Evidence of Joy

I don't think I've ever embedding a viral video on this site before. Hell. I don't even mention them. I watch them, though. And this one rocked my world in such a good way.

The guy's name is Matt Harding. He's a goofball. He's the "star" of the following video. It basically shows him dancing in various places all around the world. Something fantastic happens, something that wrapped my spirit in joy, something that leaves me with happy tears sliding down my cheeks every single time. I can't pinpoint where in the video my heart overflows, but it's definitely there.

Chris had this to say about it, "Neat. It makes you feel like maybe there is a chance. Maybe the world isn't going to hell in a handbasket." Okay. I paraphrased.

You can read more about Matt Harding and why and how he made this video by going to his site. I found out about this video from a post on ParentDish. If you watch the video, please watch at least two minutes of it. The video takes a little bit to get into the good stuff. There's no talking, just some music over a slideshow. But what a slideshow!


Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

The Universe is Heavy Tonight

It might be the dull layer of chest cold that is hovering over me. It might be the oppressive humidity that sticks to your skin like watermelon juice. It might be the melodramatic, beautiful music I'm listening to on iTunes (Damien Rice). The mania of a little boy discovering the sprinkler for the first time this summer has mellowed into a quiet heaviness.

Nothing is ever really easy. You know the saying that goes something like, "True love shouldn't be hard"? I've never bought that. If your relationship is so easy that it never feels like an effort, you are incredibly special. I've never had an "easy" relationship because of this dang monologue that is always going on in my head. This absolutely singular "me" that remains nestled under the mommy-ness and the wife-ness sometimes tries to briefly forget the happy commitments that make my life secure.

My life is not in turmoil. My marriage is solid. We appreciate each other every day, I express my gratitude for his awesomeness every day. I revel in his adoration like settling into a warm, cozy featherbed on a winter's night.

Still, the universe is heavy tonight.

Let's lift the mood a bit. We started Anna on a course of gentian violet last night. That awful purple/blue dye that stains everything. The nystatin is a pain in the butt. I'm a dedicated, attentive mother, but I have a hard time remembering to give her a dose four times a day for two weeks. So instead of going through another course of the sticky goo, I decided I'd rather deal with the Purple Monster for four days. It's cute.

Anna is doing well in her new sleeping area in the dining room. She seems comfortable in there, and she's been sleeping soundly. She still wakes every couple of hours, but she's able to fall back asleep with some butt pats from Chris. Last night, she had a harder time getting to sleep after our night feeding, but I think that was an anomoly in our new system and was probably due to the humidity.

I was playing laptop games in the dining room tonight after I put Anna down. She wasn't sound asleep yet, and it seemed to comfort her that she could see me nearby as she drifted off. Ben came into the room a couple of times to see me. On the third time, he noticed Anna sleeping in the crib.

"Shhhh," he whispered to me with wide eyes.

With a smile, he started pushing his little chair over to the crib so he could climb up and peek in at her. It was a charming idea, but very detrimental to the continuity of Anna's sleep, so I stopped him, but I was delighted. "Shhh." He's never said that before.

When the weather cools off this weekend, Chris and I are going for a marathon stroller walk. He borrowed some discman speakers from a friend, and we're going to listen to an audiobook as we walk. We're hoping it will be good incentive to walk longer than we normally do, and to walk more often to hear the story. Our first trek will be three miles.

mamaHow: New Eyes

It's like a wikiHow, but from me. When I mentioned that I had learned how to forgive and move on from difficult incidents in my past, you said it might be valuable to share how I found forgiveness. I'll try to explain.

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes." --Marcel Proust

That magical afternoon in college when I was able to lose the emotional connection to my past's traumas was also the day I was able to forgive those who harmed me.

For those who are still clinging to victimhood and those who are still caught up in the throes of anxiety and grief may not be able to understand. It really took those Proust "new eyes" to find a way to forgive.

When I realized, deeply realized, that what happened to me was just a moment in time, a piece of a puzzle, that it was forever in the past, that I didn't have to "honor" the memory of the trauma, that I didn't have to carry that with me anymore, I also discovered that my bitterness and anxiety towards those who harmed me wasn't necessary.

There is a special freedom in forgiveness, because being unable to forgive is a heavy chain tying you to the pain of your past. When I released the trauma-pain from my heart and body, the heavy chain had nothing to hold onto, and it dropped away.

What happened to me was done. Not just over — it was done. While I don't have to trust those bad people, I don't have to chain them to my heart anymore with unforgiveness, because that's exactly what happens when you don't let it go. You carry them around with you, everyday. Who wants that?

If there's someone or something you need to forgive, I recommend a ceremony. I remember a quiet afternoon when I wrote down the names of people and the situations I wanted to let go of on separate pieces of paper. Then I drove to a nearby river and went to work. I read the papers one last time, then I folded each into a paper boat. For every one, as I dropped them into the water, I repeated, "The past has no hold on me. It is done." Plop, plop. The boats floated away, out of sight.

Later on, when thoughts of bitterness and anger would encroach on my peaceful heart, I would remind myself that I let that go. They aren't with me anymore.

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes."
--Marcel Proust

I am not a different person. I haven't moved away. I'm still here. I did not have a choice when bad things happened to me, but I absolutely have a choice on whether or not I'm going to carry that pain along with me for the rest of my life.

PS. Panic attacks are real. Experiencing trauma that nobody should ever have to live through has real effects. It fractures your psyche. I find that the greatest healers include the laughter and love of children, the acts of kindness and gracious servitude, and the acknowledgment of the durability of the soul. Some people find faith to be a necessary component to healing, others find anti-depressants to be helpful, still others use a combination of everything. I think I fall into that last category.

The Essence

Last week I tried to explain my desire to be a mother to a friend who just buried her father who committed suicide. She was angry and grieving, and she reiterated her intent not to ever have children, because she didn't want to bring another life into her messed up family.

I don't think that motherhood is necessary to every woman, and I try to never attempt to talk someone out of saying they don't want children. I only know why I wanted to be a mother.

My mom was a stay-at-home mom for most of my childhood, but more importantly, her whole heart and being was wrapped up in her children. (For the record, I think that's still possible if a woman works outside the home. They aren't related.) I saw how she loved us and how she thrived off of our returned affection. Other than her faith, we were "it" for her. Her life. Her essence.

I guess part of me just assumed that was what life was about, giving your heart over to your children. I never expected or planned for any other life, so when K said she didn't want children, I couldn't understand, but at least I knew I couldn't understand.

I offered my perspective, and it was interesting for me to frankly think about what I've chosen for my life. Here it is:

My whole reason for being on this planet is to learn how to love better, to experience and live grace and kindness, to live wholly and honestly as much as I am able. By having children, I've brought more opportunities for growth and learning into my life. Through them and the experiences they will have, I'm exposing myself to more trials and tribulations, more joys and successes. I'll learn how to love them fully, and they'll bring people into my life who I will learn how to love as well. I will learn new facets of love through them and with them, and since that's what I imagine life is all about, they are critical to that purpose.

I know life can be lived and lived well without children. It just feels "right" that my path is one with kids. I have no way of knowing if K is meant for children as well, but I do know that it is well within her power to raise children without repeating the mistakes of her parents. Just like I am not fettered to the mistakes of my past, she is not bound to the mistakes of hers.

I bought and read The Shack by William Young yesterday. It was an intense, illuminating experience, and the message reinforced many of the conclusions I had come to on my own. One of them is about forgiveness and moving on.

Early in my life, I experienced some trauma that left me twisted and scarred. It distorted my views on sensuality and who my body belonged to. It fractured my thinking, and I was left incomplete and broken. One afternoon in college, I experienced a relief and healing from that inner hell.

What happened is mine, and I'm not sure I'll ever blog about the details, but I will describe the result. In my mind, I encapsulated all the hurt and violence and trauma I had lived through, and I pulled it from my body. I replaced the resulting emptiness with quiet and peace. Then I took the bottled up hurt and made it a bubble, and I let it float away from me. It popped, and the contents spilled into the atmosphere, instantly diluting and becoming insignificant and just another particle of life's experience, just another molecule in the air. It had no more importance for me than a remembered road trip or a parakeet's name.

The freedom was full and exhilarating, and it's lasted. I found forgiveness and understanding. Everything that came before is gone, and what matters is what I do with my life now.

What I do with my life now is love my children, my husband, and my family. I love my life and the possibilities it holds. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I know that I'll try to live it fully, with peace and joy and humility. I wasn't given a second chance and I wasn't reborn; I simply did what we all have the opportunity to do, begin the new day with acknowledged purpose and grace.

It's Like A Spinach Lasagna Toss

I threw together an awesome vegetarian skillet dish tonight called a spinach lasagna toss. Starting with finely chopped onions, adding in garlic, halved grape tomatoes, chopped mushrooms, frozen spinach, a little sauce, then strips of cooked lasagna noodles, folded all together, served with a dusting of parmesan cheese and a great big dollop of ricotta cheese.

It was heaven on my plate. We blended some up for Anna, and she thought it was awful.

My post for tonight is something like my lasagna toss. A whole bunch of stuff that would be kind of boring on its own, thrown together, maybe it might turn out okay.

The thing is, I don't feel like I have a lot to blog about nowadays. It's sad. I'm interacting more with the public more than ever, but I feel small and insignificant, and it's harder and harder for me to notice bloggable moments.

What I do have is a bunch of cute pictures of my kids. Instead of just giving you a post with just those, I figured I'd insert the pictures into random spots in this monologue.

Last week, I went to my first group meeting where we actually got stuff accomplished, and it didn't feel strained or awkward, like a bunch of people sitting around trying to brainstorm. It was synergy. It happened. It felt ... thrilling.

It was a Citizen Wausau editorial board meeting. In the course of an hour and fifteen minutes, we talked through several issues, came up with many new ideas, and we probably did what might have taken us months to accomplish. I am proud to have been a part of that meeting.

That's the thing. I don't feel like a lead weight with this group. I feel like I'm a part of it, like what I say matters, like it's natural. Walking away from the meetings, I feel taller, and my heart is quiet. My brain feels ordered and like a well-oiled gear set.

Another aspect of my life that I'm trying to figure out is Dino. He's one of the co-founders of Citizen Wausau, and he's a puzzle, at least in regards to how he fits. He's so open and honest and without filter. He calls it living out loud, feeling out loud, and it took a little to get used to. At first I thought he was just crazy, rather bipolar. Now? Eh. Who knows.

Honestly? I've spent more time than I'd care to admit chatting with him. Not because he's odd, but because I'm married. I'm not sure how this works, this friendship with a man who isn't my husband. The only reason I haven't put the old kibosh on it is that there isn't a lot of sexual tension, though heaven knows I'm stimulated by this man. Mentally.

He is so intensely interesting to talk to. Sometimes, he reminds me so much of Mitch, my brother. They have the same insanely curious minds, absorbing as much information, as many experiences as possible. He's fascinating, with the breadth of his wide-reaching world. A giant personality, a huge ego, tempered by self-deprecating humor and sometimes shy humility.

So this "puzzle." It's fun, though with all the interesting people he knows, I can't figure out why he's spent so much time talking to me. Me. ME. Happily, I seem to be confused enough by the presence of another man in my life, that I've been overcompensating with Chris, and our marriage is nicer. That's sweet; we needed the boost.

Working again, even part-time, changes things with us. The balance of chores has changed, and we fight often and hard about stupid things like whose turn it is to hold Anna in the evenings or why I haven't put the laundry away yet. Because I'm proofing again (and rating a paycheck), the other stuff I do, like blog and write and do stupid word games on Facebook, not to mention quilt, isn't worth as much anymore.

When can I do it? In the evenings when Chris is home to hold Anna and run interference with Ben. And then I'm neglecting the kids, regardless of whether I'd been working that day or at home. I know. Stupid stuff. We're figuring out ways to appreciate each other more, and finding little romantic ways to touch base every once in a while.

The thing I can't blog about? My recovery from rectocele surgery. It's been a few weeks since I was eight weeks post-op, when everything should be back to normal. It's not. Right now, I'm using the fact that I'm breastfeeding and not producing a lot of estrogen to explain our "problem." I'm investing a great deal of hope in the idea that when I eventually wean Anna, my body will work again, but right now, I seem to be falling into the sixty percent of surgery patients who have problems with painful "relations" after surgery because of scar tissue.

It's sad that when I'm daydreaming and nightmaring about being accosted by a group of dangerous men with nefarious intentions when I'm alone with the kids somewhere or alone in an abandoned cubicle farm with my red pens, I'm less frightened of the emotional scarring than I am of the physical pain that would happen. When I was younger, I used to wonder if I could talk a potential rapist out of assaulting me if I told him I had my period, if I had a tampon in. Why would he want to deal with that? Right? He'd just leave me alone. That's what this feels like, but the problem is less obvious to anyone else.

Anyway. We'll figure something out. We're hoping it's not a permanent situation.

Coming up in the Life of Cheryl will be the slow installation of more ceiling fans throughout the house. I used to hate ceiling fans because I felt they were horrible for chi and for the decor. Then I grew up and realized that they are incredibly smart little machines.

We have one in our living room, and it's brilliant. We'll be eventually buying one for our bedroom, our kitchen, Ben's room and probably even our dining room. I'm hoping it'll make a big difference in our lives this summer, especially in the rooms where we can't install a window A/C unit.

And that brings me to bedtime, folks. It's been lovely chatting with you about all this stuff. I hope you have a wonderful day.

The Comfort Zone

First things first. Have to get this off of my chest.

I love you period.
Do you love me question mark?
Please please exclamation point!
(I wanna hold you in parentheses)

I've had that frickin' song going through my head for a week now.

Last week, Liz from This Full House honored me with a Perfect Post award. "I'm not worthy" doesn't begin to describe how I feel about that. When I read her email to me and then her post about my post (Qwillerage: Waves), I cried. I felt like I could climb Mount Everest, I felt popular, I felt like Super Woman.

Perhaps it was that huge ego boost that prompted me to email this guy about an email I had written him expressing interest in being a part of something. How's that for a coherent sentence? Sorry. The point is, I put myself out there. I expanded my horizons. I cracked my shell open a bit. I poked a toe out of my comfort zone.

I've agreed to be on the editorial board of Citizen Wausau, a local website/blog that melds together the concepts of a town hall meeting, a grassroots rally and some good, old-fashioned joe-on-the-street journalism. I'll be doing some proofreading and some *gasp* writing. Holy crap.

Tonight was the first meeting of the brand-spankin' new board. It was fun. Kind of like a crazy volley of very sarcastic, funny people with an overlay of actual, productive discussion. I was nervous as all hell, but I survived, and I contributed to the discussion.

The thing is, it's a good fit for me. I have some spare time, I'm online almost all day long, I was a proofreader for 4 years, I completed a major in journalism, and I am very fond of the community where I live.

Leading up to the meeting, I felt intimidated and scared of everything about it -- meeting new people, claiming to know how to write, actually committing to something that would take my time away from my kids. After the meeting, I don't exactly feel like Super Woman, but I definitely feel intrigued and hopeful about the whole idea.

At the very least, I had an excuse to take a shower and put on very little makeup (see pic above). When I look at the picture, however, all I see is the disproportionate size of my breasts. Thanks, Anna, for preferring my right one and totally ruining my awesome lady-ness, or at least distracting from the perfection that is my shrinking body. Seriously, it's at least a cup and a half bigger.

More Mama Mama Mama

Ben's language skills are exploding. He's trying out at least two new words a day. Yesterday was "orange" and "girl." He's also startling babbling more. Rather than just going through the day with the occasional shout and holler, he's carrying on conversations with us in a nice, polite tone with sounds that aren't quite words for the most part, though we catch a "truck" and a "baby" and a "crash" every once in a while.

He absolutely NEEDS one-on-one time right now. I'm okay with that. I see the benefit. I've been spending more time in bed, and Anna is becoming more animated, so Ben needs to reassert his place in the family. So we're reading him more stories, coloring with him, playing with him in his choo-choo world.

But one thing that is totally grinding on my last nerve is how often is says, "Mama," to get my attention. When he's showing me something, he says Mama at least 20 times before he's done with the show-and-tell. Every time I look away, I hear "mama mama mama mama" to call me back to him.

Yes, this is normal and precious and charming. It's also repetitive and annoying. I'm trying to hide my frustration from him, and I usually respond with loving words like, "Yes, Ben darling? What would you like to show Mama now?" or "Yes, dear child of mine, that choo-choo went down the hill and crashed!"

One moment, he's startling us by saying his own name for the first time, something he's previously refused to attempt. When he did this, I squeezed him hard and laughed with delight until I cried. The next moment, I'm praying for some silence and some respite from the constant babbling. I think if I were able to get out of the house and go for a walk and get some fresh air, I would be more tolerant, but this cozy house of mine is starting to feel like a terrarium for exotically stitched-up mamas on display at the freakazoid zoo.

But really, there's nothing more precious than Ben at this age. Even I, the annoyed one, can see that. I'm going to blink for too long, and he'll be a glum and sullen teenager who won't say anything to me at all. So I'm forcing myself to stop and relax and enjoy him in all his glory.

Dreaming in a Foreign Language

KS once told me that weight loss got easier once she stopped thinking of exercise as a chore and started thinking of it as "me time."

About a week before my surgery, the weather finally started to catch up with the calendar, and spring came to Wausau. With temperatures soaring into the 40s and the 50s, I started getting the urge to open all the windows and air out our stale house. I'd sit here on the couch between projects, and I'd watch Ben listlessly playing with his cars and his choo-choos. Guilt would start picking at the edges of my consciousness.

So one afternoon, about ten minutes before Chris was scheduled to head home from work on his bike, I got the kids bundled up into the double stroller (there was also an incident involving Anna falling face down off the dining room table/we needed some air) and we headed down the sidewalk to meet Chris.

It was a brisk 5-minute walk before I had to scream across the street at Chris to get him to notice us. Dang headphones. Once we were back home, I felt invigorated and refreshed. During the next few days, we went out for walks each day. Sometimes for only 20 minutes, sometimes for a whole hour. It was lovely. My body felt good to me. I had energy and vim and vigor.

Then I let the surgery happen. Then I had to S.T.O.P. and breathe deeply and stop moving around. I had to stop moving this new body of mine and start resting and healing. It's driving me nuts.

A few days after the V-Jay Massacre, I woke up from a night of fitful dreams and multitude Anna wakings. I stayed in bed, thinking over all the dreams I had. It dawned on me: every dream that I remembered involved exercising.

One segment of the dream was just me listening to my workout CD while kicking my ass on the elliptical at the Y for 45 minutes (which is nuts because I never stay on the thing longer than 25 minutes). Another dream had me pushing the 50-pound stroller up every single hill in my neighborhood, walking the circuit to the local tech college, down another mile or two to the park, and then back home. Then there was the one where I woke at 5:15, tied on my sneakers and went jogging before dawn and before Chris woke up.

My body misses movement. I'm craving it. I'm totally jonesing for the sweet ache of my lungs when my heart rate gets too high. I'm missing the gross sweat that starts to drip down my neck from under the thick pile of hair during a good cardio burst.

It's taken me many years to finally kick my ass and do a 180 with my health and my body. Since the beginning of January, I've taught myself a new language, totally foreign to my old way of living. I know about calories and omega-3s and carbs and good proteins and fiber and intervals and heart rates and pride and the glory of success. I taught my body a new language as well, and now I'm dreaming in that language because I'm not able to speak it right now.


Where else am I this week? Well, A Box Of Chocolates is having a neat discourse on the Mommy Wars with contest-y love, and I've been loading my blog reader with almost a dozen more blogs, and I'm feeling a bit burned out from getting to know all these new, wonderful ladies. Oh. And I'm healing and enjoying Anna's beautiful giggle and Ben's hilarious roar and chuckle.

Change Alone is Eternal, Perpetual, Immortal

Monday afternoon, when I was feeling sorry for myself and eating too many delicious spicy oatmeal raisin cookies, a lady in HR from my former place of employment called me to offer me a job. I accepted with alacrity.

I knew I'd be getting this call. I've known since late January, I think. It helps to still be BFF with your old boss. (Hi KS!) She keeps me informed of the tide changes and rumors.

You see, she's having a baby at the end of May. Her daughter will be born, and KS will be on maternity leave. She and her boss figured that instead of hiring someone off the street to temp full-time, they could hire me part-time, and I'd be far more effective since I'm actually trained to proofread. In the past, our proofreading temps have ended up doing the grunt work for other areas to free up other associates to help with proofing. But even the other associates couldn't really proof.

So for 8-10 weeks, I'll be going to work again on Wednesdays and Fridays.

When KS asked if I'd be interested, I said yes immediately and regretted it but didn't take back my "yes." Other the last month that this has been simmering on my mental back burner, I've come up with a lorry load of reasons not to go back to work.

The highlights of the "Don't do it!" list:

* We'll have to pay for childcare for some of the days, and that defeats the purpose of me working.
* I'll miss the children.
* The children will miss me.
* I'll have less time with my family since Chris is hoping to take a class this summer as well.
* My breast pump will be in Green Bay with my SIL. I don't want to wean Anna so soon, and it would be hard to keep up my supply if I only nursed her once during the day on my lunch break.
* There have been lots of organizational changes at my old job, and it would take me a while to adjust.
* Do I really want to go back to all that drama?
* I'm having surgery in April.

Some of those things can't be helped, like the homesickness and the drama, but I did make another list of "Solutions and reasons to do it."

* My mom will come down for some of the Wednesdays to watch the children.
* The other four floating hours can be in the evenings or on the weekend if I want.
* Chris doesn't work Fridays, so childcare won't be an issue on those days.
* I miss proofreading.
* We can rent a breast pump for a couple of months.
* I liked working there, and I miss my co-workers.
* It'll be good for me to have to talk to adults again.
* Did I mention the extra money will be wonderful? We'll get to go into the fall without any credit card debt, and that's wonderful.
* I wouldn't be starting until seven weeks after my VJ surgery, and that should be plenty of time to heal.

So I'm doing it. And I'll love it. And it's only temporary. And I'll really appreciate my children again when I'm done.

Hugging Tighter Today

Ever have one of those dreams that disturbs you so much, it still lingers with you throughout the morning?

Around midnight last night, I had a dream that someone kidnapped Anna. I knew who had done it, but I couldn't prove it, and she wouldn't tell me where she had brought Anna. I was hysterical. The dream's span only lasted a day, but it was a very emotional day full of panic, dread and grief.

The main things running through my head: "What if Anna starts one of her fuss fests, and they treat her badly? We're her parents, so we treat her with love and understanding. They might shake her or hurt her." "I'm a nursing mother. Anna needs me, and I need her."

Just the idea of little Anna lying in a strange house, looking for familiar faces and finding none, looking for mama's breast and finding nothing, looking for ME and not finding my loving, gentle arms. Man. It tore me apart.

Something I said to this woman obviously broke through, because when I went home later, Anna was in a strange car seat on the ottoman. I lifted her out and carefully examined her strong, solid little body for signs of trauma and found none. Then I held her close to me, stroking her body and kissing her fingers and toes and nose, sobbing with relief.

I had a few other dreams after that, but none that settled so deeply in my heart, and when I woke this morning and fed Anna, I wept. It's amazing that this time last year, she was just a cluster of cells, making their way to my uterus to implant and continue growing into a baby. And now she's this whole new person, all soft skin, sparkling smile and gorgeous blue eyes, squished toes and chubby wrists, stuffy nose and pink cheeks. And she is so permanently etched in my heart.

Chris reminded me that I had similar dreams about Ben after he was born. I think it's safe to say that I need my children as much as they need me. Even though Anna screams and fusses and Ben whines and freaks out over nothing, I love both of them with a fierce dependency. They are each such an integral part of who I am now. And I know I'll be giving a lot of extra hugs and kisses today. What blessings.

The Promised Couch Post

Almost every evening, we watch Still Standing on the CW. It's not the greatest show, but we get kind of bored with the news. Anyway. Last night I heard the best line that I had to share:

Kid: Mom, you got the wrong kind of peanut butter.
Mom: Oh... you mean the kind that causes ungrateful whining?

I laughed out loud.

-----
I remember when I bought my first grown-up, non-twin bed a few years ago. I felt so adult, so grown. The next piece of furniture that I picked out was our entertainment console. I kind of don't feel that counts since it was the kind that comes in a box and you have to put together.

Everything else in my house is something that other people had or purchased for us. Until one day, when my mom and I poked our heads into a used furniture store, I found a couch set I loved. I wasn't there for couches, but a new couch had been in the back of my mind since we bought our house.

Then over the next 48 hours, I kept thinking about those couches. I finally mentioned it to Chris, who was surprised that I had been thinking about couches for two days straight. He reminded me that it's how I decided that we should buy a house... just something that kept digging at me for weeks even though it wasn't supposed to be on our radar.

So we went together a couple weeks later to the store and he decided he didn't like the couches I had picked out. Instead, he found another set that I ended up liking better. And the store offered layaway, so we made a two hundred dollar deposit, and we knew that by Christmas, we would be couch owners.

We made the final payment last week, and a friend of our helped transport them. I'm in love with my couches. It's so wonderful to be sitting on the couch nursing Anna, and Ben comes up and sits next to me and nestles in next to me to watch TV. Is it wrong that I feel more complete by buying couches?

This is the couch where Chris did most of his recuperating over the weekend. He's feeling terrific, by the way. A little sore if he's been on his feet for a while, but he actually went into work yesterday. He's doing much better than I expected, since he has a tendency towards moaning and groaning. :)

The spot with the green bed pillow is my home base. I blog there, I nurse there, I drink coffee there. It's Cheryl's zone.

Having the couches has meant that I will no longer allow us to eat in front of the TV. "Don't you dare spill that on my new couch; go sit at the dining room table." So really, our investment has improved our lives in many ways.

Today, besides folding four loads of laundry, I will be making a batch of mini sugar cookies and possibly get started on those cheesecake cups I promised Chris. Or maybe I'll be stuck on the couch with Anna who seems to be teething at the ripe old age of two months. (Inconsolable crying and she screams when I rubbed her gums "just to check"). The only way I was able to pick up this morning and take these pictures was to wear her in the Bjorn.

Let It Snow

No matter where you are, you probably know about the snow storm that hit the Midwest this weekend. We got smacked with the more gentle aspects of the snow. We received eight inches of snow and almost half an inch of freezing rain. Luckily, we skipped the whole "ice storm" scenario and were instead given a winter wonderland.

Our economy here in Wausau, Wisconsin is not dependent on the snow, though we do have a ski hill (they can make their own snow). My parents live in a "tourist town" that is reliant on getting snow before Christmas, however. The past few years, they haven't, and it's made a difference. I'm hoping this foot of snow will open up the snowmobile trails soon.

That's just one reason I'm not that upset about the snow. Another is I think it's pretty. And pretty things make me happy.

I was also looking forward to getting some exercise, and what could be better than shoveling eight inches of heavy, rain-soaked snow? Not much. I huffed and I puffed and I shoveled that darn sidewalk.

I wasn't with Ben and Chris went they went outside this afternoon. Chris had a cute tale to tell, though. On his own, without any instruction, our son gathered some snow into a ball and threw it. That's something I had to teach my Tucson-native husband how to do when he moved here. Ben knew instinctively what all that fluffy cold stuff was for. Snowball fights.

Isn't it lovely?

*******

On a more solemn note, our family joins my sister as we all grieve the loss of her pregnancy. It's not my story, so I'm not going to tell it. I'll just say that I'm very sad, and my heart is with my sister and her husband. I've been counting my blessings all weekend long.

Don't Look, I'm Naked!

There's a funny tradition in my family that started years ago with my sister. When we are making the toweled run from the bathroom to our bedroom, we yell, "Don't look!" Of course, if you hear that, you automatically look.

I've blogged for over a year now. It's not like I was purposely keeping it a secret, it just didn't seem like anybody would be interested. Chris has never peeked, though I told him he could. He just doesn't care, so I didn't think others would.

When I was in the hospital with Anna in my belly while they were shooting me up with lots of drugs to keep her there, my mom was there for a bit to keep me company. I started blabbing, and I told her I had a blog. I didn't tell her what it was called or how to find it, but I told her.

When I was hungover from the drugs, I realized what I had done. Over the next few weeks, I started feeling a little more like telling others in my family about my blog. It certainly would be an easy way to show them pictures of the kids and to keep them up to date on what's going on in our lives.

And on Thanksgiving Day, I showed my sister my post about cleaning up the toy box to show her how few toys we left out for Ben. When I looked away, she started skimming through the rest of the page. I felt very self-conscious about it.

But not nearly as self-conscious as I've felt this weekend when I checked my site meter and realized that she's read over two dozen pages of my blog over the last two days. (Hi Jolene! I see you!)

I guess I don't have anything to hide. It's not like I have a secret life that my family doesn't know about (anymore). I don't "talk crap" about my family either. It'll just take a little while for me to feel less naked, less exposed. It's just like she's reading my diary.

Really, that's what blogging is for me. Instead of writing down my most secret thoughts in a book, I'm typing it onto a web page for the world to see. There are some things I keep to myself, but not much. But "the world" doesn't have preconceived notions of who I am, my family does. While I don't really care what "the world" thinks of me, I care what my family thinks.

Maybe by Christmas I'll have enough nerve to show my mom how to find my blog. Maybe I'll even tell Chris's family about it. For now, I'll just quietly shudder and try to get used to being emotionally naked in front of people who really matter.

The Baby Doll

Ben has started playing with the baby doll we bought him a few months ago when we learned we were having a girl. He loves babies in general, and he's very sweet about greeting babies we meet. So it's interesting to see what he does with the doll.

Forty percent of the time, he plays "mommy" or "daddy." He cuddles and nuzzles the baby, feeds the baby from his sippy cup, takes the baby for motorcycle rides around the house with the baby draped over the handlebars. It's freaking adorable.

Considering that before, his only play with the baby doll included shoving her head first down his potty chair, I feel he's showing real progress. The other sixty percent of the time still involves stuff like that. He tosses her across the room to see how far she'll fly. I'm just waiting for him to realize what a thrill it would be to throw her through the basketball hoop.

We've realized he's just too young to understand what we're talking about when we discuss a baby in mommy's belly or bringing a baby home or living with a baby. He doesn't get it. That's okay. We've taught him the trick of rubbing my belly and saying "baby." Of course he rubs Chris's belly and says the same, also his own.

I think once the reality is here (reality, thy name is Anna), he'll have a few weeks of rough transition, and then he'll be fine. I think he'll love her a lot. And I think I'll spend a lot of my time encouraging him not to crawl all over her like a jungle gym.

___________
A note about depression:
Last night I realized there's probably not enough Zoloft in the whole world. Living with depression is odd. I find lots of moments of pure joy during the day. I enjoy Ben and my husband. But I have these moments and hours where I just crash into wallows of ick and despondency.

I've convinced myself that all this awful cramping and contractions and "wrongness" that my body is feeling is totally normal and I'm just a whiner. Who the hell cares if I can't walk around my house for more than five minutes without doubling over in pain and almost collapsing from the strain. I doubt my OB will even check my cervix. I'm just going to be a prisoner here until I finally get to go to the hospital to deliver this baby.

Poor Ben is stuck here with me. I can't take him outside because I can't walk without having terrible contractions. I give him free rein in the house, more or less, and he gets to climb on things and run, but he gets most of his activity when Daddy comes home at night.

These "blues" are debilitating at times. I totally get the whole thing about one of the major problems with pregnant women being depressed is that they don't take care of themselves. I find myself skipping meals because "I just don't care anymore" about eating. My OB appointment was rescheduled to this morning, and I wasn't that upset. As a matter of fact, I don't even want to go today. What's the point? I don't feel the need to go somewhere to have someone tell me that everything I'm feeling is totally normal and nothing to worry about. Anna's still jumping around in me like crazy, so she's probably doing just fine. So why bother going?

I have a husband who cares about me, and he's making me go anyway.

Back on the Zo.

This was a weird week, and I'm glad it's finally Friday. TGIFF.

Summer is one of the busiest seasons for us in the catalog proofreading business because we're eyeball-deep in production of fall catalogs. I've been working my tail off.

Ben had a checkup on Tuesday as a follow-up on his weird, funky rash last week and his bronchial spasms a month ago. I was brave and told the doctor that we couldn't easily afford his Pulmicort, and she suggested a new treatment plan. So now he's on Singulair every day, Pulmicort once a day when he has a cough, Pulmicort 2x a day and Albuterol when he's wheezing. The Singulair is a quarter of the cost of Pulmicort, so we're very happy. Hopefully, Ben will respond well. So far so good.

Ben and I had a power struggle over dinner last night. It was the first time I served him chili because I wasn't sure he'd like it last time I made it. I took a chance. He refused it point blank when I offered it to him, so I just told him that no, he wouldn't be getting more graham crackers, and I turned my back and did some dishes. I peeked a minute later, and he was wolfing it down. He's not that great with a spoon, especially for entrées with liquid content, but he managed. He loved it so much that he picked up all the pieces he dropped and ate those as well. He let me help him scrape the bowl, and then he devoured another bowl of the stuff. Homerun for mommy. Nice, full belly for the Ben Boy. It was a little messy, and he ended up with chili juice in his neck crease and he had to be stripped immediately after, but we survived.

As for me. Well. This week sucked. It started off badly when the 10-pound bag of Idaho potatoes we had on the kitchen floor decided to start leaking. One of the potatoes at the bottom was bad, and it liquified during the night, causing a moldy ick slick across the kitchen floor. We threw out the bag and mopped, but the smell remains. It's disgusting. I'm going to get a stronger floor cleaner this weekend and hope that takes care of it.

I've also been having baby issues. I'll tell you my symptoms, but first I'll tell you how I treated them. I called the doctor's office, and I went back on Zoloft. I kept growing more and more tense this week with fear over losing the baby, and I was suspicious it was that old anxiety disorder resurfacing. It's a chemical imbalance, and I can't just relax it away all the time. So I'm back on the happy drugs. We'll see how things change. The symptoms can all be normal pregnancy symptoms, but spun the wrong way can spell danger. I took the risk and labeled them "normal" and my feelings about them "abnormal."

I've been having across-the-belly contractions where my whole abdomen tenses up suddenly and holds the contraction for minutes at a time. It's hard to walk when it's happening, and it leaves me with a very sore, tender belly. They don't come on a regular basis, but I haven't been keeping track.

Let's make that a bit scarier by adding the tingly feeling I get in my cervix after the contraction eases. Try looking that symptom up online and all you'll find is warnings about genital herpes. I teased my husband about it, but he didn't find it funny.

And yesterday, I swore I was spotting when I wiped after peeing. In retrospect, I figured out that it was just bleed-through from the recycled content of the toilet paper.

I've still felt the baby moving. And it feels like there's a balloon resting in my pelvic bone that keeps trying to inflate more. My anxiety rests more in the concept that my body won't be able to carry the baby to term, not that there is anything wrong with the baby. And the anxiety is overwhelming. I'm hoping that the Zoloft will help me have a better perspective on things, and I can start really looking forward to the baby rather than just hating the pregnancy. I'll let you know how that works out.

Quick gossip about Ben's old daycare. We saw a couple of his old daycare teachers at the grocery store the other day, and they had quite the stories to tell. Ben's favorite teacher had her paycheck bounce. Twice. Which of course caused her rent check and car payment to bounce. The director was unwilling to make amends over any of the late fees, so the teacher quit after her shift. Another girl is still working there, but desperately trying to find a new job so she can quit. And Ben's other teacher already put in her notice. A lot of people are really disgusted with what's been happening during the "transition" to the new way of running things. We're glad we're gone.

Our current daycare lady has a history with the director of the center. The director started out by having an inhome daycare, and that's where Amber sent her kids when they were babies. Not for that long, though. The director kept raising the rates every other month, insisted on a security deposit for each child, and kept raising the amount needed for the deposit. The current children had to make additional security deposit payments. It seemed like she was always have financial difficulties. And those difficulties seem to be a lifelong trial for her, since that's what's troubling her with her group center. I'm glad she's out of our life, even though we never actually met her.

The Battlefield Of The Mind

Yes, I know it's the title of a Joyce Meyer book. It's one of my mother's favorite things to give at Christmas.

That being said, this has been a rough week for me psychologically. Why? Those vivid dreams of early pregnancy have turned into nightmares for some reason. Oh, how I long for those simple, orgasm-inducing sex dreams of a couple weeks ago where I wake up and swear I've just had some awesome sex and I feel totally satisfied, only to face my husband, who remains cut off from the pleasures of the marital bed.

A couple nights ago, when I was actually able to stay asleep for more than 45 minutes without having to get up and use the bathroom, I had an Awful Nightmare. It was so bad, the next day at work, I kept having flashbacks of some of the more violent scenes. It made me feel very timid and terrified, even at work. The next night, my dreams remained on the dark side, though not down to the same caliber of the first (which included me witnessing some horrendous, depraved crimes).

Last night I added some melatonin to my nightly bunch of pills. It helped a lot. I fell asleep quicker and was able to get through the dream stage of sleep well before my morning wake-up time so I wasn't just getting done washing the blood out of my hair before the alarm went off.

It still troubles me. I'm not a violent person by nature. I'm a kind, gentle person, and I avoid violent movies and TV shows. I won't even watch cheesy horror movies. When I was a teenager, part of my mental health issues included an anxiety disorder where I couldn't easily distinguish between real and pretend. It got to the point where I couldn't watch an action flick because I'd go comatose (to a happy place) at the first strike of violence on the screen. Example: I passed out when I saw The Matrix in the theatre. Scared the hell out of my boyfriend. It took him a while to shake me out of my stupor after it was over.

My mind didn't register that the violence on the screen wasn't actually happening to me or people I know and love. So I stopped watching the bad stuff to avoid having embarrassing things happen, like a panic attack or black out.

That was years ago. I was on Zoloft for years to treat anxiety and depression. My life is pretty stable right now, and there isn't much that causes anxiety or panic. And I have a wonderful husband to shore me up when I start to fail. So I stopped taking my Zoloft before I got pregnant again. Even though Zoloft is one of the only anti-depressants considered somewhat safe by the medical field now, my OB would prefer if we didn't chance it, unless my mental health deteriorates so much to the point where the stress hormones in my body could hurt the baby.

I have a few coping mechanisms now for panic and depression. One of them is the rosary my best friend gave me a couple years ago. She's Catholic, and I'm not, but I've always been drawn to the quiet rituals and comfort of that particular faith. So if I get really uptight and anxious, I can pull out the rosary I keep in a satin bag in my purse, and I start meditating and praying.

Before husband and babies, I also smoked. I really enjoyed the relaxation and time outs. Smoking made me take time to stop talking, stop running around. I'd just be outside for ten minutes, killing myself and anyone around me with the smoke. Of course, this isn't an option available to me anymore for various reasons, including my own determination to remain smoke-free.

The other coping mechanisms I have, like pleasant-thought concentration and change-of-perspective exercises, help me during the day, but I can't figure out a way to fight off the demons when I'm sleeping. I'm pregnant and fatigued all the time, and I really need to sleep, but I'm scared of it now. I'm scared of what horror my mind will come up with for me to live through each night. Maybe I need to do some research into lucid dreaming, so I can start getting some control back.

On a lighter note, Ben managed to get up the stairs all by himself yesterday morning with no one standing by for safety. Husband left the door to the stairs open while he and I were in the kitchen making breakfast. I went into the living room just as Ben was rounding the corner at the top of the stairs. God help us if he tried to climb back down on his own.

The Doctor Said Congratulations

I was so depressed this morning. Took another HPT test, and it was still really faint. I was totally discouraged and almost canceled my appointment this morning.

But I went anyway. I peed in a little cup and went back in the waiting room to watch a Judge show. Fifteen minutes later, I was called back. Did the whole weigh-in thing (lost 15 pounds, wooohoo), blood pressure, etc. Then I sat there waiting for my Dr. She came in and said, "Congratulations."

Me: "Really?"
Dr: "Yes, really. It was positive."
Me: "Oh, thank God."

I'm three weeks pregnant. I have another appointment in two weeks to have the pelvic exam done. I stayed late this morning to do the OB blood labs.

Feels so surreal. I'm still terrified of losing this little one since it's so very early, but I do have a twinkle in my eye.

Exuberant Joy Over a Little Pink Line

According to Fertility Friend, I might be getting my period today. I've taken two negative pregnancy tests over the last few days. Today, I took another one. The little line didn't pop out from the slightly pink background (that fades in a few minutes), so I just hopped in the shower as usual.

I glanced down at the test again when I got out of the shower... and, wouldn't you know it, there was a very faint pink line where I really wanted it to be. Very faint. But, dammit, it's a positive. A weak positive, but it's there.

I would have just implanted yesterday, so it'll be a few days (at least) until the pregnancy is a bit more established.

Can't focus on that, though. All I know is that right now, I'm pregnant. And I've been crying for the last hour. Called my mom so she could start praying already. My due date will be around November 17th. I was five weeks early with Ben, so I'm thinking sometime in October.

Update: I couldn't wait, so I called my doctor's office this morning. I'm going in tomorrow morning for a urine test and a 15-minute appointment with my doctor.

Why Can't You Just Pee In The Damn Box?

For the past week, I've been trying to convince myself to be unemotional about this. To detach myself from the emotional aspect of this issue and just do it.

When I was a little girl, I had lots of cats. Since my dad was allergic, they were outdoor cats. For the most part, I just had two at a time. Sometimes, after a birth, as many as five. Since they were outside, inevitably cats would get run over. And my mother, being Wonder Mom, would get the shovel and scrape up the kitty remains and get a shoe box for me to bury.

I could never figure out how she could do it. My little heart was broken, and there she was, all stalwart and matter-of-fact, peeling kitty parts off the street. Of course now I realize she had never developed an attachment to my cats. Any pain she was feeling was for me and the pain I was going through. They weren't really her pets, though.

Now as an adult, I have two cats. Adira, an orange tabby from the shelter, came to me when I was seventeen. She's been my best friend ever since. Very affectionate, very possessive. When she was five, I adopted a companion for her, a little white kitten with one blue eye and one yellow eye. Maisie. They tolerate each other, and seem to enjoy harassing each other. They fight, and they lick each other's wounds.

When Chester moved in with me, Adira developed an issue. She started to pee on the floor a foot away from her litter box. At first she would only do this when her box was overdue for a change, but then she'd start doing it randomly. So we did what the experts recommend. We tried changing her litter to a different brand. We added another box so she wouldn't have to compete with Maisie for box time. We experimented with box privacy, like having one with a hood, without, etc. We religiously cleaned the floor where she'd pee with enzyme cleaners. Many different brands just in case one was better than the other.

Nothing worked. For a while, she'd only do it about once a month. When I was pregnant with Ben, it made me nervous, and figured we'd have to deal with it more drastically when he was toddling around. I would have to train him about being around litter boxes without playing in them, but it would be hard to train him to spot the puddle and to stay away.

Adira knows that life is going to be changing again. She glares at me every time I pack another box. And she's peeing on the floor at least once a day now.

To be honest, we can't afford the vet bills necessary to diagnose any possible health problems. And the vet doesn't think it's a physical problem anyway (personally, I don't either). We can barely afford vaccinations, let alone lab work. It's not like we can get public assistance for vet bills. The state just doesn't care.

So where does that leave us? We're moving this weekend into a house with hardwood floors. Cleaning pee off of linoleum is one thing, but trying to get all of it out of hardwood floors would be next to impossible.

I emailed our local humane society this morning to ask about surrender fees. I know Adira's not a good candidate for adoption, and that she would be put to sleep. It's intensely sad and upsetting. I feel like such a cold, heartless bitch for considering it. I love her dearly, but I can't have her live with me anymore.

I will miss her fat, warm little body curled up against my belly every night when I'm trying to get to sleep. I toss and turn at least three times before I'm comfortable, and she's never gotten the hint to wait about fifteen minutes before cuddling with Mommy. It's a dance of kicking her off of my body pillow every five minutes and then welcoming her back. Maisie is a nice cat, but Adira is something special. We've always had a very emotional, psychic connection. She's been through all my dramas of my early twenties, all my roommates, all my moods.

So. What Would Mommy Do? That Wonder Mom who could scrape dead kitty bodies off of the street and help her daughter bury the remains? That Wonder Mom who hasn't had a pet of her own for years? Well, the secret about Wonder Mom is her incredibly tender heart but steely will and courage. She would weep and mourn the loss of a pet, but she would do what's best for her family.

That Blissful Feeling

I have this vision in my head. Not of the specific house we'll buy, but just the feeling I'll get after we move in.

In six months...

I will be quite pregnant with my second child. My son will be walking and talking a little bit. We will be living in a house that we own. I may be quitting my job soon to stay home with my child and my child-to-come. I will have the freedom, if not the time, to garden and dig my hands in dirt that belongs to me. There will be peace, serenity, and hopefully bliss.

Only that "feeling" is bringing me any peace right now. As a rule, I hate change and drama. I avoid it. But I really want to get to that "feeling" and I know that I'll have to go through a bit of hell to get there.

Seriously, I hate getting the mail because there might be bills. Are you actually telling me I have to pick up the phone and call companies that I owe thousands of dollars to and talk to them? Holy crap. Get me a valium.

Come on... need the bliss back.