PDG in K!

PDG is now three weeks into the life of a Kindergartener. I'm not quite sure how it happened this fast, or how it's no longer the weirdest concept possible that my baby boy is in school all day.

There's obviously been a lot of build-up to this point. First, I had to figure out where he'd attend, and as past posts explain, moving to Woodbridge ended up the best option I could fathom given the factors. Our neighborhood is pretty diverse, meaning the school within walking distance is also a mix of black and white and brown and all sorts of languages and cultures. The big kids that ran the townhouse community gang on their bikes all summer, now keep an eye out for PDG and the other younger ones in the halls. PDG loves the days he sees his big friends around, just like he likes absolutely everything about school.

Take that back. Bathrooms. We're still working on liking, and therefore using, public bathrooms. But let's be honest, what adult actually likes using public restrooms either?

The first event of the summer was registration and assessment. Apparently PDG rocked the reading and numbers portion, but when it came time to cut with scissors, my little perfectionist wanted to cut exactly in the center of the line, which predictably did not happen. This led to a shut-down pouting face that you've likely seen if you've seen PDG fail in even the slightest bit at anything. Luckily, his teacher Mrs D is amazing and already knew he'd be in her class, so she gave him a pep talk and encouraged us to keep using scissors at home for a while.

Two weeks later JG and I attended orientation where PDG got to practice going through the lunch line and then went off to ride a school bus with all the other Kindergarteners. Meanwhile the grownups sat in their tiny seats and filled out a bunch more forms and learned again about what we can send for snack and how the classroom is set up. It got more and more real. And emotions of all sorts about my family came bubbling up and out.

The first day the boys woke up at my house and we hurried around like usual to get out on time. Fantastically "on time" is 25 minutes later than last school year, but still early. Due to a wait list situation that still isn't resolved, PDG goes to his old daycare with MDG in the mornings, and then Miss S walks him to the school (she's in walking distance too!). For the first day, however, JG escorted him and I charged him with taking tons of pictures so I could live vicariously while I gave my first day spiel to my own scared new freshmen (and lots of nervous upperclassmen too). I checked my phone a ton to find all of these.

Since then my favorite part of each weekday is picking up MDG, driving the half mile to PDG's school, and then walking to the entrance and waiting for Mrs D's class to come out. It's all so organized, and reminds me daily why I prefer high school to these tiny tots. They walk with their mouths full of air like puffer fish and their arms folded before standing backpacks against the wall in the same order every day. Kindergarteners have to be released directly to a parent, so once Mrs D sees me, she calls PDG's name and he runs over, grabs my hand, and I pepper him with questions. There's almost always a huge smile followed by "I dunno" or  "I don't remember" to every question I ask. When he does start to remember, I get filled in on details of "clipping up" which is part of a positive rewards system, an overview of lunch or specials (art has been rocky so far), minor tattles on the girl at his table who talks too much and occasionally clips down, and snippets of songs about the calendar, letters of the alphabet or his new favorite book: Chicka Chicka Boom Boom.

MDG loves to see the crossing guard as we walk from the car to the entrance and back again, and entertains the other parents and waiting little siblings. We take a break from learning to relax in our downstairs "imagination station" with no screens for a while. Then there's dinner or playing outside, or some PBS Kids apps, or baths before 20 minutes of reading and bedtime and repeat.

I can't believe he's so big, but I also can't imagine a better Kindergarten experience so far.  And hey, if he ever does go #2 at school, an hour of solo iPad time awaits.

Race Lesson Number One

Well, folks, the day has come. My PDG has made the inevitable discovery that he's black. I thought I might have another year before I'd start this complex peeling back of the layers of race with him, but alas it's started coming into focus over the past few weeks and just keeps on popping up.

In some ways it's cute. He thinks it's so weird that people would call him black when he clearly isn't. In fact, he's figured out just which brown crayon in the big box we each are. MDG and I share the same one. His own is one shade lighter and J-Man's the lightest. He has no color words yet to describe our white friends and neighbors. As for the preposterous black/white binary system, he is slowly conceding that we are dark enough to fall into "black" but still thinks his dad is more "blackish whitish." It's all the cute naivete of every kid ever saying "But no one is really black or white, Mommy!"

Tragically pairing his recent realization of race with the news the past month has been devastating. How do you look at your beautiful black son with bright brown eyes and a smile that stretches across his whole face and then hear about more unnecessary killing of black men at the hands of scared police officers? How do you decide when to start mentioning that the policemen we love to point out as "being helpers" or "keeping people safe" might decide that their own presumed lack of safety is someone else's death sentence? Especially if that someone else has skin like ours. Worse if it's darker like their grandfathers' or Big Bro's.

It's been weeks since those terrible two days in a row of Alton Sterling and Philandro Castile and I'm still tearing up about it. It's like the weeks after watching Eyes on the Prize in 8th grade and trying to rid my brain of the horrific images. Beatings. Lynchings. Emmett Till.

Let's step back from those horrors though, because understanding race is gradual and nuanced. First there are going to be the additional questions he'll start to have. We live in a white neighborhood. We go to a mostly white church. We have friends of color, but live a comfortable middle-class life which can make that line of identifying as "black enough" feel out of reach, even when almost every day he will look and feel much blacker than the majority of the people around him. How can we explain how deep blackness penetrates despite how light the surface of his skin might be?

I remember figuring out my blackness. (Ha! I just wrote that, as if I've actually figured out my blackness. Yeah, right.) Better said, I remember starting to figure out my blackness. Some years I was the only black kid at my 180-student private school. Definitely the only black Mormon family in my childhood congregation. I've spent my own life wondering if I'm just the token. How many people name me as their one black friend? How many times have I been in photos like this one, where even the camera doesn't know what to do with me?

I want to tell my sweet boy how being black is not anything to ever feel ashamed of or annoyed by. How he is beautiful, and not because he's light-skinned and stuck with that baggage of being fetishized by all the people who love caramel complexions (because they aren't too dark or sound delicious or whatever?). I want him to find pride in himself and his family without the burden of anger when he begins to understand the circumstances his ancestors endured. I don't want anyone to call him the n-word and have that be a defining moment of his life. I don't want the feeling of otherness to shadow his childhood. I don't want him to wonder if his accomplishments shouldn't be valued because someone quoted anti-affirmative action propaganda and the words "reverse racism" when he succeeded. I don't want him to decide over and over again how hard to defend his right to be smart or articulate or creative or promoted, or not to be athletic or a great dancer or the end-all expert on African American studies.

I want all of that and yet, I don't know what that life could possibly look like because I've spent the past thirty-two years wanting the exact same things for myself.

My greatest solace is that I have years to help him understand this all. He doesn't have to know tomorrow how race is a construct. We can wait until elementary school to flush out the words slavery and segregation. And maybe by the time we delineate between stereotypes, prejudice, and racism the world will be a little kinder, the policies a little more reasonable, and the news stories of inhumanely treated black men a rarity met with honest to goodness justice for all.

Home Is Where the Money Is

J-Man and I are thinking about buying a house this year. To best explain where we are on this journey, let's imagine that buying a house is swimming in the deep end of a pool. In that case we are by the steps to the shallow end, still with shorts and a t-shirt over our suits, not having removed jewelry, and crazy enough not to have applied the necessary sunscreen. We're scrolling on our phones while placing just one foot in the water to see if it's the right temperature.

Ok, maybe now that we've started to admit that we're thinking about it, perhaps we have two feet in, but still not past our ankles.

What is it about home ownership that's so much scarier than marriage at age twenty-four, parenthood, and then more parenthood? Is it the money?

Yeah.

It's the money.

First, it's so awkward to talk about. Especially in a bubble like Northern Virginia where houses and souls are priced in the same tax bracket. Like, when a person asks you where you're thinking of moving, you know they're also asking you how much you plan to spend, then judging accordingly. When we say probably not A-town, do they automatically think, "so less than a half mil"? And does that make us the poor folks?

I mean, I'd love to live in A-town. But, in reality, less than a half mil is totally more my style.

If you say closer to the outskirts of the beltway they hear "bargain hunter" and likely have visions of neighbors who will look more like us, even if the languages spoken will vary a good bit. Is that the worst thing? Would it be so bad to not be the only brown family on the block? (That's rhetorical, obviously)

When they ask about commutes and we say we want to be fair to both of us based on where we work now, and where we might seek employment later, what assumptions are they making about our family life? Do they know how J-Man gets up most mornings these days to at least get the boys dressed, if not all the way through teeth brushing, jackets, granola bars and out the door? Do they know how much the boys - and I! - crave the hour with him that he gets between work and their bedtime? Would a great deal on a giant house be worth cutting that down in half? Or worse, extinguishing it completely?

How much house does a person need anyway? We say three bedrooms, but I can't foresee the day when my boys will need to separate. We can do bunk beds. We can keep the toy fairy around with frequent visits to trim our junky overloads.

Don't even get me started on yards. I loved growing up on enough land that I never had to shut my blinds while getting dressed. I also loved that it was never my responsibility to keep up with it. Sure I've mowed the lawn, watered plants, picked plenty of green beans, but I never had to. Now when I see houses with lawns on Zillow I imagine not how cute the curb appeal is, but how much work it must be to keep up. Same with too many square feet. Who's gonna clean all that?

But if we live close to the city and give up the square footage and green grass, aren't we paying so much more for so much less? Which brings us back to money. Always the money.

Houses around here cost so much money.

I guess we'll see if we can go a month without a car repair or other random thousand dollar surprise and maybe a mortgage won't be so scary. Maybe we won't relish calling the landlord when the washer starts trickling water because we openly love not having to pay a cent to get it fixed. Maybe life will toss us an amazing HUD-50%-off-because-you're-a-teacher deal in a neighborhood that's just the right balance of "up and coming" instead of "down and out," and we'll really do this thing.

While we wait and see, we're gonna stay here in the shallow end, practicing our basic math with these precious boys of ours. These precious, expensive, lifelong contracts of boys we couldn't possibly love any more.

Where Is the Love?

A few minutes ago I sat down to write this post about how the craziness of my return to work has subsided now that we all survived today. I plopped myself onto the couch, snuggled under the mexiblanket, grabbed a handful of potato chips, remembered I only had half my goal of water intake today, and checked my phone. Guess what, guys - it isn't over yet.

If you don't live in the DC area and/or don't watch the morning news, you might not know that my school has been the topic of conversation. Our new principal started last Monday, our first day back from break, and before she could go home the note below was discovered in one of the boys' bathrooms.

Classy guys. Way to start the year off with a bang. (Our head of security accidentally used that exact pun in our briefing the next day. He received nervous laughter and quickly apologized for the slip.) According to police, the threat was not credible. I still don't totally get the metrics of credible vs not credible, but I do believe it to be incredibly stupid.

As a staff we discussed lockdown procedures while simultaneously welcoming our new principal (a woman!) on board, and agreed to face the week like any other. Easy enough. A letter was sent home, extra police and security were called in for the week to make everyone feel safe, cameras were checked of who went into and out of that bathroom all day, and in my room, we kept on speaking Spanish. At least, attempting. It's amazing how much kids forget in two weeks.

Fast forward to Thursday night, similar snuggling happening, I think we were watching Train Wreck, when my school's number popped up on my phone. Another idiot wrote another threat on another wall in the school. Maybe the same idiot. In these situations, all idiots tend to blend together into one giant fear-mongering mammoth of an idiot. The proposed date, which our principal chose not to broadcast but the student rumor mill spread anyway, was Tuesday January 12th. Today. Some even said 1:20pm.

The local channels got wind and thanks to a slow news day, set up their cameras at 5am Friday and kept replaying the same information all morning long until even Mama H called to be sure she shouldn't be worried. Kids were getting pulled from class left and right. Parents were terrified. A coworker of mine asked what I would do if my boys were at a school where there'd been two threats of violence in one week. I told her I felt safe, but truthfully, I don't blame any parent trying to protect their kid. I don't like giving in to terrorists, though, and whoever is writing these stupid graffiti threats is trying to promote fear for sure. They might also have had a test scheduled for 6th period and were hoping to scam us into an early release?

Today the school felt a step closer to normal. The extra security were less visible and the office less flooded with nervous mothers. Still, one of my classes had a third of the kids absent. Just in case.

So as I snuggled in, thinking it was over, we could shed this layer of general anxiety - even those of us who never fully believed it was more than a teenage prank, but stayed a little on edge with darting eyes of alertness anyway - I was beyond annoyed to get yet another robocall from my principal stating yet another threat for yet another future date.

Tomorrow the kids will tell me the details - they always know first - and I'll remind them I've been trained to keep them safe. We'll stick with this frustrating cycle a little longer until one of these vandals gets caught. I'll keep assuming it's a dumb act by a kid who could really just use a hug, a (metaphorical) slap to the face, and a better understanding of the devastating effects of gun violence and inciting fear.

I mean, people, what ever happened to snow dances when you want a day off school? I could join in that effort. I'd salsa the heck out of some snow rhythms. I'd get my whole class going. For the love of human life and happiness, let's stop with the shooting threats and get back to the things I love about school. Like conjugating verbs in the preterite.

I Wrote a Thing

Oh man, I haven't felt this full of anxiety since the day I decided to announce I have a blog on Facebook. I forgot what a tingly and terrible headache comes with pressing "post."

I've been busy the last few days, finishing up my goal of getting this book published before the end of the year. I sort of wanted to say "screw it" and not rush publishing under the guise of waiting until I'd written a sequel, or something better, or just had the perfect cover and website built for it and so on. Let's be real, I had a lot of excuses, and they sounded good.

J-Man asked me why the panic attack today - like I said, it's been a long time since my anxiety won over my brain, and it's a really unpleasant feeling that transmits this terrifying fear that you'll never not feel this way or have a resting heartbeat again - and I couldn't really explain it. As I'd talk, the rationale became less and less, well, rational. See, the thing I published is this:

But, what you find out a few pages in, is that it has some swear words. And some kinda steamy scenes. Not gratuitous, but they're there. And there are people from church on my Facebook and so what if....

What if what? Right? Someone's going to think I'm a terrible person? Come on. That's ridiculous. I mean, I suppose someone could think I'm a terrible person, but it's doubtful it would take them the act of purchasing my book and reading partway through before suddenly jumping to that conclusion.

But there are also published authors and writers on my friends list. One who's had more than one front page NY Times article and another whose show is going on Broadway later this year. Professors and PhD's and...

So? They know that writing is scary and time-consuming and something to be proud of, even when no one reads it. If they say "congrats" they aren't sending some weird passive-aggressive commentary that should make me feel bad about myself. Who the heck spins "congrats" into negative feedback anyway? Besides me, that is.

This is the sort of conversation bouncing around my fiery brain all day. Thankfully I spent most of the day at the Kennedy Center seeing Bright Star, which I highly recommend if you like musicals and/or banjos.

Anyway, I'm ok, because at the end of the day, I decided to do it. I tried the traditional agent route and it didn't work. They gave me kind feedback, the ones that read it, which was more than I ever expected to happen. My too-many years of making up stories with my Fisher Price Little People actually lead to real life professionals considering whether to pursue a plot I dreamt up and pieced together during nap times and bed times and backyard wild times. That's its own little miracle.

With the confidence from them, and some of you, I checked out Amazon's user-friendly process of creating an e-book, and here I am. Published with a different last name.

Now, as for my 2016 resolution, I'm keeping it nice and simple. Drink more water.

I think I can avoid a xanax-worthy status update coming your way in early 2017 on that one. Ha!

And All That Hair

You guys, I hate going to the beauty salon. Hate it. I avoid it for as long as possible, and sometimes longer than should be permissible.

It's ironic, though, because every time I go, I get showered with compliments. Every black woman inside takes a moment to ooh and ahh over my "good hair." And at the risk of sounding obnoxious and ungrateful, I'd like to admit that it's kinda the worst.

Do you know what good hair is? You probably do, and you probably have seen the Chris Rock documentary. If you haven't, check it out sometime. Hair is this powerful concept that you learn very early on will affect the way people look at you. It's a competition, it's a choice, and often it's a complicated burden.

In my case, on a Saturday morning when I've taken the time to wash it, it looks a little like this.

Talk about an undertaking. If you've met me and thought I washed this mess daily, this photo should convince you otherwise. I aim for weekly. Even that was more realistic pre-kids. Now I try for the least frequently that can still remain presentable and hygienic. Sometimes that's my approach to showering too. Just kidding. Kinda. Not really. Anyway.

The other day I got to thinking about my hair and how it's a pain and I should do something about it. I told J-Man I was going to make an appointment. I hadn't had a relaxer since June. (This is something I always lie about at the salon, and pretend it's only been 3 months, or a number less outlandish than my typical 5-7. It's one of few lies I just can't not tell.) You know what happened though? I changed my mind.

I said it out loud, "I'm going to make a hair appointment," and then I quickly decided against it. I didn't want to make the call. I didn't want to try to remember the lady who did it the last time. I didn't want to lie about when I was there last. I really didn't want to go and sit in a chair and be complimented on something for which I can take zero credit beyond inheriting a specific set of genes. I also didn't want to awkwardly assess whether I was black enough to participate in the conversation, laughing at the right jokes, using the right lingo, and appropriately thanking everyone for their interest in these eighteen inches or so I often dream of shaving off.

On a meta level I didn't want to sit and think about how having these thoughts are, for the most part, not at all the fault of the other people in the salon. They're instead a twisted mix of insecurities in my own identity, cemented over three decades of walking the light-skinned tightrope as a black, Mormon, nearly six-foot, ivy league, small town, never-fitting-in girl. Woman.

Going to a hair salon brings out every fear I have about the construct of beauty and my inability to accept that I both want to be, and yet fear the process of becoming, beautiful. I tell myself I want inner beauty. I don't need people to look at me and use words like "stunning" or "gorgeous." But don't I? Doesn't everyone? At least, a little bit? Doesn't it feel amazing to look in the mirror when the stylist is finished and see a set of locks you want to flip around as your love takes you to a fancy dinner or spins you around a dance floor? Can't you laugh like nothing matters because you feel the eyes of the room deciding you're worthy of their gaze?

Most days I look in the mirror and I shrug at what I see. There's a girl. She's getting wrinkles and her eyes carry bags of dark exhaustion. Her smile's ok. Her nose will do. When she stands tall, she looks like she's doing all right. And that hair, it'll work. Just braid it to the side like Elsa. Or twist it into a bun and slap a scrunchie around it. Pull it tight and ignore everything it makes you think about who you are. Spend your time on sleep, or your kids, or packing a lunch so you're not starving by seventh period.

But sometimes, after my darling husband has given my confidence the boost I need to make the call, schedule the appointment, let Miss S keep the boys the first day of Thanksgiving break, and step foot into the salon, I come out looking like this.

Maybe not stunning. Maybe not gorgeous. But I survived. I felt shamefully happy with the outcome. I changed my profile picture. I decided it was all right to indulge in a little vanity. I took family photos for our Christmas card and I secretly felt happy to have my hair. Typing this now it feels so silly to say. I'd be happy with any hair, right? It shouldn't be so weighted a statement to make. I should love it however it looks. I should love myself however I look.

One day I might.

For now, the question remains - how long until I have to wash it again? Surely not before J-Man's work party tonight!

These Bodies of Ours

Two weeks ago was one of those magnificent weeks that we teachers survive our first quarter awaiting: only three days of instruction! November is pretty great like that. I mean, September only gives you Labor Day (which used to come before instruction even started) and then October gives you that awkward-to-celebrate Columbus Day nonsense where we have teacher conferences but November... I love November.

This year the end of the marking period lined up with election day, so we got ourselves two work days in a row. Not as crazy awesome as the kiddos, who got a four day weekend straight up, but still pretty sweet. On Wednesday when we finally started teaching, it felt like we hadn't seen these kids in ages. I'd almost forgotten what I was doing. I was rolling my cart back to the planning room for the last period of the day when I found out my work BFF Sra BK had passed out while teaching.

What?!?!

My Asst Principal joked that maybe Sra BK was preggo (which I'm sure Sra BK had NOT found funny when being wheeled out of the school en route to the hospital) and immediately the speculation began. Dehydration? Blood sugar? Overexertion? Something scarier???

I don't do all that well with mortality. J-Man finds that ironic since the LDS church is all about eternal life and heaven for everybody and a billion second chances to do things 'right.' Still, when people around me get sick, I freak out. My neurons start firing in crazy directions and I can't concentrate and temporary madness sets in. (If you're thinking I should tell a shrink instead of you about this, don't worry, I'm steps ahead of you).

So I called J-Man to tell him about my weird day and how I was worried about Sra BK and might be emotionally a little off for the evening until I worked through my feelings in the ways I've learned to calm myself down, when he told me he had a terrible day too. Turns out one of his coworkers, our same age, way more physically fit than either of us have ever been, black, Georgetown Law grad, nice guy, etc, just dropped dead on the basketball court the night before.

I couldn't believe it. J-Man couldn't believe it. We were both being in-your-face reminded that our bodies are unpredictable and unreliable at the same time, and neither of us liked it.

I know everyone grieves differently, and luckily on my end Sra BK ended up being totally ok, but it just started feeling a little overwhelming. I thought about the four high school suicides that happened a couple weekends prior in our county. I thought about the Statistics teacher whose 34-year-old daughter (1999 valedictorian from the school where I teach) just died while biking to work. I thought about the eleven year old grandchild of two retirees from my school who just died on a dirtbike. Suddenly it felt like no one was surviving and everyone's life was fleeting and I needed to hold on to my J-Man a little tighter and kiss my boys eighty more times at bedtime. 

When I saw the Stats teacher a few days later, I felt guilty standing next to my boys in their matching shirts and boots and ear to ear smiles. My heart is so full of laughter and hers was still so visibly breaking and I was helplessly out of words. Not that my words mattered, the moment wasn't even about me. Which only made me feel this selfishly uncomfortable form of worse. I wished I knew her well enough I could have just hugged her and let that speak for itself, sparing us both the strange moment on the sidewalk.

I walked away from that enounter and took time to look at my family, I know I'm lucky. I know I have so much to be thankful for. I know we can't live forever, at least not here on this planet. I'm glad for every moment I spend with them. And I try to snap out of too many sad thoughts, because I want to make the most of the time I do get here. It's the best thing I know how to do. Also, on a practical note, I should probably listen to J-Man and go up my life insurance soon. These boys are fun and cute and all, but they're not cheap.

Deep, Deep Thoughts

Yesterday J-Man showed me a video that he thought I would like. It was a fair assumption. The video was deep thoughts with Anna Kendrick, so what's not to like? Perhaps you've already seen it and really liked it and laughed out loud. I'm not really sure why I didn't.

I love Anna Kendrick. I love her movies. I laughed til I snorted at Pitch Perfect and even went to the theaters for Into the Woods. Don't even get me started on how I ugly cried my way through The Last Five Years at 6am while my family slept soundly one Saturday morning. It was just after a big fight J-Man and I had (which I refuse to detail here because a) you probably don't care, b) it's been resolved, and c) it's not really your business even though you hopefully know that we are human and have been married seven ((seven?!)) years and therefore occasionally find ways to drive each other beyond insane before forgiving one another and making up and remembering all the reasons we love each other) ... where was I?

Oh, right, AK's deep thoughts. Man, I got off track...

I think I didn't get all giggly because when you say the words "deep thoughts," only one image comes to mind: a college classmate's Jack Handey AIM away messages circa 2003.

I told J-Man this and he did a half smile, but I got temporarily transported back in time. I mean, I used to spend hours upon hours in front of my super heavy Thinkpad "studying" and "writing papers" while obsessively staring at people's away messages. Remember these?

I used to try to write clever ones. Sometimes a profound quote from something I was reading for class. Sometimes a deep pondering of my own. Often something weird and semi-salacious like "showering with KB" because I was nineteen and still awkwardly trying to learn how to be flirtatious. Anything was better than the generic message above. Seeing that exact font sends shivers of anxiety through my fingers. Short-lived crushes began and ended over AIM, and an away message managed to say more than the hundreds of status updates I scroll past on facebook these days.

When my friend started doing Jack Handey quotes, I actually thought he was brilliant, a comedic genius. Call me naive. I'd watched SNL less times than fingers on my hand. I didn't know Deep Thoughts were a thing. I figured he was more intelligent than I'd given him credit for as a football player and continued my spiral of everyone-here-is-so-much-freaking-smarter-than-me-and-prettier-and-funnier-and-I-hate-them-all. At nineteen that spiral was mad deep like a cyclone.

How relieved was I to find out that he was just like the rest of us, stealing ideas to keep people interested. Borrowing from others to start conversations. Hoping someone had something to say about the tiny bat signals of loneliness those AIM messages really could be.

My mind wandered down those paths while I listened to this new set of Thoughts. I considered what a kid I used to be. I considered how insecure I felt, waiting for messages, watching names shift from black, to idle gray, to black again, wondering if certain screen names would write, or if I should write first, or if anyone watched niloha05 as closely as I watched them.

Sometimes I wish I were a college kid still: young, free, inventive, with endless life potential. And then, sometimes, I'm really glad to be in my thirties, settled and routinized yet brave in surprising new ways, not giving nearly as much of a flying fig what the cool kids think.

J-Man's 31st

We G's just keep getting older. Not "old" per se, just older. Little G's and Big G's alike.

J-Man just turned 31. Can you believe it?  Thirty sounds fun and adult-ish. You know, "thirty, flirty and thriving." Thirty-one just sounds.... like a number. So we celebrated as such.

MDG and PDG decided to have colds, so much so that PDG needed to stay home from daycare with an awful cough. Luckily, Mama and Papa H came to the rescue and drove over in the morning, to save J-Man from endless hours of snuggles while watching Super Why in bed.

In the afternoon we all got to see him just long enough to record a video for Cousin N who shares a birthday with J-Man, a few hugs and kisses, and then he was back out the door to watch the Seahawks beat the local football team with the racist name.

At 1:30 when I awoke to find my J-Man not yet home, I naturally panicked.  Too many episodes of shows like Disappeared had me worried that I might never see him again.  Something must have gone terribly wrong. My boys would never know their father - not really. I'd have to tell them stories of his humor and work ethic and endless generosity. I'd fall asleep lonely each night, half of the bed left untouched. My heart would ache forever.

You know, the usual morbid thoughts.

Then his buddy responded to my frantic texts and it turned out they'd just had a crazy journey home from the game and would arrive shortly. We all get another year of J-Man. And I get about seven more months before embracing thirty-one as well.

Oh, and sometime during all this, PDG decided to make his own video selfie. Someday if I figure out how to add videos, I'll come back and insert it here.

Weaning and Woes

I have a confession to make. I've basically given up breastfeeding.

I don't think I've had any doubt more overwhelming with either of my children than "am I feeding them right?" Even now with PDG eating full meals and telling me if he's hungry and thirsty, there's so much to doubt. More organics? Juice vs water vs milk. Happy meals? Candy? But none of it tops the doubts of breastfeeding the first year.

Now, I love breastfeeding. I love the bond it creates. I love knowing that my body can nourish another. I love the way my bras fit. I love burning calories. I love not making bottles at 2am. I love feeling like I AM WOMAN.  I love how quickly I can resolve tears - any kind of tears. I love how their gulps slow and slow until the latch gives way and the milk coma sets in. It can be wonderful and empowering and comfortable.

But, truth be told, I kinda hated breastfeeding too. I hated how much it hurt those first weeks. I hated feeling like only I could feed the babies, not J-Man - at least, not without planning and pumping. I hated wondering how much he'd eaten and did he need the other side too or would he just throw it up all over me. I hated when I finally realized that he actually wasn't getting enough and instead of feeling awesome started feeling I AM NOT WOMAN ENOUGH.

Ugh.

Why do I do that? Why do so many of us do that? I should be thinking for the last eight months I've nourished and raised this infant into a crawling, laughing, learning machine. He is beautiful and strong and developing just right. Be proud. But, because I love beating myself up, I'm battling the thought I have failed him.  

Perhaps what is worse is that, because I didn't have this problem with PDG, it feels like I am particularly neglecting MDG.  I keep trying to figure out why my supply didn't keep up. Perhaps because I had to go back to work at 7 weeks because I didn't choose to be a SAHM because it wasn't for me? Is that how I failed him? Or because I'm on birth control this go-around because while I love my two boys I don't want any more. Is that how I failed him? Maybe I didn't drink enough water. Or I didn't remember to take my vitamins some days. Plus I took one night off a week so that I could sleep - obviously selfish.

Probably, though, it's a little bit of all of it. All of it, except of course, the calling it 'failing' part.

Logically, I know I didn't fail. Even now that he's almost exclusively on formula, he's being well fed. He's getting nourishment. I still hold him and love him and feed him.  

I wish I had the right words of encouragement for people who ask me about breastfeeding. Has it been a crazy journey that ended up with two healthy boys? - yes. Would I do it again? - yes. Was it easy and pleasant? - sometimes. Was it awful and hard? - sometimes. 

But regardless of what I'm doing right or wrong and how much I judge myself, for the first time in three years I'm pretty much back to eating for one again.  No pregnancy, and only one nursing session. (Yeah, I didn't give up the 5am feeding. Let's face it, I will always love sleep more than walking to the kitchen to make a bottle. Always.)

I just realized, and decided, that a happy mother matters so much more than the detail of where the milk came from. So for the past ten days I've weaned from five feedings to just one. That one I'll keep for as long as it feels right.  

I'm just trying to follow my favorite advice I received: Do what feels right; nothing is a problem until it's a problem, and then you fix it.

Here goes nothing.

Baby Stomach Bug Times Two - and Jerky

The Scene:
3pm on a Wednesday.  MDG and PDG have both recently awoken from naps.  PDG is on the couch strangely disinterested in goldfish crackers, a typical favorite. I am changing MDG's diaper in the nursery and checking to be sure he doesn't have a fever to accompany the morning's vomiting (the reason we're home in the first place on a Wednesday at 3pm)

Me: Ok, MDG, no fever. Let's grab a diaper.

PDG (arriving at the top of the stairs): Belly hurts

Me: Thats right, MDG's belly does hurt. That's why...

(I look down to see MDG pooping all over the changing table, his outfit, the clean diaper I just grabbed and my hand)

Me: Yuck!

PDG: Mommy, belly hurt!

Me: Just a second sweetie, MDG is going poop-poop everywhere.  Oh, and it just keeps coming!

PDG: Mommy! (insert intense vomiting noises here) (now insert terrified toddler crying) (some more vomit noises as toddler is quickly shuffled to the toilet that he manages to miss) (more confused crying)(a mother's exasperated when-will-it-end sigh)(a little more vomit)(a shoulder shrug from a confused toddler before much more crying)

Me: Ok, everybody, clothes off.  Let's take a bubble bath.

PDG: Bath?

MDG: (adorable baby giggles before one last runny mustard poop)

End Scene

Been there?  If you have 2+ kids or 2+ siblings then quite likely.  Grrr-oss!!

As for the backstory, here goes.  Tuesday night is J-Man's night to feed MDG.  It gives me a break once a week to get slightly less interrupted sleep.  It's been going great, but with our new allowance of some crying (with hopes of self-soothing), it was more disjointed than usual this week.  MDG woke more than he has been and even PDG woke once at 1am, an extreme rarity.  He usually embraces sleep even better than I do.

After MDG's 5am wake up feed he threw up a good bit on me.  It was a little alarming, but I figured he just was a little piggy and ate too much since I was engorged from having taken the night off.  I still got him dressed for daycare, finished dressing myself, got PDG dressed and headed out.  I told Miss S that he'd thrown up more than usual but also gave my diagnosis.  She said to keep my phone handy but he was probably fine.

Clearly, he wasn't.  He threw up his whole 8:30 bottle.  Everywhere. So by 9:30 I was finding coverage for my classes, plopping in The Lion King in Spanish and rushing to pick up my boys.

The doctor wasn't too concerned since there was no fever and another daycare toddler was out that day having thrown up the night before.  Probably just a bug.  I was told to nurse often and watch for signs of dehydration.

Not that any of that stopped my crazy-anxious brain from diagnosing my son with a rare banana allergy that manifested itself in delayed and incomplete symptoms.  Then, oh the guilt I felt for starting him on solids at the beginning end of the recommended 4-6 month range.   Was I a terrible mom?  Did MDG have something scary and complicated wrong with him?

After spending the afternoon nursing nearly every 30 minutes and taking mini catnaps during PDG's nap we arrived at the scene above.  A projectile stomach flu explosion. A cleanup nightmare.

So how did we solve it?

Frozen.

For me as much as for them.

Luckily, there was a little more silver lining to the day.  Thanks to my good friend M, back from her honeymoon, we were able to send J-Man a special Jerky delivery that looked like this.

And the best news of all, knock on wood, is that both J-Man and I managed to avoid this particular illness.  So far.

So Long Pregnancy

Today was my last full day being pregnant.  Not just with MDG, but most likely ever.  And, now that we're at the end, I'm feeling all sorts of things.

First of all, lest I forget, I'm feeling utterly exhausted.  As though my body has been through some sort of long, drawn out war only to realize that it isn't over, and the worst is yet to come in a bloody battle of will and physics and nature (hopefully dulled some by the beauty of modern medicine, aka the epidural).  My hips ache with what I have self-diagnosed as SPD, but could just be normal wear and tear from the whole basketball sized person it's lugged around lately.  My nose feels huge, my immune system is shot, I waddle, and I frequently worry I might wet myself. Not such a cute sight.

But those are the physical things.  Truth is, if I felt inspired, I'd do it again.  If J-Man were on board.  And we could afford it.  And it felt right.  I just don't see now when that time would be.  And I'm ok with that.  With this being the end of that.

The other things I feel aren't as easy to explain.  Or admit.

I feel guilty.  Tonight, when reading PDG his bedtime story of Goodnight Moon, I wanted the book to last forever.  I wanted there to be more items in that great green room to name off so that I could hold him in my lap just another minute or ten or fifty while he's still my only one.  I kissed him and squeezed him and told him how mommy would always love him this much, no matter what happens tomorrow.  We said our goodnight prayers and I prayed he would know that.  Even in his immature but developing toddler brain.  That he'd still feel my love when I'm recovering and nursing and nowhere near the mama I like to think I've maintained being through most of these past twenty months.

I feel frustrated.  Frustrated that my body couldn't do this on its own.  Again.  As if the year plus of infertility before PDG didn't make me feel like I wasn't woman enough - or whatever it is that I felt month after month - I started to feel that way again.  I know, I know, a safe delivery and a healthy baby is all that matters.  Pitocin is fine.  A c-section would be acceptable.  Life goes on as long as he gets here.  But still, I'm human, I feel things, even if they're irrational, and I irrationally get annoyed with my body for not having figured out how to jumpstart labor on its own.

I feel nervous.  Not so much for the labor.  I think as long as I get some pain meds in a reasonable time frame, that should be manageable enough.  Uncomfortable and painful, sure, but manageable.  The pushing - eh.  If I got through 2.5 hours last time, I can do it again.  Right?  But the day after?  The nursing?  The fifteen steps to just peeing solo again?  The sleep deprivation and self-doubt?  The wondering if this awful part ever ends and then feeling bad for thinking that because 'this awful part' overlaps with those first days and weeks of wonderment staring at that tiny being you've created with the person you love more than anyone else on earth?  That whole phase I'm nervous for.

I hope he's healthy.  I hope I stay healthy.  I hope my precious PDG can adjust.  And my J-Man.  And me.  And when I get my wits about me post-delivery, I'll let you know how it's going.

After all, lots of people have second kids.  My brother even went on to have a 3rd and 4th.  My dad's mom went on to have a 5th and 6th.

It's just time for me to put my game face on, not dwell on crazy thoughts, and let life happen.  Tomorrow at this time, God-willing, I will have another son to love and spoil and fret over.  I'll have another birth story with at least one twist I couldn't have expected.  I'll be a little stronger, a little more vulnerable, and still very much the same overthinker I am tonight.

Time to be a G.

MDG follow-up

That's totally me - writing all concerned about a doctor's appointment and then not following up to say how it went for weeks.

I hope you assumed no news was good news, because, thank heavens, it was.

And yes, these are random pictures of PDG with things on his head - just 'cause.

My family was pretty worried and after pretty much every Mormon family member said I should get a blessing, I went ahead and asked my dad and home teacher to do one.  I think that made J-Man more nervous, probably because I almost never ask for priesthood blessings, but I think it helped to calm my nerves and to remind me that even if something were to be "wrong" with MDG, we'd be ok.

The ultrasound was pretty interesting as the tech took time to examine every detail, finger by finger, bone by bone etc.  There were no other markers for Downs, and the spot on his heart, while still there, looked to be on the edge and quite possibly an unstretched ligament instead of a calcium deposit after all.

Not only that but the clot was gone and the placenta had already moved up.  Good news all around.  The doctor who came in to read us all the results said that this scare happens really often, but until more research is done, they have to alert families and suggest follow-up ultrasounds every time they see such a spot.  I guess it's one of the few down sides of such high tech ultrasound capabilities these days.

I know better than to think the next four months will go on with no more bumps or questions, but we're enjoying the ride of a healthy MDG who kicks like crazy, super low like his big brother did, and has finally made his mama hungry instead of sick.

Anatomy Scan - MDG

Hey.  So.  June happened....  yeah.  There was the end of the school year and exhausting morning sickness that markedly did NOT end with the new trimester.  There was a beautiful wedding and a trip to Little Rock.  There were big decisions in the Supreme Court and a nasty cold that hit me and PDG both.  Oh, and a 15 month doctor's appointment (because he's getting that old!).

I have pictures I could/should/will? post - assuming I don't go another month without writing.

But the biggest news all wraps up into today's pity party, which has then forced me to open up this little laptop and write out my complicated pregnant anxieties.

On June 26th J-Man and I went to our anatomy ultrasound.  PDG came along, and got confused as the lights went out.  Within seconds our little peanut had spread his legs and shown us we were getting another BOY!!!  

Now, if I'm being 100% honest - which is a big reason I blog to begin with - there was a tiny part of me that was like "oh.  okay.  I love boys.  But a girl would've been a fun change."  Not a big part of me, but a little bit.  Then there was the big part that thought "I know what to do with boys.  Yes!  And how adorable will these boys be, so close in age, running around and wrestling and nerding out together!?"  And of course, the biggest part which thought, "on with the scan - is he healthy??"

My office outsources its ultrasounds, so I had to rely on the ultrasound technician, who can't tell you but so much.  The measurements all seemed to look right on target (or slightly smaller, because remember I'm pretty sure they are almost a week early on my due date) and he cooperated with all the needed angles.

Then she said "I need to look more closely at your placenta."  Sexy, right?  Ha.

Turns out - and here's where you skip a few lines if you don't like uterine details - I have a low-lying placenta.  Supposedly this usually resolves itself by the third trimester.  The tech said she sees this often and the doc would tell me more.  Then she measured something else and asked me if I'd been bleeding.  I told her no, and she told me I might, because I have a clot.  Even sexier.  Again, this often resolves itself.  Or if it doesn't, I could bleed to death in a vaginal delivery.  Although, thanks to modern technology, I'd just have a c-section if it didn't get reabsorbed into the placenta.

It all seemed pretty no-big-deal.  Issues, but not scary ones.  So when I saw the doctor the next day, I was ready for a plan of action.  But, while I love my doctor's office, the ultrasound communication does leave something to be desired, so she hadn't actually seen the scan yet.  I could only tell her what the tech told me she'd seen.  To which the doctor gave a temporary plan of pelvic bedrest.

Now, about that "sexiness."  For anyone that doesn't know, pelvic bedrest is a cute pregnancy euphamism for sex moratorium.  At least until a follow-up in 4-6 weeks. So right as I'm finally feeling human/womanly and not just a vomiting host to a persistent uterus parisite (to be named Malcolm Davis), my doctor went and shut that whole area down.

So, why today's pity party then?

Well while out and about I missed a call from the triage nurse at the office.  I called her back but she was in with a patient so I had to wait 20 minutes.  Twenty long minutes, to find out what was up.  Anxiety meter went from 0-1000 just 'cause.

So when we talked, I scribbled down her notes from the doctor outlining that my baby MDG has an echogenic focus in his left ventricle and I would need a second ultrasound and they'd prefer me to do it at the perinatal center so that I can have immediate results rather than this weeklong waiting game.   Ugh.

Before you google it, the summary is, he's almost certainly just fine.  But if he isn't fine, it isn't a heart issue like it sounds.  Nope, it's chromosomal and a soft marker for downs or trisomy 21.

Obviously I will love this baby unconditionally, but that doesn't mean that this tiny seedling of fear hasn't full on nestled itself into my crazytown brain.

In the end, it'll work out.  Whatever that will mean. If I have learned anything since the day J-Man and I decided to start this baby-making journey in 2010 - you can't predict the process.  You just have to make the most of all the ups and downs.  

So maybe we got less than perfect scan results today.  We also got the first little kicks strong enough for J-Man to feel.  Maybe we can't have sexytime for another month.  At least I haven't puked for over a week now.  

Just gotta keep finding all the silver linings

Phew, I feel better already.  Thanks.

14 Months Thoughts

I hear it's a typical new mom thing to do, and that it can last your lifetime with your first kid, but I'm constantly on the lookout for something to be "wrong" with PDG.  Either a rash is somehow more than a rash, or a speech delay means he'll never talk, or a walking delay means he'll be disabled permanently....

It's kinda bad.

I was talking to a coworker about it, and she pretty much told me to chill out.  Her youngest of four is on the Autism spectrum, so she knows what it is actually like to receive a scary and difficult diagnosis.  Yet she assures me that even when that happens, life goes on.  You love your kid just as much.  You advocate for them even more perhaps, but there is nothing less about them.

It was like someone had smacked me in the face in a way that hadn't fully clicked before.  Obviously I knew I would love PDG just as much if something really were diagnosed one day.  Pscyhological, physical, emotional etc.  He'd still be my PDG and he'd still get that portion of my heart that never runs out of love. I just kept letting my fears be the stronger emotion.

So I stopped to think about what all he IS doing these days, regardless of what he isn't.  And what all I am thankful for.  And what a joy this little guy is in my life.  So if one day something comes up - because something comes up for all of us right? one of these days? no matter how fabulous our mothers are, we all face something mental/psychological/physical that we have to overcome - I'll keep doing the same.

And if all of that was like, duh, for you, I'm glad to be on your wavelength finally.

So.... PDG.  He can climb.

And he calls me "mama" now, and repeats lots of words even if he doesn't say them on his own.  He says "sssss" for socks and "shshtsht" for shoes.  He still growls for every animal, and often at trees or bushes where I guess he imagines animals might live.  

He likes to doodle

He kicks balls and throws them.

He loves shutting doors, but only once has opened one back up on his own.

And he can stand and dance and boogie (to the very same band that played at his mama and papa's wedding no less!)

He can go from sitting to standing without needing to hold on to anything else.  And when he doesn't think too hard, he'll take a step or two before realizing what he's up to and sitting back down.

And he can focus like nobody's business.  This day at the park, rather than interact with anyone, he just wanted to put mulch into the bigtoy holes.  So he did.  For a long time.

He thinks toilets are super cool, especially when his mama is puking into one.

And dinnertime may still be his favorite time of the day.

Plan Reasonable

The other day I may or may not have had too much time on my hands.  The thing with this job is, sometimes you want to tear your hair out because there aren't enough hours in the day, and sometimes you spend 40% of your work day googling things like soy isoflavens, HSG scans and infertility testing timelines.  You know, normal ebb and flow stuff.

Needless to say, I had a day with some extra time for google recently, and I went all out.  I mean all out.

I like reading the message boards and the blogs because they remind me I'm not that crazy.  And I like hearing the stories of success, some days, and the stories of hardship but perseverance, other days.  It just depends.

I started thinking about what a process this has been, but how it's probably true that before now it might not have worked to have a baby.  That this probably is the way things are "supposed to be" even if the thought of that comment makes me want to slap people.  I mean, my dearly-loved J-Man and I have wanted this for a while now, but, you know, we also had to move across the country.  We would've made it work, which is why we didn't give up, but you know, hindsight says things were easier with it being two, not two and a belly. 

This of course makes me think the worst, though.  Like maybe I'm not pregnant because, gasp, something horribly awful is wrong with me and I'd be bringing a child into this world right before I'd be taken out of it and what a cruel thing that would be to this unborn unconceived perfect being.  (maybe I've inherited a flare for the dramatic..?)  Or something less fatal, but more along the lines of everyone at my company probably secretly hates me and I'm going to be laid off so this is a protection so that I won't be pregnant with no insurance and have to give birth myself in the bathtub which sounds so disgusting and not natural because we aren't fish.

But at any rate, when I wasn't going down mental paths like those, I decided to inform myself on a few things.  And make a plan.  Which, if you care, I can share privately.

There was the Unreasonable Plan first.  That included secret doctor appointments, taking money from my for-gifts-only, personal bank account and maybe even purchasing some needle-less syringes (don't ask...).  But I had to do the thing where I imagine how the conversation would go with J-Man when he inevitably got the mail with a bill (because that's a husband chore around here) and how he'd be disappointed/frustrated/confused and how maybe that might make him not as excited to have a baby with me. Ya know, maybe.

Granted, I didn't decide this right away, because we all know I'm pretty, um, results-oriented?, but I did eventually figure out that I should create a less ridiculous plan.  So Plan B aka Plan Reasonable was born.  And the conversation went as I'd imagined, which thankfully was good.  And so now we have a direction if, you know, the desirable outcome doesn't happen naturally in our agreed upon window.

I gotta say though, while I miss the days where free internet time meant online scrabble, facebook stalking and game show network's Lingo, I kinda get a kick out of my new obsessions. And as a euphemism, I think I'll stick to terms like "research," "curiosities," and "strengthening my knowledge of the core subject matter."  And J-Man will keep calling me baby crazy :)

Afternoon Crisis

Yesterday there was a crisis at work.  Oddly enough, in the test prep biz, this happens quite often.  I field a frantic call about a locked classroom, a lost exam, a lost instructor...  These are almost the norm.  I have a love-hate relationship with such crises because, while they are a pain to manage at times, they also keep me on my toes.  I have to remember to cross my t's and dot my i's (which I don't, actually, in the handwritten word).  For business sake, for J-Man's sake, and for my sake, I try to avoid those troubleshooting cluster-fields.

Yesterday's crisis was different.  I received a call from an instructor, let's call her Aria, and she whispered like a shattered leaf.  Aria told me, voice shaken, that she couldn't teach that night because she'd just left the doctor and received bad news.

I don't like to be the manager who puts my own selfish needs before those of my instructors, so I asked as delicately as I could if she was ok.  The class and its inherent hour of phone calls, sub searches, and rescheduling could wait.

"I just had a miscarriage,"  she told me.  And my heart broke.

Aria is a great, great, great instructor.  Kids love her.  Parents love her.  In a boss-appropriate way I love her because she makes everyone happy.  She reminds me of a good friend of mine with her slightly asymmetrical, spunky haircut, her nose ring, her capacity for the creative that has always eluded me.  The last time I saw Aria I noticed her nontraditional wedding ring and wondered what guy would be her perfect fit.  In summation, she is a gem.  And she was barely holding herself together on the line.

We hung up and I worked on a solution.  Shift the kids to Thursday.  Reschedule the exam.  Have my support call all the families.  Explain it as a 'medical emergency.'  Check, check, check, check.  Problem solved.

Except Aria was still at home, still in pain, still facing this seemingly unwinnable game of motherhood.  As I thought about her I imagined what it must feel like.  I wondered if she, like I, had been praying for this for months, or years.  I wondered if she had a name all chosen.  If she stood in the mirror when bloated and imagined what she'd look like at 4 or 5 or 6 months.  My own empty abdomen ached in response. How do you bear that feeling?  What will I do if that happens to me?

I think about how much more devastating it must be to lose a child that actually existed.  I watched Parenthood recently and Julia was explaining that the worst part is that every month she starts to believe there's a little one growing inside her already.  She creates a bond with this child, and it ceases to be just a possibility, instead manifesting as reality. So the ensuing PMS is not just uncomfortable and annoying, but a day of mourning.  It's as though she was miscarrying month after month after month. I completely empathized. 

I have to admit, I've taken a peek at the grief and loss pregnancy boards on occasion.  When I get tired of estimating my nonexistent due date and reading cheery messages from all the contemporaries with their BFP's (baby board talk for success) and my heart can't read another story of failed IUI's and clomid cramping, I mosey over to the sadder boards.  I tell myself it could be worse.  And while I know that's morbid, and even a little weird, and maybe not the sort of thing you admit, I also know that I told my readers I loved you this week, so you'll forgive me.

I think about the million things that can go wrong on this journey and I remember that in the whole spectrum, I'm doing ok.  I'm healthy.  Impatient, but healthy.  And if my lady parts don't ever work the way I want them to, I know I'll be ok in the end.  I know that all the cliche things people tell you are true.  "Your time will come." "You'll understand why it took so long one day." "You'll look back at your children and know they are perfect, and came at the perfect time." "You're lucky to enjoy your spouse before kids." All that is probably true.  (Exception: "It'll happen when you stop wanting it so much" - pretty sure that's a load of BS, knowing people for whom it's just plain impossible).  But the rest will feel better when I'm a mother to my own (biological or adopted) offspring.

In the meantime, I'll count my blessings, love my husband, and say a prayer for Aria and her husband too.