireworks off, talked to the Chief of Police and assured him that they were done with the fireworks when he responded to the complaints, and then after talking with my neighbor Emily for a few more minutes I decided that it was time for me to go home, maybe put the rest of the groceries away, and then go to bed.

I walked into my house and went straight into the bathroom.  I discovered to my horror that I had started bleeding.  My phone was in my sweatshirt pocket, and I instantly grabbed it and called the after hours number for the Dr.'s office.  They patched me through to the on call Dr and as I was waiting, I went upstairs and changed clothes.  He told me to go to the hospital right away.  I called Matt and told him I was going.  He offered to come home from work right away and take me, but I didn't know what was going to happen, or how long I'd be, and I didn't want to wait even those few extra minutes it would take him to get home, so I said I'd go in and call him when I knew what was going on.

I very calmly drove myself to the hospital, praying the whole way.  Once again, as hard as it was, I tried to pray the proper way.  Everything in me was screaming about what I wanted, and what I wanted to tell God that He had to do, but instead I just told him that I knew my life and that of the baby were in His hands and I asked for His will to be done.  I asked for help to accept whatever came, and if it wasn't His will for this baby to arrive safely at the right time, then I knew He was going to help me through it.  I tried to call my parents and my sister both, but wasn't able to get any of them on the phone, but it was after 11:00 by this point.

I got to the Childbirth Center and got checked in, and the nurse took me right back to the triage room.  When they realized I was still bleeding, they hooked me up to monitors right away.  As soon as I heard the baby's heartbeat on the monitor I relaxed a lot.  The hospital doctor came in after a few minutes and asked if I was feeling all the contractions I was having.  I had no clue I was even having contractions.  After a little while the doctor came back in and gave me some medicine to try to stop the contractions and also did an exam.  At this point my calm was starting to crack.  I started shaking and doing my best to hold it together.  When she said that the bleeding had stopped and my cervix was still closed, I immediately stopped shaking and was able to relax.  From that moment on, I was nothing but calm and at peace.  It turns out that that little tail piece of placenta that had remained down low had broken loose, a small abruption, and that had caused the bleeding.

When two nurses came in to start an IV, I realized it was time to call Matt in because I figured I was going to be there for awhile.  The IV was the worst part of the whole experience.  It took three tries to get the IV placed and the first two failed attempts were painful.  A few minutes later a new nurse came in and gathered up my stuff and led me (with a sheet wrapped around me to cover the nice gaping gown) down the hall to a room.  She got me all settled into bed with the fetal monitor and contraction monitors strapped to me, and my IV lines all hooked up.  Matt arrived and brought with him my iPad.  I was very thankful for that.  I had my phone, and my iPod which was in my purse, and I'd managed to remember to grab a charger and a  pair of headphones from my bag when I parked my car.

We settled down for the night, and the hospital Dr, who had been conferring with Dr Mora by phone, came back in and checked on me, told me that Dr Mora would be in before too long, and asked if I wanted something to help me sleep.  I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, so I said, "No thanks, I'll be OK."  Now let me tell you, this was the WRONG answer.  The answer is ALWAYS "Yes, I would, thank you."

After one more set of vitals, the nurse left me to get some rest.  Matt settled in on his bed and actually fell asleep pretty quickly.  Try as I might, I could not get to sleep.  About 3:00 am Dr Mora came in and talked with me briefly.  I don't remember much of the conversation except for him telling me that he was starting me on Betamethazone and asked me if I knew what that was.  I didn't, until he started to explain what it did, and then I knew.  It is the steroid shot they give to develop the baby's lungs in case he comes early.

About 4:15 am the nurse came in to give the first of the two steroid shots.  I was still awake.  I fell asleep from about 4:30-5:15 and then was wide awake again.  About 6:00 I got another dose of the contraction medicine they'd given me during the night.  A little while later I got a shot of something else that I can't spell which was an even stronger contraction medicine because apparently I was contracting every minute and a half.  About 7:00 or 8:00 (it's all a blur because of how tired I was) Dr Mallory came in and explained the new medicine they were going to start me on, Magnesium Sulfate, and what it was for and how it could make me feel.  He told me that they were going to do an ultrasound and check on a few things.  I asked how strict the 24 hour between injections thing was? Was I going to have to come back in at 4:15 the next morning to get the second shot?  He said I didn't need to worry about that because I wasn't going to be home at 4:15 the next morning.

That's when it hit me that I was maybe in worse shape than I thought I was.  Matt had gone home to get a few more hours of sleep, and I'd gotten in touch with my Mom, and she had arrived at the hospital.  They took me down to ultrasound where we would learn my fate.  After the ultrasound where they did cervical measurements, we were back to my room to await the news of whether I'd be staying in Bellingham or if I was Seattle bound.  My sister arrived while we were waiting, and Matt came back and brought a few things I needed with him.  The nurse came in and said, "Seattle says you can stay."  We were all very relieved to hear that.  Dr Mallory came in and told me that he had spent a long time on the phone with the specialist in Seattle. He started at the very beginning and we all started to get a little nervous that I wasn't staying after all.  He went through everything step by step and laid out a plan.  The doctor in Seattle wanted me sent down there for at least 6 weeks, and Dr Mallory wanted to keep me in Bellingham.  The Seattle doctor said if I stayed in Bellingham then I needed to be in the Childbirth Center until I delivered.  On Friday when I arrived at the hospital, I was 28 weeks along.  I was starting to get a little worried that I was looking at 12 weeks in the hospital.

As our meeting with Dr Mallory progressed, we all felt a little better about things, even though our situation was a little more precarious than I'd thought.  I had made the cut-off for staying in Bellingham by .02 of a centimeter.  If my cervix was shorter than 2 cm, I couldn't stay.  We got a range of measurements due to the baby's constant movement, but our range was 2.02 cm - 2.6 cm.  I was on a clear liquid diet at this point, and I realized that the threat of emergency surgery was still looming over my head.

Through all of this, I remained very calm and relaxed.  I'm sure that this was partly due to the massive dose of magnesium sulfate I was receiving which had me basically stoned out of my mind.  I couldn't focus my eyes on anything, I could barely lift my head off the pillow.  I just lay there all afternoon listening to what was going on, opening my eyes when I could, but mostly just listening.  The main reason though for my lack of stress and worry was that I finally understood what "Peace that is past understanding" felt like.  I spent the time in the middle of the night that I wasn't sleeping in prayer, I prayed for my friends and family that were going through difficult situations, and lastly I prayed for myself.  I also knew that I had a lot of people praying for me and for baby Fireball.  That is what got me through and helped me to remain calm in the face of the scariest situation I'd ever been in.

The rest of our hospital stay was very uneventful, I went from being the highest risk patient in the wing, that they had to check on constantly, to the one who was so stable that they hardly ever had to check on me.  I was amazed by the fact that I never once felt like I was getting bored or cabin fever, or that I had to get out of there.  I was just perfectly content.

The Journey of a Lifetime...

I've been thinking for several months that I should write down some of my thoughts and feelings about the new little life that I have growing inside of me.  Life has been so busy that I just hadn't gotten around to it… well, now I've got nothing but time, and I decided that this might be a good way to keep my brain from atrophying.


Looking back at my life, I have always known that I wanted to be a mother.  It was what I looked forward to more than anything.  As the years went on, I started wondering if it would ever happen for me.  


It was a very hard topic for me, and I constantly dealt with people asking me, "When are you going to have kids?"  I spent a good deal of time in prayer on this subject, and as hard as it was, I finally taught myself to pray the way that Jesus told us to, "Thy will be done." Not MY will be done.  I began to ask God for patience and help accepting His timing.  I knew that if God's will for my life was to be a mother, then it would happen in His perfect timing, and if it wasn't His will for my life then He was going to help me accept it.  


I'd like to say that I was instantly at peace with this decision, but that would be a big lie. I spent many nights in tears, asking for help, and trying to come to terms with the fact that there still was no baby in my life.  I remember one night driving home, and I felt like I had finally hit my wall.  I broke down sobbing hysterically and begging God to help me through because I felt like He was saying "No."  I called a friend and she said that maybe He wasn't saying "No," but maybe He was saying "Not yet."


As time went by, it became harder and harder for me to congratulate friends when I'd find out that they were pregnant.  Obviously I was happy for my friends, but at the same time it felt like I was being kicked in the gut every time.


Last fall a friend of mine became pregnant, and when she told me, I immediately felt that pang, but for once I wasn't jealous because of everyone I knew, no one (except maybe me) deserved it more.  She had been told she wouldn't have children, and she had been through so much in life that this was a real miracle.


Just before Christmas, my friend ended up in the hospital, and sadly their little girl didn't make it.  I was devastated for them, and for the first time ever I thanked God sincerely that I had not gotten pregnant, because I didn't want to cause my friend any more pain.  And I knew how I felt every time someone I knew was pregnant, and I'd never experienced anything like what she just went through, so I couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like for her having to hear that news now.


A few weeks later, I realized that my period was late.  I chalked it up to the sheer amount of stress in my house at the time given the fact that my husband was trying to decide whether or not to change jobs, and the stress of it was affecting his health.  A couple days passed and still nothing.  My sister was hounding me to "just pee on the damn stick already!!" I was so convinced that it was just stress and that I couldn't possibly be pregnant, so I refused to waste money on a test.  


Finally, after 5 days, my sister was about to pull her hair out, she and Ariel spent many hours at work telling me to go get a test.  That night I caved, but I stubbornly refused to spend $10 or more on a test that I was sure was going to be negative.  I went to the Dollar Tree, and bought 3 tests.  I arrived home and went straight up to my bathroom and took one of the tests.  It said to read the results after 3 minutes, but not after 10.  I sat there trying not to watch it, and to my amazement, within 30 seconds there were 2 bright pink lines.  I stared in disbelief for a moment, and then I grabbed it and ran downstairs to tell Matt.  He was at least as shocked as I was, and most likely more.


We decided that we weren't going to tell people, really tell people until we reached 12 weeks.  And we also decided that we were going to wait until I'd seen my doctor to confirm before we told anyone besides siblings and parents.  Of course this was on a Friday night, and I couldn't see a doctor until Monday.  About an hour later, I took the other two tests just to be sure, and those double lines popped up just as fast as the first.  


Monday I went and saw my doctor and she confirmed it, she said that the results were just as fast in their office as they had been at home.  I was still kind of in shock, and having a hard time believing that after all these years, it was finally true.


A few days later, I was watching a movie on Lifetime (go ahead and mock) and it was about the girl who faked a pregnancy for her senior project to see how pregnant teens were treated in society.  In the movie, her brother was having a hard time with it, not knowing it was all fake, and he finally came around and brought her a present.  I was watching and he was telling her how hard the parent gig was, but how cool the Uncle gig was and that he got to be an uncle to this baby.  At that moment, it hit me that I was going to be a mommy.  I started to cry, and in that moment it finally started feeling real.


The next real moment of "This is really real" clarity hit me on Superbowl Sunday.  I had gone to a birthday party for my favorite little 4 year old, and had pigged out on yummy birthday snacks.  I got home and was watching the Superbowl, and during the 4th quarter, I started feeling sick.  I ended up running to the bathroom to rid myself of the aforementioned snacks and realized that it was down to the last few minutes of the game and the Giants were coming back and I was laughing (between heaves) at the ridiculousness of my situation of trying to wedge myself between the toilet and tub so I could still see the TV to watch the game while having morning sickness (which I always got in the afternoon).


I began counting down the days to my first doctor's appointment, and when that day came, it started snowing like crazy an hour before my appointment and I was afraid I wasn't going to make it.  I arrived, safe and sound, and even a little early.  And then I got to have an ultrasound and see my tiny little baby and hear the heartbeat.  I started to finally feel at ease that this was really real, and really happening to me.

Believe it or not, sometimes girls know stuff too!

This may come as a shock to y'all, but for some reason, people assume that only men can answer a question in a hardware store.  I have dealt with this fact for the past 15 1/2 years that I have been working here.  Equally shocking is the fact that I have picked up a thing or two in those years and I actually know a couple of things about hardware and the likes.

I don't know why it is that men are automatically assumed to be smarter in all matters hardwarian.  The obvious answer to me would be the appendage that men have that women don't must possess some sort of magical knowledge that grants the bearer wisdom in the ways of repairing a sink or replacing a supply line to your toilet.  This seems really counter-intuitive to me though because usually when someone says, "He's thinking with his pants," it is because they are making questionable choices and decisions influenced by whether or not it will get them somewhere with a woman.  Never in my 15 1/2 years of working in this store have I seen a man solve a complex plumbing problem to be greeted with, "Wow!! (Appreciative head nod and applause)  He was really thinking with his pants on that one!!!"

This all came to mind again last week when I was at the counter, where a female cashier obviously belongs, and I was ringing up customers and I had a man come up and purchase a 5/8" hose mender.  Less than ten minutes later he was back saying that he needed to exchange the 5/8" for 3/4" because it was too small.  He had carefully put the packaging back together (which is both very rare and very appreciated) and he went and got the right size.  He came back to the counter, I did the exchange and he was on his way.  Less than ten minutes later he was back at the counter with yet another brand new 5/8" hose mender in his hand telling me that 3/4" was too big and he was going to have to go back to 5/8".  I tried to give him back the one he'd previously purchased and returned so I didn't have to hang a previously opened package back on the shelf.  He seemed very confused by what I was trying to do and left the store with the brand new one.  Less than ten minutes later he was back again.  He told me, "The 5/8" is too small and the 3/4" is too big." He had brought a small (I mean very small, less than an inch in length) piece of his hose to try to find the right size.  I re-opened the 3/4" package and held it up to the hose fragment and showed him that it actually was the right size, that it was supposed to be tight like that so it would seal properly.  I said, "All you have to do is to heat the hose up in some hot water and it will go right on."  He said, "No, no, no... that's not the right size."  He walked off after Ted who was walking down the aisle and caught him by the shoulder and started explaining his dilemma.  Ted said, and I quote, "All you have to do is heat the hose up in some hot water and it will go right on."  The customer said, "Oh, ok.  Thanks."  

At this point he was probably wondering why the dumb girl at the counter didn't suggest that in the first place... oh wait... let's review the transcript... SHE DID!!!!! 

I had to re-seal the packaging for the second 5/8" hose mender that he had bought and returned.  And I was relaying the whole incident to Kalvin at the counter a little while later, and when I finished, he asked, "Just because you're a girl?"  I said, "Yup."  He asked, "Doesn't that make you mad?"  I said, "Sometimes it does. Mostly it just frustrates me." 

Then a brainwave hit me... technically, technically since my unborn child is a boy, I am in possession of that magical knowledge bestowing appendage.  (Possession is 9/10's of the law and since he resides in me, I'm going with it)  Shouldn't I by some form of osmosis or something be privvy to that magical knowledge for the next 5 months?  If that is all it takes to know what you're talking about in a hardware store, then I think I should be able to take advantage of it. 

So for the next 5 months, this girl is ready to answer questions because I've got a baby boy on board.  However, I must warn you that I fear I will lose this magical protection immediately after giving birth, so when young Fireball and I return to work after maternity leave, he will be sporting a different name, and I will once again be a simple girl who doesn't know nothin' about fixin' no toilets!!  (Thank you Butterfly McQueen for those words.)

Heck with Heloise... the Lazy (Stephanie) Susan's Guide to Housekeeping

First of all, how convenient is it that my middle name is Susan?

On Thursday I was preparing for company that night.  I surveyed the pit of despair that we call our home, and began mentally gearing up for this challenge.  If you ever read my post about my battle against the DDD (Domestic Destruction Detachment, I think) you will know that I am a terrible housekeeper.  I would love nothing more than to be one of those women that has the clean house no matter when you come by to visit, but I'm not, and I don't think I ever will be.

I decided to start quite sensibly.  I made a checklist of things to accomplish that day.  Then I got a little ridiculous... I assigned times to each chore, based on how long I thought it should take.  All added up I figured I had about an hour and half worth of housework to do.   (We will pause here for you all to laugh and laugh at my foolish optimism.)

So I began with a bathroom, thinking it would be easiest.  I breezed through there, accomplishing all the tasks within the allotted time and feeling pretty good about myself.  Then I went into the kitchen, and the time sheet went out the window.  What I had failed to take into consideration was all the clutter that had to be sorted before I could tackle each of my neatly labeled and timed tasks.  So I started working on it, and despite numerous distractions, I finally got things sorted out, had the dishwasher running, and the counters scrubbed. 

I began vacuuming the entire downstairs, and then onto the stairs where I paused, and made Lucie come get her toy that had been sitting on a step for about 2-3 weeks now.  (We've been in a battle of wills, each refusing to move the toy)  Spirits buoyed by that minor victory, I continued vacuuming my stairs, and thinking to myself how much I've grown.  I still hate vacuuming but for years I was actually afraid of the vacuum because I don't like the noise of it.  I finished that task and returned to my battle downstairs. 

I decided that lighting a few candles to make the room smell pretty would help my on my way.  So I did, and then I decided to pull out a few other decorative touches that have been put away since Christmas.  Then I started dusting, which I also hate.  I mentally grumbled a bit about the fact that when Matt and I sorted out chores all those years ago, his two chores were to be vacuuming and dusting.  Yeah, we see how well that worked out.  But, in his defense, he was outside mowing the lawn, weedeating, and cleaning the patio, so it isn't like he was sitting on the couch playing a video game while I did this.  I surveyed my work in the living room, which gets surprisingly dirty since it's the room we hardly ever use!  I decided that dry dusting wasn't sufficient, so I attacked the room again with my handy can of Lemon Pledge and that's when I decided that I would only dust what I could reach, and see.  If I don't see the dust, it doesn't exist, right?

As I was cleaning and polishing my old furniture, I started wondering, "Am I the only one who wishes that PartyLite made a Lemon Pledge scented candle?" I would totally burn that candle!!

I decided against mopping my floors, because I figured that our friends weren't actually coming to inspect my floors, but to see us.  It was a very liberating decision, and I felt very good about it. 

I actually had enough time to sit on the couch and read for a few minutes while drinking a cup of tea before our company arrived, and I also had time to ponder the lessons learned while cleaning. 

Lesson one, have realistic expectations of what you're actually going to do.  I have all these grand plans for what I really should do in my house, but since it's not actually vitally important, it doesn't ever get done. 

Lesson two, you can make a checklist, but don't expect that you will actually follow all of it.  And don't assign time limits to each task because all you will do is make yourself feel like a failure. 

Lesson three, there really is no motivator quite like having company coming, so if you want your house to remain clean, entertain often! I remember always asking my mother who was coming over if I got home and she was cleaning.

Wishing a Good Journey to a wonderful man...

Yesterday my great-uncle Boardman died.  It wasn't unexpected, or sudden.  In fact, for him at least, it was rather welcomed.  He was 98 years old (98 1/2 if you want to measure in pre-kindergarten terms) and he had lived a full and happy life.


Uncle Boardman was the second husband of my great-aunt Lorraine, my Mom's father's sister.  Aunt Lorraine and her first husband had parted long before my birth, and even though I apparently met Mom's Uncle Joe once, I don't have a memory of it (which is surprising, given my elephant-like memory) and in my lifetime and to my way of thinking Aunt Lorraine has always been followed by "And Uncle Boardman.


Growing up, I had only one grandparent after the age of 3.  My Grandpa, who I have only a couple of vague memories of, passed away shortly before my 4th birthday and I never met my Mom's father, and since her mother passed away before Kimberly or I were born, my Grandma Ramona was my only grandparent.  I had a number of great-aunts and uncles, but of those, I only ever met 4 sets of them.  My Grandpa on my father's side was one of something like 7 or 8 children and so there were numerous great-aunts and uncles there, but by the time we made a trip to South Dakota, only one of Grandpa's siblings was still alive there.  


On Mom's side I had two sets of great-aunts and uncles, and even though there was never a birthday or Christmas that went by without a card or gift from Uncle Bob and Aunt Marilyn, I only saw them about 4 times in my life.  


Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Boardman were different.  They visited us more frequently than any other relative.  I'm sure this is because Aunt Lorraine's sons lived in Montana and Idaho, and so it was easy enough to steer their RV towards Washington after a visit with them.  I can remember how excited my sister and I would be when we'd hear that they were coming for a visit.  They were like another set of grandparents to us, and we never got the impression that we were any less important, or any less loved than their grandchildren.  


I remember one particular visit, when I was maybe 6 or 7 years old, and we were sitting in our living room one evening and Uncle Boardman was telling jokes.  He started telling us, "It was a dark and stormy night…" If you've never heard this joke, it is a cyclical never-ending joke.  It goes like this, "It was a dark and stormy night, and a band of brigands gathered around the campfire.  And the Captain said, 'Antonio, tell us a story,' and Antonio said, 'It was a dark an stormy night, and a band of brigands gathered around the campfire, and the Captain said, 'Antonio, tell us a story…'"  Obviously, the joke of this is that it never ends.  I was trying valiantly, and failing, to stay awake because I wanted to hear the end of the joke.  My parents said it was time for bed, and I remember this as clearly as if it was yesterday, I said, very sleepily, "But I want to hear Uncle Boardman tell the end of the joke."  The adults, and probably my sister too, started laughing so hard they couldn't compose themselves.  It was a few years before I understood why that was so funny.


As I grew older, I learned more about Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Boardman when they visited.  To me they were always the same people, and I had never thought much about where they'd come from, they were just Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Boardman.  I learned that not only was Uncle Boardman retired from the Air Force, which was still the Army Air Corps when he joined, but he was also a retired Episcopalian Priest.  I knew that he was a pilot, but I hadn't known until I was a little older that he'd flown a number of missions in World War II.  He wrote a book about not only his experiences in the war, but also of his long career of flying, and his love of airplanes of all shapes and sizes.


When Matt and I got married, Matt was so thrilled to be able to, ever so briefly, speak with Uncle Boardman about his experiences in the war.  And Uncle Boardman was thrilled to have someone to tell about his flying days.  They even kept up an email correspondence for a short time, with Aunt Lorraine doing the typing for him since his eyes were getting weaker and he couldn't see the computer very well anymore.


As the years progressed, we didn't see Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Boardman anymore because it was too difficult for them to travel up here, and it was harder for us to get away from the store.  Last year Mom's cousin Linda planned a family reunion to celebrate Aunt Lorraine's impending 90th birthday.  We celebrated it several months early so that most of the family could travel to one somewhat central location without being hampered by weather, or school, or holidays.  


Last August I got to spend a wonderful weekend with them, and even though Uncle Boardman was weak and frail, he was still him.  He was still the same man with a great sense of humor, a deep faith, a love of flying, and somewhat surprisingly, a very dirty mind!  He spent most of the weekend in his wheelchair, somewhat hunched over, and seemingly in his own world.  This is not to say that he wasn't as sharp as ever, but due to his failing eyesight, and hearing, and physical strength, he couldn't engage in a large group setting. 


I sat down next to him and started talking to him about airplanes and the change in him was amazing.  He raised his head, and the sparkle came back into his eyes, and he told me all about his flying career both military and commercial.  He simply came to life again when given the chance to share his love of flying with someone.  He showed me pictures and gave me copies of his flight lists from WWII and Korea.  He also gave me a copy of a newsletter written for his other career, with the church.  The topic of this one was near and dear to my heart too, as it dealt with "Do animals go to Heaven?"  Being as I consider him a very wise and knowledgable man, I told him I was taking his word on this one, and it is such a relief to know that he was greeted by not only his beloved dog Cinnamon, but our beloved Cinnamon (whom they named theirs after) as well.

That Sunday morning as I prepared to head for home, I made a last trip up to my cousin Sheri's house.  At this point I should explain that I have never been good at saying goodbyes.  No matter how long or short the trip, no matter the circumstances, I have always been a blubbering mess when it comes time to say goodbye.  As I went around the house saying my goodbyes to cousins I hadn't seen in years, and my Uncle Ray and Aunt DeeDee who I see every few years, I saved the hardest two goodbyes for last.  I gathered all my courage and went to say goodbye to Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Boardman.  This last one was particularly difficult for me because I knew in my heart that this wasn't just another goodbye, but it was a true goodbye.  I hugged him and kissed him and told him that I loved him, and I will always treasure his last words to me.  He said, "I love you too.  You're very lovable."  After that, I got in my car and drove away, crying for about the first 20 miles of my journey home.


I'm so thankful for that last visit with him, and for the chance to say goodbye.  And I'm so thankful to know that no matter how weakened his body became, no matter how dim his eyesight, or how poor his hearing, he was still the same man he always was.  He still had such an incredible love for his God, his beautiful wife, and his airplanes, that nothing could ever diminish.


So, as sad as I am that he is now gone from this earth, I have to be so thankful for the time that I got to spend with him, the lessons I learned from him, and of course the corny jokes.  And there is not a doubt in my mind that he was lovingly welcomed into Heaven by his Father who said to him, "Well done, good and faithful servant.  Enter into your rest."

Advertising is wasted on me

I keep seeing commercials that will stick with me because I take them and let my mind run with them.  I take my initial reaction to the commercial and imagine what the advertising firm would think of my reaction.  I'm sure they'd be thrilled to know that these campaigns they spent so much time and money on are completely wasted on me. 

Maybe I'm not the target audience they are seeking, but I am a consumer, and so maybe someone out there cares about my opinion. 

The ones that always get me thinking are the jewelry store commercials.  My husband gave me a beautiful ring for Christmas, and he most certainly did NOT go to Jared.  He supported a local business, and saved money too!  I think those commercials are so ridiculous, because I can't think of a single friend of mine who would open a jewelry box and see a beautiful piece of jewelry and say, "Hmmm... I wish he would have gone to Jared." 

And as I posted just the other day on Facebook, those Kay Jewelry commercials are ridiculous.  Their slogan of "Every kiss begins with Kay" has bugged me for years.  And they have one of the creepiest commercials I've ever seen.  The one with the couple in a cabin in the woods and it's stormy outside?  That one really seems like it would be better suited to sell chainsaws than jewelry because whenever I see that commercial I am convinced that he only took her to that cabin to kill her and stash the body. 

If advertisers really wanted to sell something to women, who really should be their target demographic because we do the majority of the shopping, they would focus that type of energy on cleaning products that are easy to use and/or fun or gadgety.  While I have never heard one of my friends utter the phrase that bugs me so much, "HE went to Jared," I have heard them express such gratitude for help around the house. 

Swiffer Wet Jet should jump on that bandwagon and have a group of women having coffee and one of them bragging, "HE mopped the whole house!"  I guarantee you the rest of the women would ooh and aaah just as much as they do in the jewelry commercials.   Or Dawn dish soap could do one, "HE cleaned the kitchen!!"  Charmin could really score with "HE changed the empty toilet paper roll!!" 

Maybe this is just wishful thinking on my part, but if you're going to flood the market with ads, at least make them worth watching, maybe even slightly realistic?

And while I'm on my rant, what's the deal with all the air in chocolate now?  Hershey's Air???  I haven't priced them, but I'm guessing they are more expensive.  So who is the brainiac who came up with chocolate full of holes that you pay more for?