Bumper Stickers

Living in the Pacific Northwest is sometimes like living in Hippie-Town.  There are dreadlocks everywhere, hooka lounges on many street corners, the term "granola" could validly be used to describe half the population but half the population wouldn't get it because "granola" is simply their staple food - not an adjective.
Most of the people in Portland and Seattle are very liberal. Plastic grocery sacks are illegal in some cities and sporting a Romney-Ryan t-shirt will get you a funny look in a way that your dreadlocks never would.
It's all good.  Nothin' but love for all the reusable bag people and the dreadlock fans.  I get it.
Here's something I find baffling though -- what is with all the Subaru's and their bumper stickers?
Does this phenomenon happen in other areas of the country, or just in the PacNW?  It's bizarre!  I swear I have never pulled up behind a Subaru at a stop light and not had thirty seconds worth of reading material to peruse while waiting for the light to turn green.  I often find myself tailgating Subaru drivers once the light does change because it's like being in the middle of a good book - you can't just quit reading, you have to know what happens in the end. In the case of the Subaru stories, it usually ends like this:

But you never know, so you have to keep reading anyway.
And back to that Liberal thing - I've never seen a conservative bumper sticker on a Subaru.  No NRA stickers, no pro-life, no Calvin and Hobbes dudes peeing on a Dodge logo or anything...  So I'm not trying to cause a political debate here, but are Subarus strictly Democrat cars, in the way that most SUV's are driven by fossil-fuel-loving Republicans?  When you register to vote at the DMV,  do they make sure that the model of your car does not conflict with the box of the political party you checked? Are bumper stickers just for the hippie-types?  I honestly don't know if I know anyone who has a bumper sticker on their car!
I did a Google search to see if anyone else had noticed the trend, and sure enough - there are images galore depicting just what I'm talking about.  But my question is; Does this happen outside of Oregon and Washington?  Please inform!  Also - if you have a bumper sticker or two on your car, please share what it says.  I find bumper stickers fascinating.

Of Eight Year Olds And Phobias

There is nothing more confusing to me as a parent than an extremely outgoing child who will not step one foot outside his comfort zone.

Okay, that's not true.  Most of this parenting gig has me confused from sun-up until the wee hours of the morning when I'm trying to figure out why my three-year-old hasn't learned to sleep through the night.  But that's not the point of this story.

Tuesday is Cub Scout night in our house.  The boys each meet with their den, and Andrew is the leader of his own group of boys.  Most nights the boys are happy to go and have fun with their friends learning something new. 

Tonight was an enormous exception.  Ethan was meant to go caroling at a rest home with the other Wolves, and he was beyond horrified at the idea.  

Ethan is my social butterfly.  He never has trouble making friends, he doesn't shy away from conversations with adults, and from what I understand a harem of girls chases him on the playground at recess every day.  

But tonight we found out that if you ask Ethan to sing in front of an audience with a group of other kids, he transforms into Beast Boy.  

First he faked sick, then he barricaded himself in the bathroom for forty minutes; all in attempt to get out of this caroling excursion.  When it was time to get ready I knocked on the bathroom door and told Ethan that I needed to get something out of there, (that something being him, but I felt it was important in my plan not to be too specific).  He opened the door and I told him it was time to get ready for Scouts.  He bolted into Cameron's room and slammed the door.  

I opened the door to find him curled in a ball on the bed bawling.  Bawling isn't really the right word, actually.  Picture this:

An eight-year-old boy curled into a defensive ball on a bed with tears coming down his almost purple face.

Fists are curled into tight balls.

Eyes are a little bit wild, daring anyone to mess with him.

Breath coming in short, panicky gasps.

That was what I had to deal with.

I asked him what was the worst that could happen?  "I'll have to sing...in front of people," was his hysterical answer.  

"But that won't hurt you," I assured him.

He scream-cried a retort that it would actually cause him bodily harm.

I decided that I had to make him go, in spite of his obvious bitterness towards me for not sparing him the humiliation of public singing.  I didn't want him to think that it's okay to hide from things that make us uncomfortable or to live in fear of simple things like emotional vulnerability.  So I forced the poor child to go to scouts, with the reassurance that he didn't have to sing if he didn't want to, but he did have to smile.

Forcing him to go did, in fact, require force.  I had to drag him off the bed, dress him in his uniform myself, tug him down the stairs and threaten him into the car.  

He hyperventilated all the way to the den leader's house.  And when we parked, he pulled the hood up on his coat, got out of the car, (after I told him to), and walked inside without a word to me.

Two hours later he was home. 

Alive.

Unharmed.

And as far as I can tell, not emotionally scarred by my abusive parenting.  

I guess we won't know for sure that I did the right thing until he discusses this with his therapist in twenty years.  Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Primary Program

Yesterday was the Primary Program at church.  For anyone who doesn't know what that is, it is the Sunday once a year when all the kids age 4-12 take over our Sacrament (Worship) Meeting and each child has a part to say, and they all sing the songs they've been working on all year. When it's over, we all know what the kids in Primary have learned throughout the year.  

I told my friend, Evelyn, on her blog yesterday that those things are only good when they go wrong.  As in, when some kid says something hilarious and unscripted into the microphone, or when one of the kids gets so nervous they throw up...that kind of thing.  It's a good show.  And I kind of stand by that opinion.  Sorta.

Yesterday was a pretty good program.  There was one kid who has autism and who I totally love and admire for getting up there to do his thing.  When he realized that the microphone magnified his voice so awesomely, he decided that a much better use of his time in front of it would be to practice his sound effects.  I get that.  He had some good ones, too, before he was so rudely pulled away and made to go back to his seat.  But he thought it was pretty good stuff.  So did I.  

And then there was the token kid who shouts into the microphone and makes everyone's ears bleed.  You gotta love that kid every year.  No one can help but laugh.

But sitting in the pew yesterday with my husband, my two little guys, and my parents...I realized how grateful I am for the knowledge my kids have at such a young age.  They know and understand things already that some people search for their whole lives.  They know that they have a Heavenly Father who loves them and knows them by name.  They know that they can pray and God will listen.  They know that if they listen in return, they can hear and feel God's answer.  They know why they are here on this earth and how they can get back to their Heavenly Father.  They know that Jesus Christ came here to set the example for them and to be their savior. 

So Ethan got up to say his part: "We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and we know that Jesus Christ is his son."  

And a little later, Cameron said his part: "Jesus showed us how to be obedient to all Heavenly Father has asked us to do, and we can follow that example."

And when it was over, I felt peace.  I know that my kids are going to be OK, whatever they face in life.  (And let's be honest - I might be their biggest obstacle to overcome, so this was a huge relief.)

Walk A Mile - A Gift From God

My guest blogger today is Suzie, who blogs at Lily's Life Is Great.  I've never met Lily, but I know by reading Suzie's words that her life is great.  But Suzie's here to tell it in her own words.

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With my husband being in the construction business we have several ladders at our home. There is a tall metal one and a short wooden one and one that bends up smaller and is easy to carry. The one we depend on and use the most is none of these. 

The ladder we depend on is not as wobbly as the old wooden one but it can't physically hold us up. 

The ladder we depend on, although short, is a bit heavy to carry.

The tall metal ladder was once blue and shiny. The ladder we depend on most will never lose it's shine and it will take us higher than we could ever imagine. 

The ladder we depend on most is our daughter, Lily. Lily is the one that makes us strive to step higher, to live a better life. She will be the reason we climb nearer to God.

Lily's life (of only 11 years) has been a rich one. She was very much wanted before she was ever born. Even knowing that she would have Down syndrome did not stop us from knowing that she was meant for our family, and we had been waiting a long time for her to arrive. Lily was not born into our family but was born for our family. From the time she was born she has been sharing her spirit with anyone that needs it; from complete strangers to close family members. She can seek out those that need a hug, need to laugh, or need to be reminded to take things with ease.

The second night of this baby girl's life, and the first time I saw her, we were asked by the birth family to give Lily a blessing. (Lily had several intestinal problems, including a missing esophagus.) I remember walking into the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) having to scrub up to my elbows until my skin was raw and then we were taken to a room full of 4 baby units. Oh, the lights, machines, noises, it was all a bit overwhelming. Then my eyes laid sight on her. She was beautiful. I really mean beautiful; lot's of dark hair and this enchanting face. She was mine. I wasn't comprehending everything that was happening, At that moment it was still surreal. Here she was, mine to touch and hold, but unlike my three sons I had not felt her grow inside me. I didn't feel her kick or hiccup. I didn't hear her heartbeat in the doctor's office. I didn't even go to the doctor's office! But, I knew at first glance she was my daughter sent to me from my Heavenly Father.

October is Down Syndrome Awareness month. On Facebook and through blogs I am friends with hundreds of families that have someone in their life with Ds. We will be celebrating our children throughout the month. Our children are not burdens to us.We love them unconditionally just like the rest of our children. What I have found through following these families around the world is that their lives, just like my family's, have been enhanced, enriched, and made stronger because they have someone with Ds in their life. Yes, we face challenges. Some of our children have severe medical problems, and families can face financial burdens. Our children are slower to learn some things and society can be very cruel. We face challenges putting our children in schools, finding them jobs, and just being accepted. But I have NEVER been around someone with Ds that hasn't lifted me up to a better place. I smile and am content when I am at a Ds event. The adults with Ds will honestly tell you the challenges they have faced and how their feelings have been hurt but they continue to push forward. They continue to care and love those around them, forgive those that have wronged them, and go on with life because that is what you do.

Lily has taken me way out of my box, changed me for the better, and is helping step up one rung at a time.

Walk A Mile - College Road

Alright, folks, I know this one is kinda long, but trust me - it's well worth it.  (For an explanation of the Walk a Mile series, click here.)  Nick is our guest writer today, and he's you're average college student - but not an average writer.  He's actually pretty brilliant.  Let's go for a walk...

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I hate alarm clocks. Seriously. Nothing is worse than being pulled from your seventh hour of sleep to realize that classes, tests, and that reading assignment you can “do later” but never got to are all that await you that day. Not to mention, it's cold. And not even daylight yet. I mean, seriously. Farmers aren't even up that early! Stupid alarm clock. Bane of my existence, I swear...

And so I call in my trusty side kick: the snooze button.

Half an hour later I literally leap out of bed, suddenly aware that class starts in fifteen minutes and that a shower is not realistic today. I move like the Flash trying to find a shirt and a pair of jeans that are clean enough to make it through a day that is already starting so well... Yeah...

A dash of deodorant, a quick tooth brushing, and a dash to my car and I think I'm going to make it. Ten minutes is more than enough time to go from the parking lot to class. But then, I hit morning traffic. But it’s not on the streets. Actually, traffic's moving pretty well there. The problem is in the parking lot. You see, the university has this funny habit of giving more parking passes than spots. So, like the other fifty cars south of campus, I begin circling the lot like a vulture, trying to be the first to spot an empty space, or to catch someone on their way back from class.

One person walks onto the lot, obviously heading to their car to leave. Half the cars jump into overdrive trying to get to him first, but some obnoxious freshman who just pulled into the parking lot lines up behind him, officially claiming him. Crap.

The funny part is that the kid in the car will just follow the walker. Moving slow, like a predator, but who doesn't know he's far from subtle. Sometimes, when someone follows me to my car to claim my space, I just weave through the aisles, throwing him off and making him panic a bit. Brightens my day. That's for sure.
But this morning, the parking lot is not going to work. I head back to the street, scanning the sides of the road for an open space. Finally, I find one. Three blocks from campus. So much for being on time. On my way, I pass lines of parking spaces simply unused, with large “A” signs guarding them from the students. The administration lots never get filled, and the spaces go to waste. Students resort to roaming the parking lots, and the circle of life continues.

After a brisk morning jog to campus, I'm sitting in American Humanities, laptop up, ready to get down to business. The professor starts out with his almost sad attempt to bond with youth, joking and trying to feel like one of us. Come on, man, you're embarrassing yourself. You teach humanities, for heaven's sake! Outside of an art museum, this class is pointless, so let's try to do this as painlessly as possible.

I've already got my own coping device up and ready. While humanities notes may be on the computer screen, just below that Facebook is whirring with the morning news. Between jotting down notes about Frank Lloyd Wright and whatever he built, I drop in to see what everyone's been up to since 1 am when I went to bed. Not much. A couple funny pics. A link to a music video on Youtube. And in the corner, the chat box is buzzing with a conversation with an old companion, who isn't paying attention in his own class. More girl trouble. Typical. You'd think he'd just learn not to care what they think. Yeah. That's going to happen.

Honestly, I don’t know why he’s trying so hard. Dating just leads to relationships, leads to marriage, kids, etc. Not that those things are bad, but they bring so many problems along with them. I mean, dating is really just an awkward dinner between two people who don’t really know why they’re there. And a relationship is a constant puzzle of trying to get what you need from someone who has no idea what that is. Marriage is just cementing that into place. And at a time like this, who wants to worry about that?

The professor walks by, and I quickly switch back to notes. He's got to know that we're online. I mean, if he's a professor he can't be that dumb. With the world at my fingertips, 19th century American art just can't compete.

A class discussion starts, and I tune in with one ear as I continue to chat with my old comp. A familiar voice start talking. Ugh. Not him again. Every class has a guy like this. And at my university, there's usually several. That one guy that feels the need to comment on everything. Just so he knows he's smart and important. Most of the time he gets done talking, not really having said anything. But in a college classroom, he sounded like a philosophical genius. Just wait until graduation day, buddy. The real world is going to tear you apart. But then again, I kind of feel bad for him. Any guy that wears slacks and a button up shirt to class must be trying to fill some kind of void in his life. But whatever. I can handle this guy for five minutes, three times a week.

Finally, class is over. I close Facebook, and my notes pop up. Yeah... not quite as elaborate as they should have been. Oh, well. It's only a GE course. Besides, with the study guide's help, I'll ace the test.

I head over to the student union building to grab a bite before my next class. Gotta love the breaks on campus. Perfect opportunities to catch up on homework. Or, to do absolutely nothing. But in public. I buy a pizza bagel for 75 cents, and throw in a chocolate milk for a buck fifty. Well, there's half of my daily food fund. Good thing there's left over pizza in the fridge!

The SU building is usually pretty busy in the day. But I like it that way. It makes me feel like part of a living, thriving system. Finding an empty spot on a couch out of the way I settle in with my breakfast and survey the people around me. A couple girls are sitting at a table, chatting and having a small bite to eat. My old comp comes to mind again. Poor guy just doesn't get girls. But then again, no one really does. We live in their natural habitat, watch them day to day, but they'll never make sense. Whatever.

To the left of them, an Asian student types away at his laptop, glancing now and then at a textbook. He's probably working on a paper that isn't even due for a week, in a class he's going to ace. I chuckle a little to myself. Stereotypes would stop being so funny if they weren't everywhere. I'd hate to see him drive.

On the other side, a young couple is sitting close, textbooks open and forgotten on the table. You can see it in their eyes, the flirtation, the guessing game over emotions playing back and forth. It seems so ridiculous, so pointless. But they eat it up.

A few more people sit studying, eating, texting. Going through the daily motions of college life. I take a bite of my pizza bagel and wash it down with a swig of chocolate milk. Mmm. Breakfast of the gods.

Turning to my backpack I pull out my latest book. No, not a textbook, though that's what I should probably be reading. This is my latest find from the fiction section of the bookstore. One I found during my regular study of the books. This one is pretty good. The writer knows what he's doing. I open to the page I saved and begin to read, completely falling away from the college world into a place I've never been.

I love reading. For me, that is. Not for my professors. I love being pulled into a story and exploring far off places and meeting dynamic and powerful characters. Really, this is where I want to end up. In stories. Yeah, I may be in school getting a degree to work in the real world, but that's not the end result. It's only a means to an end. I want to write. I want to create worlds and people that I love reading about. One day, I'll hold a freshly printed novel, and my name will be on the cover. That day will be a great day. Better than graduation day. That's for sure. I've even know the story I want to write first. It's been brewing in my mind for years. It still has some refining and polishing to go, but this is the one. The one I can't let go of.

I haven't written it yet. Not the bulk of it. I still have just a little bit more schooling to finish. And I don't mean schooling with classes and grades. Certainly not with alarm clocks. That's not where I learn to weave a masterful story. Rather than hearing it from professors, I learn the art from the masters. Back in my dorm room, books on writing by Terry Brooks, Orson Scott Card, Donald Maass, and John Truby line my shelves. These are the ones who know the art. They're the ones in the middle of it. Rather than spend my time in classes on campus learning to write, I learn from them. I learn from the painters, rather than the art teachers. And they're brilliant.

The hour passes faster than I expect, and I'm off to another class. This one slightly better than the last. This class happens to be in the basement of the building. Which means, unfortunately, no wi-fi, and no cell phone reception. Normally, that would be a problem. But seeing as I'm behind on my homework for my third class, I don't mind. I'll finish that instead.

I pull open the text book and work as I listen to the lecture. I still can't understand how these professors get away with the work load they hand out. Each one assigns ten to twenty pages of reading per class. That adds up when you have three or four classes a day. In reality, it's just not plausible.

They say that for every hour in class, you should spend two out of class working on the course material. In a three class day, that adds up to nine hours. And if you are like most students (i.e. poor) you have to work four hours a day just to keep the pizza bagels and chocolate milk on the table. So now we're up to thirteen hours. Add in travel time, meals, social time (which is, in fact, more of a necessity than you think), and sleep, and you're working off of a 26 hour day. Personally, I never went far enough with physics classes to learn to mess with the time-space continuum. Well, maybe I did. I might have been on Facebook during that part. Not sure.

When I started freshman year, I was told that there are four aspects of college life: Social, Grades, Money (work), and Sleep. However, you can only have three of the four. You have to leave one out. How's that for a conundrum? (Yeah, I said conundrum. In college you can say things like that and not get beat up.) Personally, I tend to go back and forth between losing sleep and skipping on the class readings. I just like fun and money too much.

Speaking of money, classes are finally over, and I'm off to work. I cross campus, nearly at a jog, trying to get to my car (which is, if you remember, three blocks away) and get to work in the next ten minutes.
Today, the gods of traffic smile upon me, and I make it in time to punch in right at one o'clock.

You know how they say that too much of a good thing is a bad thing? Well, I work in a world like that. The campus bakery is a utopia of cookies, brownies, cakes, and anything else packed with sugar. The smell alone is intoxicating. But when education week demands several hundred pans of chocolate mint brownies, you realize that the streets of confectionary heaven are paved by the slaves of a high-calorie underworld. We spend all day pumping out desserts for customers who believe that treats magically appear on the shelves, never once thinking about the massive undertaking it is to make that two-dollar brownie a possibility. Makes you wonder what else we take for granted.

Work is long, and by the end of the day, I know I won’t be paid what I should be. But I guess few people are. I walk out into the dark night, finishing off another round in a continuing cycle. I’m exhausted, but homework awaits. I park at my complex, but after I turn off the car, I decide I’d rather delay hitting the books and take a walk. It’s a nice night. Cool, but nice.

I wander up toward campus, hands buried in my sweatshirt and hood over my head. Traffic is slowing down, and life is turning from duty, to pleasure. The social world comes out and people get together to laugh and to have a life. I feel somewhat removed from it all tonight, and I don’t know that I’m disappointed by it. Sometimes it all seems so superficial. When you lay down at the end of the day, you don’t have any of that. All that’s left is the mark the day has left on you, and the world you make for yourself.

I pass campus and the lights become fewer as I reach the residential area of town. A little further is the park. I like it there. It’s darker, and it lets me think. Others are out walking tonight, too. One or two groups of friends hurrying to one or the other’s apartment. And a couple walking close, using one another for warmth. They pass me, starting their nightly rounds around town, braving the cold just to spend a little more time together.
People put so much effort into those things, into relationships, and just watching them, I know that they still need so much more than they’re getting. They go through each day, braving parking lots and mid-terms and papers and minimum wage work, just for those couple of freezing hours each night. They put up with inadequacy and insecurity, always trying to make sure they do everything just right so that this one can work. So that they can get their happy ending. But so many people don’t find it. They invest so much, just to end up feeling empty handed. It’s so messed up. But neither of them knows they need what they need. That’s the catch of it all. They’re pieces in a game they make themselves, and so often, no one wins.

Finally, I get to the park. A few people still dot the field, but most have gone home to escape the cold night. Above me, stars spill out endlessly, painting a velvet canvas with light. No moon tonight. It’s better that way. There’s a beauty in the isolation darkness brings. We have no one to communicate with but ourselves, and we tend to open up more, spilling our inner pieces before us, mirroring the stars.

As I walk to my favorite spot, I can feel that process beginning with me. I sit on the bench overlooking the field and the city, and the last of my guards and masks fall away. I see the constellations of my past take form, and younger days when I didn’t seem so jaded return. It’s almost funny to me, to be somewhat of a cynic, as young as I am. But sometimes the world doesn’t prove itself any better.

There’s movement to my right, down by the entrance to the park. Another couple walks into the park, a four-legged silhouette against the street lights. Another couple of pawns circling the game board. We all play the game. And we’re so unoriginal. We all pick the park.

My bench feels cold. The bench was my game board. It was here I rolled the dice. Here we took our turns. Here that I lost.

It’s a cruel game. A lavender scented self-torture. It’s sadistic, and desperate, and foolish.

But deep down, I can’t lie. I really miss playing.

Walk A Mile - Twins Are Taking Over

I don't know if anyone else has noticed, but in the real world, twins are kind of a novelty.  In Blog Land, however, it seems almost as though not having twins will put you in the minority.

It's a crazy world we live in.

So with that introduction, I present to you, Natalie.  I'll let her tell you her own story in her own words, but I have to say that even if she weren't my sister, I'd think her thoughts on parenting were pretty dead on anyhow.

(Oh, and if you still don't know what Walk A Mile is you can get the low-down by clicking here.)

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The twins were our first children and they were a huge surprise.  And when I say surprise, I mean we walked into my 20 week ultrasound, anxiously awaiting the news of “It’s a girl” or “It’s a boy”, only to be asked, “How do you feel about more than one baby?”  To say we were shocked is a gross understatement.

 

We were left with less than five months to adjust to this new idea before the babies arrived.  I wish I could say that I was immediately excited, but all I remember is being numb, then terrified, and then a feeling of overwhelming inadequacy that kept me awake more nights than my growing physical discomforts did. 

I was consumed with fear over all the complications that my now “high risk” pregnancy carried.  I agonized over whether or not I would have the ability to give each baby the attention they needed and deserved.  I worried about how we would afford all of the extra things we were sure to need.  But the strangest thing I went through was a sort of “mourning” period for what I would never have.  We would never be the little family of three – new parents who spend every waking moment doting over their little one.  Due to several factors, I had to have a cesarean section and – as strange as it may sound - I mourned the loss of a normal labor and delivery.  In short, I was a wreck. 

Then my beautiful boys were born perfectly healthy and all that worry melted away with the first kiss on their squishy pink cheeks.  That whole first year is pretty much a blur.  Sleepless nights with me and the babes in the rocking chair, all three crying our eyes out. Trying and trying again until I had mastered tandem breastfeeding.    Thousands upon thousands of diapers.  Figuring out the logistics of solo outings with two infants, so as not to feel like a prisoner in my own home.  Then feeling like a freak show every-single-time we left the house.   Two babies crawling and walking in opposite directions; two babies sick with pneumonia; two babies teething; two babies demanding our attention every single moment. 

But there were also amazing things that will forever stand out in my memory – two babies learning to smile and laugh; two babies asleep on my chest; two babies saying “Mama” for the first time.  Every hand clapping, shouting for joy, grab the video camera new development – doubled.   The day the boys discovered each other, giggled, and became instantly connected forever.  Watching my husband (who had previously held a baby all of three times) become a hands-on and fearless father.  We were exhausted, but we were making it. 

And then they turned two.  Most of you have children and understand or can imagine the trouble that can be caused by a two year old.  Now, quadruple that.  The stories I could tell about the twins’ toddler years thus far would probably send most of you running to your doctor and begging for some kind of permanent birth control.  Suffice it to say, two heads are indeed better than one and those devious little heads have pushed me beyond the limit that I thought possible to survive.  At the very least, I was convinced that a straight jacket and padded cell were in my future.  In fact, that began to sound like a very nice vacation.  

Four months ago, our third child was born.  When we found out – at six weeks this time – that it was just one baby, I was thrilled and thought “This is going to be SO easy.”   I had conveniently forgotten that I would also have a couple of two year olds at home when this baby was born.  Our daughter is precious and sweet and a very good baby.  Yes - having one baby is easier than having two.  My life at this point, however, certainly was not! 

When the twins were little, I was constantly getting comments like “Oh, I had a one year old and a newborn – that’s pretty much the same as having twins, or maybe worse.”  Nothing got my blood boiling faster than these comments.  Had these women ever had two newborns screaming at the same time, refusing to sleep at two a.m. or two babies miserable from teething at the same time?  No?  Then they should keep their mouth shut!    

When our daughter was born, however, my eyes were opened to those women’s lives.  I had three children under three.  I now understood the guilt that comes from your toddler desperately wanting your attention, while you are occupied with a cranky baby who needs to eat.  I understood the difficulty of young children at different stages that have very different needs and feeling as though you are being pulled in five directions at once.

I love all my children with my whole heart – they fill my life with joy and I would never change a thing.  But after much speculation, I’ve decided that when it comes to babies, toddlers, children, or teens and the amount of time between them, be it two minutes or six years – Nobody has it easy.   

 

Walk A Mile - Not The Mom, Just The Stork

Today we're taking a walk in the shoes of a surrogate mother.  Jill is an amazing woman, and I'm glad she's willing to share part of her story with all of us...  (And Jill, I hardly think that "just" the stork gives you the credit you deserve!)

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Hi. My name is Jill and you can find me over at Mormon Surrogate: http://mormonsurrogate.blogspot.com I am a gestational surrogate.  I carry babies for couples who can't get pregnant or carry on their own.  I am only a carrier, I do not use any of my genetic make up or, in other words, I am in no way related to the babies I carry.

I want to say what a blessing it is for me as a surrogate to be a part of something so amazing. Those moments stay with you forever.  When you get to see a couple become a family, it's a wonderful sight. When you are sincerely appreciated and thanked because you were the key to opening that door, it's an overwhelmingly awesome feeling! Your heart becomes so full. It's an uplifting experience. All I have to do is think about it and I smile. If you're lucky, you get a great set of intended parents who keep in touch beyond the pregnancy and birth.

With my first surrogacy I had a pretty good experience. Towards the end however, I felt I would be tossed aside. Now, there's nothing saying that either side has to keep in contact. It would be nice, but it's not mandatory. I knew that going into this. I didn't need the contact, I just hoped for it. But when she was born, I thought it would be, "Thank you very much, have a nice life.". "Goodbye".


It's been 4 years now and I still get e-mails, pictures, Christmas cards, etc. What really touched me was the Christmas card I got about a year and a half after she was born. They thanked me  again for everything I had done and were so grateful because without me they would not have their daughter. Because of their culture, I was  a secret to some. A lot of people didn't know they had a surrogate. Maybe that was part of the reason I thought I'd be "tossed aside". afterward. But I wasn't. They have become long distance friends. (none of my couples have lived close) I knew they were happy and grateful the day she was born, but I feel so special that they have chosen to keep in touch and that they still think of me. The mom actually said that every time she looks at her she thinks of me. Not because she looks like me. (I only contributed my uterus.)  She thinks of me because she wouldn't have her daughter if not for me. These are her words, not mine. I had no idea that I could feel so important, essential even. 


When S______ was born, it felt so natural to have her handed to her parents. I felt blessed to be the stork. I didn't want to feel left out, but I didn't want to impose on the parents bonding with their baby either. I didn't know how I would feel after she was born. Well she was born at about 4:00 AM, and I was happy and exhausted. She was my first natural birth and all I wanted to do was sleep. I was a 1st time surrogate and I wanted to do things right. She was not mine. The parents were set up in their own room in the hospital with her. My mom was there and my kids were there. They all got to hold her. My friend  (a surrogate too) even came to visit and got to hold her. I hadn't held her yet. My mom told me that S_____ wanted me to hold her before I left the hospital. I think it was about 10:00 PM when we went to their room to meet her and hold her. It didn't feel like I was holding the baby I had carried and delivered. It felt like I was holding my friend's baby and I was so happy for her and her husband. I had worried that I might get depressed after she was born, but I felt so uplifted. I felt overjoyed. I had never felt happier.




My 2nd set of IP's were wonderful. I just fell in love with them. I adored the mom and we emailed constantly.I got pregnant on the first try, but I sadly miscarried. They moved on and couldn't bear to try again. They had already been through so much. But they kept in touch. I'm so sad that I didn't get to see their dreams come true. My heart broke right along with them. But I'm so grateful to have had the opportunity to get to know such great people and to have shared such an intimate part of their lives.


My next IP's were great too. So nice and friendly. We all got along so well. They were very comfortable to be around, almost like old friends. The first embryo transfer failed, but we tried again and it was well worth it. We were not surprised to find out it was twins. I was so excited for them. Each surrogacy is different in it's own way. I felt pretty special to be a surrogate pregnant with twins. It wasn't the easiest pregnancy, but it was still very enjoyable. To feel two separate babies moving inside of me, it was absolutely amazing. For a while I couldn't tell them apart. But soon I knew that one was more quiet and calm and the other was the life of the party. I was so grateful to be a part of that experience. They have also kept in touch and I just feel honored.


You enjoy the surrogacy, you move on with your life and then you get reminders of the miracle(s) you were a part of. All of these parents have blessed me more than they know. My heart is so full. This is an e-mail I received close to Thanksgiving last year.


"Jill -


I wanted to drop a quick note and some pictures of Mr. H______ and Mr. O______. Of the many things I am thankful for in my life, these two delicious boys are near (at) the top of my list. They are such a joy and are doing so well. While I don’t think we have it all under control yet, things are slowly getting easier. At 7 months, (wow time has gone so fast), the boys do not require the minute-by-minute attention they used to. It is not always easy, but it is so satisfying. (The boys look serious in these photos, which is amazing, because they are giggling and smiling almost all the time.)


I thank Jill so much for helping us get these delicious monkeys and L_____ for helping bring it all about.


I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving and may God bless and protect you and your families.




Regards,


M_______ "


I was so touched and got a little choked up. This is above and beyond what I expected when I first wanted to be a surrogate in 2005. I have been blessed to be God's helper and those blessings just keep coming.


I am grateful to these families for choosing me to be their surrogate and for treating me like an angel.


As you can see, I can't really share names and faces and intimate details, but I'll share what I can.


1st surrogacy:

(I design t-shirts and other merchandise and these are some of my first designs)

I can share this one, since you can't really see S____'s face. That is my husband, my #1 support!

Twin surrogacy:

This was towards the end- I got even bigger than what you see! I swear I gained 10 pounds in the week I was in the hospital before they were born.


This was the day I checked into the hospital 32 weeks. They were born at 33 weeks.

You should see the pic of my belly on the operating table.

Well ok, here ya go:

I got permission to share a pic of me and the boys on another post, so I'm adding it here as well. I never did get a picture of me holding them both at the same time. That would have been so cool

Thanks for letting me share a glimpse into my world as a surrogate.

Walk A Mile - Back To School

If you don't know what Walk A Mile is, you can read this to catch up.

Back to school is one of the most exciting times of year for kids. New clothes, new crayons, new friends. It's back to school for more than just the kids though. Ever thought about a teacher's first day back?

I bring you Sarah, who is a teacher and blogger. Some of you may already be familiar with Sarah from her stories at Confessions of an Untenured Teacher. She cracks me up and is constantly giving her readers a look into the crazy life of a teacher. Here are her thoughts on back to school.

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Today marks my sixth First Day of School as a special education teacher.

I can still remember the very first day of my teaching career six years ago. I hardly slept a wink the night before, and I was SO nervous that morning, I seriously considered not even going at all. But I did show up, and I did my very best impression of a confident teacher.

On subsequent First Days, I became less nervous and more exhausted...

When you see your child's teacher on the first day, wearing their Sunday best with a welcoming smile on their face? You're only seeing the tip of the iceberg.

Most likely, we've just completed days (even weeks!) of professional development. We've sat in meetings and been informed of new requirements, new policies, new forms to fill out. We've teetered and tottered on ladders to hang up our bulletin boards. We've hashed out our discipline plans and our homework policies. We've labeled desks, cubbies, and supplies. We've already made a few hundred copies and suffered many paper cuts.

And like the kiddos, it can be difficult to adjust to the new school routine. Suddenly, after months of Doing Whatever the Heck I Want, I have to get up early! I have to wear shoes! I have to pack a lunch! I have to hold my pee!

I'm not a parent, but I imagine mommies everywhere mostly feel like this on the first day:

So there we are, smiling and exhausted, seeing YOUR children in their cute little back-to-school outfits. They're eager to see their friends, meet the teacher, find their classroom and their desk. They come to us from all sorts of different backgrounds: some have loving homes, some have broken homes, some have no home. Some are far above grade level, some are right where we'd expect them to be, and some have a lot of catching up to do.

They come to us with their hopes, their dreams, their fragile self-esteem. They look to us, their teachers, to show them what they need to know. They remind us of why we signed up for this job in the first place: to instill a life-long love of learning in every child. To be a positive and caring role model. To make a difference in their young lives.

It's completely overwhelming...

...and absolutely wonderful!

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Makes you want to thank a teacher, doesn't it?

Walk A Mile - Modern Dating

Good morning!  It's time again to walk a mile in the shoes of another.  To step into a stranger's life and take a look at the view.  

Today we'll be walking in Laura's shoes.  She's a witty, kooky college student, and she's stuck in that dreaded phase of dating and courtship.  (Raise your hand if you'd like to go back to that?)  


But dating in our day, (for those of us who have been out of the game for a while), was different than it is today.  Dating has changed in so many ways - texting, for one.  Anyone here ever been asked out via text message?  And how about location?  What kind of activity can be called a date?  I bet it's different now than it was ten or twenty years ago.  


Laura is bringing to our attention an issue that has been around for a while, but seems to be getting more complicated as time goes on.  Let's see what her thoughts are, shall we?....

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This is a mommy blog.  Can I assume you are all in the fantastic place that you are as a result of dating? How else does one get husbands and babies? Congratulations on your achievements!

As a 20 year old female college student, marriage and kids, and even dating, are not always my first concern, but these things are definitely held in mind as goals yet unconquered, so my hat is off to you! 

Dating  may be a required first step in the game, but it’s no secret - dating is NOT easy. In fact, to me, 'dating' and 'awkward' are not just synonymous, they are inseparable concepts in my mind. But there is one question in the world of courtship that I want to talk about in particular today.  Oh yes.  First came oppression and chivalry... Next came the feminist movement...  And now... that one eternal question... spanning the ages, still undefined... WHO SHOULD PAY ON A DATE?

As far as I can tell, there is little logic behind the thought process of men paying. I’d say most of my female peers say the guy can pay, because who wants to turn down free food? And the only explanation that I have come across for continuing the tradition is that it makes men feel “manly” to be allowed to pay, open doors, and generally enable helplessness in women.  

Ok, fine, I’m not here to bruise the male ego. If men want to provide, I think good for them! But this can be taken a little too far in my opinion. When polled on Facebook about the question, one friend of mine answered, and we had this exchange:

Me:  I say, why should the journey to find a potential mate be stacked in society as a necessarily (very) expensive thing for men, but a free-be for girls? What, to feed men's "egos" while trying to compensate for the pains of labor?!? Pish posh I say! Either way, go to a pumpkin farm, bake cookies, run around a field of daisies, do whatever horrifically cheesy thing you must do, but free, "creative" dates are a much better way to get to know someone.

Friend:  I didn't say the dates had to be expensive. It's a preview of married life and lets the man fulfill his role as provider. I say if they do it without complaint or expecting something in return, they harbor the maturity to see their role.

Me:  That's interesting... so how do women preview their role?

Friend:  Nurturing, submitting, being respectful, allowing the male to do what he needs to do without seeing it as oppression or chauvinism. At the same time, trying to keep him pure and not tempting him or feeling like she has to repay him in some physical way for his paying for the date.

Does that not send a chill down your spine??
 
Then my friend, Gracie, who is the most awesome 18 year old rocking New York state, said this:

“In my case, since Joe's a starving student and I have a well-paying job and no expenses, I tend to pay for dates; he tries, but I shout him down. When I want to take him out, we can do whatever - go to a restaurant or a movie. When he wants to take me out, he packs a picnic at midnight and we watch the stars, or we go to a free concert. We put in, overall, probably equal effort-- but he is a bit more mindful of what he does. We hit museums, architecture tours, and the beautiful, old cemeteries that are so abundant here in the east.”

Um, yes. Can we agree?

The few guys my age who weighed in were vague, (aka clueless), and so that area of thought for them is still cloaked in mystery for me, which I think is great symbolism.  

I got a few comments from middle aged folks, (aka people who went to high school in the 60s and 70s! Scary.), and I even started calling my grandparents and young cousins so I could have an across the board survey of age groups and gender. But I realized, for the very young and very old, dating is either a faint memory, or in the distant future, and therefore they have little to say.  

The general consensus overall seems to be that the one doing the asking does the paying. But what about after that? What do YOU think? Let’s get a debate going in the comments! Tell me about your memorable experiences, oh ye experienced!!

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I feel like I'm opening a flood gate here, and it's all I can do to keep my opinion quiet and give you all a chance to sound off, toss in your two cents, whatever.  So tell us what you think!  And don't forget to check out Laura's Etsy shop...it made me giggle!

Walk a Mile - The Life of an Army Wife

Welcome to our very first edition of Walk a mile! (If you don't know what Walk A Mile is, go here.) I know I told you we'd be talking about foster care today, but we had a little scheduling glitch, so we'll bump that one to next week. Today we're going to get a taste of military life from Maureen, who sent her husband off to fight for our country again this past June. I really can't imagine the sacrifice, but I am in awe of it. Here is just a little bit of Maureen's story...


The Silent Ranks
Author Unkown
I wear no uniforms, no blues or army greens
But I am in the Army in the ranks rarely seen. I have no rank upon my shoulders - salutes I do not give,
But the military world is the place where I live. I'm not in the chain of command, orders I do not get,
But my husband is the one who does, this I can not forget. I'm not the one who fires the weapon, who puts my life on the line, But my job is just as tough. I'm the one that's left behind. My husband is a patriot, a brave and prideful man, And the call to serve his country not all can understand.
Behind the lines I see the things needed to keep this country free,
My husband makes the sacrifice, but so do our kids and me.
I love the man I married, Soldiering is his life,
But I stand among the silent ranks known as the Army Wife.



Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be both single AND married? I never did, actually. And then I married into the military and I find myself with a foot in both worlds.

Now don’t misunderstand. I am very much married and very much in love with my husband. I don’t mean single in the “available” definition…I just mean that I’m the sole responsible adult in this house for the next 12 months.

These shirts aren’t just funny, they speak the truth. But with deprivation comes small freedoms. I don’t have to shave my legs if I don’t want to. And you’d better believe I don’t want to. Raggedy shirts and old PT shorts for pajamas because I can guarantee you that my 2 month old doesn’t care a bit what I’m wearing at night. Four pillows that are all for me! Right smack dab in the middle of our great big bed.

Of course I miss him terribly; desperately even. There are moments that I can’t breathe when I think of all that he has already missed and what he will miss in the next year, but I must (pardon the pun) soldier on. So let’s look at the other ‘perks’ of surviving a deployment, shall we?

We can have hot dogs or pizza or snacks for dinner every night. No steak and potatoes, no balanced meals served hot at 5pm! Not if we don’t want to, that is! Ok…so most nights we do have some veggies too, but the only tongues I have to please belong to me and my two year old. Doug isn’t a huge fan of breakfast for dinner…but you’d better believe that I am!

TLC, Lifetime, and Bravo, OH MY! There is no ESPN in this house. Enough said.

Less laundry. It’s amazing how much laundry one person can generate. Uniforms and workout clothes and casual clothes…they all add up! And have you ever tried to wash ACU’s? Probably not, but those things are one giant velcroed mess when they come out of the dryer. And not only is there less to do, but I don’t really have to put it away either. Yeah…I’m one of those people who just lives out of the laundry basket full of clean clothes. I don’t make the bed either.

Shopping. Shopping. Shopping. No more sneaking those Gymboree bags straight into Cooper’s closet! I can come right in the front door swinging them around my wrist if I want to. (For the record, Doug knows of my Gymboree obsession and it bothers him not…but there is a nice freedom in raiding that clearance rack a few more times than I normally would!)

And probably the best perk of all is the financial incentive. Among other things, we do not have federal income tax deducted from our paychecks. That’s quite a chunk of change! And we also receive monthly entitlements due to our being physically separated, and the fact that he is in danger of bodily harm. Any leave, (time off), he earns is also tax free when he redeems it. This fits quite nicely with the above shopping perk.

But on a more serious note, while this is the hardest thing I have EVER survived, (twice, the last one was 15 months in duration), it is also the most fulfilling. Our marriage has flourished under the stress and stretching that long separations bring. A favorite chaplain of ours says, “Deployments make good marriages better and bad marriages worse,” and we have found this to be true. I am a stronger woman, wife, and mother because of the service that OUR FAMILY gives for this country. When all you have is a phone call or an hour to chat online, (and those connections are spotty at best), you learn quickly that communication is the key to survival. Make the deployed spouse feel involved and necessary. Make the spouse left behind feel appreciated and loved, and not forgotten. Find a way to help the kids remember, (or come to know), their father, (or mother…women serve too). All of this takes work and deliberate thought and execution. Without going into detail, we went through some really rough stuff during our last deployment. I desperately needed my husband at home. To hold my hand, to give me a hug, to tell me it would be ok, to SHOW me that he loved me. And all we had was a daily phone call. Doug had to learn how to put non verbal support into words. I had to learn to accept what he could give and know that if he could change the circumstances, he would. And through all that, (and MUCH more), we were reunited as a stronger couple with a deeper appreciation for each other and the life we have been called to live.

Oh, I definitely have my moments where I curse the day we got this latest set of orders and cry and lose my temper/patience with my kids and feel jealous that Doug’s off on an adventure and I’m stuck with all the hard work, or resentful that his youngest son was a mere 2 weeks old when he left the house. Deployments definitely SUCK, but I can’t live in a constant state of anger and misery for the next 10 months, (we’ve already survived 2!). It’s just not healthy for any of us.

So, while I am counting down every day, hour, and minute until I see my love again…I am also excited to see how we grow during this time apart. I’m excited to teach my boys, (2 years and 2 months), about support and sacrifice and love of one’s country. To teach them that there is great reward in helping others. To model that we respect the leaders of this nation, (past and present), even when it comes at the expense of our family. To show them what true bravery is. It’s not picking up a rifle; it’s voluntarily walking away from your family to serve a greater purpose.

HOOAH!

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Maureen and I go way back to the days when we thought we had it all figured out - high school. She was a selfless, kind, and generous person even then, and she really hasn't changed in that way. She stands in the ranks of my long list of heroes, and my gratitude for her and her family is deep.

Maureen, thank you for giving us a peek into your life, and for letting us walk in your shoes. They're heavy!

Walk A Mile...

A few days ago, I alluded to the new feature which I'm introducing today.

Sometimes I find myself sitting in my car at a stoplight, waiting my turn to move on with my busy life, and I look over at the car next to me and see the driver. A stranger with a thousand stories. Every one of them looks different. And every time, I wonder. I wonder things like, What caused that sparkle in her eye? Where is he going? Where has he come from? What makes her look so lost? Who is this person?

Walk a Mile was born of that desire to step outside myself and learn something about another person's life. To walk a mile in their shoes. To understand things that I previously did not, to peek into a life different than my own, to see the struggles and triumphs of people I might pass on the street every day, to discover similarities between myself and others that I never knew possible, to experience humanity and life in a completely different way, if only for a minute.

Each Monday I will host a guest writer who will tell us a little bit about their life. We're going to meet some amazing people. Tomorrow, we'll get a glimpse into the world of Foster Care . In the weeks following, we'll meet an Army wife who's husband is on a year long deployment, a medical volunteer who makes trips to help the still struggling people of Haiti, a couple of young college students, and many others who will certainly have an effect on me, each in his own way. I hope they will for you, too.

And then, of course, I'll go back to my regularly scheduled sarcasm Tuesday through Saturday.

So grab a button from the sidebar if you like, and I'll see you back here tomorrow for our very first Walk a Mile experience!

Self Exploration # 12 - Today

I happen to be in that stage of life when everything seems exhausting and monotonous. I tell my kids the same things over and over, I clean up the same messes everyday, I pay the same bills and look at the same depressing ending balance on my bank account every month.

And everyone says that these are the best days of my life, and that I will realize that someday.

You know what? I want to appreciate it now, while I'm living it!

I get to read to my kids every night.

Tiny people still want to sit on my lap and give me slobbery kisses.

My husband still thinks I'm hot. (I give that one about another ten years.)

My parents are still around to laugh at my frustrations and give me sound advice.

I still have a chance to influence the lives of four little boys, who I hope will grow into honorable men.

These really are the best days of my life, and I am beginning to learn to cherish them, each one as it comes.

So your question for this week's self exploration is:

What things are making your life wonderful right now, whatever stage you're in?

Remember, you are always welcome to answer anonymously by checking the anonymous box in the comment form. You should also feel free to write your own blog post about this if you want to, but be sure to leave a link to it in a comment here so I can come read your thoughts!

Have a fulfilling week, everyone!

Self-Exploration #10 - Mary Poppins is delusional. Nobody's perfect.

Next week I'll be moving Self Exploration to Mondays. Because I can. If this is your first experience with self exploration, (and I mean the kind on my blog - not the literal kind), then you might want to read this one - it was the inaugural edition.

This weeks question is brought on by my experiences over the last 48 hours or so.

Every marriage has it's moments. You can't live with this quirk or that habit anymore, so you get frustrated. Then start either the snippy comments leading to an argument, or the silence which leads to a lot of thinking about what you ARE going to say when you start talking again.

The down side of this process is that you spend a lot of time thinking about how irritating your spouse can be, (childishly throwing balls into the ceiling fan until it breaks). You pick out all of their flaws, (chewing with his mouth open), and you feed them and water them, sing to them and give them plenty of sunlight, until those flaws have grown to prize-winning size and cast a shadow over all your cute, little imperfections.

Isn't that convenient?

So today, we're going to take a look in the relationship mirror. Your question is:

What little thing could you do to be a better spouse/significant other/cheesy best friend?

And for the love of marriage counselors everywhere, please answer anonymously.

And note that I said "little thing". I don't want to hear about how you borrow your wife's underwear and put it back without washing it. That is not a "little thing". That is something requiring professional help.

Self-Exploration #9 - Mommy Dearest

My incredible mom with Cameron the day he got his wolf badge at Cub Scouts

Flowers are nice and all, but my favorite Mother's Day gift is to not have to do my regular mommy duties. Does that strike anyone else as odd?

We set aside a special day to celebrate our mothers and motherhood and all we moms want to do is not be a mom for a day.

Weird, right?

We want someone else to make dinner, bring us breakfast, bathe the kids, etc...

And then on Monday we feel that big let-down of having to get back to our jobs.

I feel like we ought to celebrate the blessing of being mothers by performing our usual tasks with added gusto, flair and JOY!

But I don't. I want my husband on 24 hour diaper duty, just like all the rest of you.

It took my husband one year to figure out what Mother's Day is supposed to be like. Our first child was born near the end of April and so when my big day came around I was expecting a nice day of family time and relief from dish duty. Nothing more.

Mother's Day dawned bright and sunny and I was up with Cameron pretty early, getting him changed and fed. As the morning wore on, I began to get a little irritated that Andrew was still in bed.

By noon I was livid.

By one o'clock I hoped he had died in bed.

He emerged from the bedroom at two in the afternoon and turned on ESPN.

He got the silent treatment because I was afraid to open my mouth and unleash the wrath that had built up over the last several hours.

Later he made dinner, but there was nothing he could do to make up for the foul he had committed. It remains to this day something that evokes shame and dishonor whenever it's mentioned, ranking right above the time he watched the fishing channel and ate souvlaki in front of me when I was in labor.

Since that first notorious Mother's Day, Andrew has been a saint. He wakes up with the kids, takes care of them, threatens their lives if they wake me up from my nap, and does all the cooking, cleaning and diaper changing.

Unfortunately, my kids were too easy on Andrew until two years ago. No one ever woke up before ten and they saved their bowel movements for Monday. It's not normal. They are always awake by seven and have very regular digestive systems involving at least one poop a day. Unless it's Mother's Day.

So two years ago, I had had enough and insisted on feeding Drew Mexican food for dinner, including guacamole, and putting them all to bed an hour early.

It worked.

And I am happy.

And now, down to business.

In honor of this Mother's Day, tell me what quality, trait or characteristic you admire in your mother and how you'd most like to be like her.

Answering anonymously is always fine, if you'd prefer. But then we'll all just assume it's because you have nothing nice to say about your mom, whoever you are. I can't wait!