To Those Who Serve

"This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it." --Psalm 118:24

Lately I’ve had some heavy things weighing on my heart, and it’s hard to write about more light-hearted subjects with more important things running through my head. Though I’ve tried to push such thoughts away when it comes to putting words on the page, my motivation for triviality has fallen flat. So I’ve realized that maybe it’s time to do just that—time to address the things that matter most.

On certain days my heart sinks as soon as I pull in to the parking lot at work. It has nothing to do with my workload that day or a busy schedule; it’s the flag in front of my Division Headquarters that gets me. Most days it flies high and mighty and proud above the building for all to see. But more often than it should, it flutters quietly at half-mast, the same level as the monument that stands across from it to honor the soldiers from Fort Drum who have died from combat. And when the flag is at half-mast, it usually means one thing: we will be adding another name to the plaque on that monument.

If only it were just a name.

Not a life. Not a son or daughter, father or mother, brother, sister, cousin, friend.

Maybe I was naïve when I signed up to be in the Army, devoting a what seemed like a huge chunk of my young life to military school and a mandatory five years of service after. It made perfect sense when I was still starry-eyed and didn’t really know, when I only thought of it as an honorable way to contribute to society like my own father did, and at the same time an opportunity for a great education and exciting job once I graduated.

My disillusionment didn’t last long, but I was already bound by contract. So I quickly learned in the “real” Army to still put every ounce of effort I had in to a job I disliked, a job with significantly less value than I’d anticipated when I first raised my right hand eight years ago. I learned to grit my teeth when hearing the same elusive phrases during meetings, the ones that meant we would be wasting more time and getting nowhere. I learned to choke down the guilt each time I walked out the door to a little voice saying “Mommy, I don’t want you to go to work!”…or worse yet, the shame and hurt when that little voice didn’t even care to acknowledge me when I arrived home because it was so customary for me to be gone. And when so many well-meaning people happened to see my uniform in public and thank me for my service, I've learned to smile graciously, trying to push aside the bitterness while thinking, “it's not me you should be thanking...if only you knew.”

But these things don't hold a candle to what so many others have been through.

And that’s what these last few years—specifically the past few months—have really taught me. What I do and how I serve is just a miniscule cog in the big green machine. My work pales in comparison to the work of others with whom I serve; my sacrifices are small. I can lament all day long about the things I didn’t consider when signing up, but in reality the sacrifices I continue to watch others make paint a pretty rosy picture for me.


Those sacrifices are many, too many. Out of respect for privacy I’ll not go in to detail, but I will say this: I did not sign up so I could helplessly wipe away the tears of a young and newly widowed mother, or to watch friends’ lives turned upside down and inside out as they face a completely altered future and navigate the twisted annals of the army medical system. I did not sign up so I could name the names of classmates or those from my unit now memorialized. I didn’t sign up to face that flag on the days it floats at half-mast, knowing that I will soon be verifying the information to put on this year’s plaque—knowing that for each name on the plaque there are three or four times as many injured Soldiers at a hospital somewhere figuring out how to redefine their lives. And these are just the Soldiers; beyond each one, there is another family rallying around a hospital bed or left at a gravesite, begging to wake up from their nightmare. Though each of these Soldiers may have signed on the dotted line, none truly signed up for this.

The weeks leading up to the 10th Anniversary of September 11th only stoked the fire for me. Our nation was suddenly roused to incredible patriotism, patriotism that’s seemed sadly latent for much of the past ten years. Yes, as a nation it was important to reflect on the monumental events of 9/11 that changed the course of our history forever, but I can’t help but feel that it was all been a bit sensationalized. As I digested the mounting number of news stories and radio shows on the subject, all analyzing the events and trying to somehow reinvent their meaning (as the news must do), my frustration also mounted. Were the other anniversaries not so important? Those really touched by the tragedies certainly grieved just as much in previous years. On most days there was no buzzing media trying to make headlines out of their tragedy or support them through their grief. The families and friends of victims as well as a growing group of affected soldiers and their families have had to live with the true reality of those events every day for the past ten years.

It’s easy in these instances to ask, “why?”

It’s easier yet for me to ask a more pointed question: “why them, and why have we been so lucky?”

I posed this question to my husband one night a few weeks ago, wondering aloud why so many good people have to suffer through such unjust sacrifice, and wondering why we haven’t (yet?) been tested as such. Not that I’m inviting tragedy, by any means. But none of the wonderful people I love were asking to go through their trials, either. “I almost wonder if that’ll be us soon,” I said to Peter.

“Well, we can’t just live every day in fear,” he said. And of course he’s right. But it didn’t ease my mind much until I heard some very timely words of wisdom during our priest’s sermon at church the next morning—it was like he could read my mind.

To paraphrase, (since I wasn’t exactly taking notes) he said this:

Watch TV or listen to the radio long enough and you’ll see that the world does a good job of writing off weekdays. You’ll hear complaints for every Monday, comments about living for the weekend. But we need to realize that EVERY day—Monday or not—is a gift from God. I can continue to plan for the future, but at any moment my plans for tomorrow could be completely altered. I don’t know if I’m going to wake up tomorrow or not. I may not see another Saturday again. Or my life might change drastically in some other way. But regardless of what day it is or what my life circumstances may be, every single day that we are on this earth is a gift from God, another chance to make our lives count.

Such a perfect (and perfectly simple) concept, yet so difficult in application. But the the light bulb went on for me, and it immediately challenged me to see the flip side of my previous question: instead of  asking,“why,” I should ask “what.” What have I done to make today count? And instead of seeing only the pain in others’ tragedies, I can understand that each new day they are given is also a gift. It doesn’t mean that their pain will disappear, or that their days won’t be incredibly difficult. But their days still matter, and God in His wisdom (that we so easily fail to understand) has a purpose for each new day He grants.

So instead of living in fear of the future or sorrow for others, I can let go of my woeful attitude in favor of something more meaningful. Instead of wallowing in despair or frustration when I see another headline or flag at half-mast, I can try to find a tangible way to help to carry a burden or at least send my honest, sincere gratitude to those who deserve it most. And I can always work harder on turning each heavy thought into a prayer for someone that really holds weight. In my own little bubble, I can continue to plan for a future with hope and confidence while thanking my husband more, hugging my kids tighter, turning off social media distractions and spending more time tuning in to the amazing blessings in my life right now, the ones I so easily take for granted. Even as I continue my countdown to “better” things—like getting out of the Army—I will try my best to remember that there is no guarantee for tomorrow. That I should face each day—even Mondays, even the work I wouldn't choose again—with a sense of joy, embracing them with everything in me.

Only then can I truly honor those who have sacrificed—and will sacrifice—so much more than I have. The friends who carry on with undeniable courage, the families who grieve, the names on a plaque with so much more life and meaning behind them. Maybe, just maybe I can make make this gift of today that I’ve been given truly count--not just for me, but for them.

*And thank you--you know who you are*

A Dinner With Marie

Dinner at our house usually resembles an entertaining circus ring. We make a concerted effort to sit down together every night, but usually we’re up and down about fifty times during the meal, grabbing this or that, telling the kids to get back in their chairs (again), and starting conversations that never get finished. Probably what most families with young kids experience on any given night. Not exactly relaxing, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world, especially since the kids are starting to pick up on the fact that we like to talk about our day when we sit down and (attempt) to eat a meal together. Tonight was decidedly Marie’s turn to share. After a tough few weeks for us all, she brought a much-needed diversion to the table….literally!

She wanted to wear her new sun hat at dinner ('new' because she just rediscovered it in one of her drawers) and began the conversation with how much she loved her new sun hat.

“I’m going to wear my new sunhat to the fireworks next time too, so it won’t be so windy!” she said. 

If you're wondering, the kids loved it when we went to see the 4th of July Fireworks over the St. Lawrence River. She then proceeded to talk about which color fireworks were her favorite, and asserted that she would walk to the fireworks this time instead of riding in the stroller (since we had to park a good distance away).

“I will walk and hold daddy’s hand. And he will push the stroller,” said Marie. Yes, we replied, that would probably happen because Erik and Ethan would have to ride in the stroller next time we went to see the fireworks.

“But Ethan’s not born yet!” she said indignantly.

“Well we're not going till next summer.”

“No,” she said matter-of-factly. “Ethan won’t ride in the stroller because Mommy’s too big to fit in the stroller!”

Nothing like a little brutal honesty to make your day.

But Marie was still stuck on the fireworks: “We will talk about Maddie’s party at the fireworks. And we will talk about my party at the fireworks!” she said.

We agreed that this was a good idea because her birthday would happen soon after the fireworks next year, and so would her friend Maddie’s.

“How old will you be at your next party, Marie?” Peter asked. She studied her fingers for a moment (since she usually holds up three fingers when stating that she’s three years old), then held up four fingers and said “I will be four on my next birthday! And then,” she said, switching to five fingers, “I will be five on the next birthday after that!” She then stopped and looked at both hands for a moment in contemplation before holding up all ten fingers and exclaiming, “and then on the next birthday I’ll be FORTY!” 

Once we'd stopped laughing enough to talk, Peter asked, “Marie, who else is forty?”

Her response (naturally): “Mommy!”

So I suppose that’s my lesson for today: even if you’re a forty-year-old who’s too big to ride in the stroller, you’re never too old or big to enjoy some delightful dinner conversation!

Published!

I'm excited to share my first published magazine article! Thanks to all my dear family and friends for your encouragement throughout the process, and especially to my greatest inspiration when it comes to writing and life in general--my beautiful mother!

The following piece appears on pages 7-8 of the Fall 2011 Issue of Radiant Magazine:

FINDING TRUE HEALING

by Megan Hjelmstad

Radiant Magazine,
Fall 2011 Issue
(credit) 

“Well, honey, you’re the Captain of your own ship! Good luck!” It wasn’t the first time I’d heard something like this from an OB-GYN, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. I left the appointment with loads of pills but no explanation, and true to the Army way, it seemed I had only two options: control or failure. I walked back to my dorm, frustrated that I’d left with more questions than when I’d arrived, and wondered what to do next.

I’d had painful menstrual cycles since high school; at first I thought I had a low pain tolerance or bad luck. But the pain got consistently worse over the years and I had to take more medication to survive each cycle. As I neared high school graduation I knew something had to be done. I was scheduled to begin basic cadet training at West Point in a few weeks, and I knew I couldn’t let this hold me back. Yet each consecutive OB-GYN I visited only seemed interested in treating my symptoms with various forms of hormonal birth control and pain meds; none seemed the least bit concerned with finding the root cause of my problems. Thus the pain and confusion continued to plague me as I settled into my military life at college.

Luckily, as I got more involved with the Catholic student group on campus, I heard presentations on Natural Family Planning, or NFP—a process of either avoiding or achieving pregnancy using woman’s daily natural signs of fertility and infertility. It caught my interest since my fiancé and I had begun to plan for our marriage together. During these sessions I also learned about the abortifacient properties of hormonal birth control. This means it's still possible to conceive a child while on birth control, but the mother usually miscarries her child because the artificial birth control hormones don’t allow the baby to implant and grow. We didn’t want to intentionally do anything in our marriage that would cause us to lose a child if we could help it, so I began to look for an NFP instructor.

I found as I learned how to read my body’s natural signs that NFP was far more than just a way to track fertility for family planning. My body’s signs not only told me when I was fertile or infertile; they also revealed that my issues were not normal, and my condition even had a name: endometriosis. My instructor also provided many natural treatments to improve my condition.

"Finding True Healing" Article (credit) 

Although NFP has not “cured” my endometriosis, we’ve learned so much from it, especially to be open to God’s design for our family. It was tough to know that my supervisors weren't happy when I had two children within my first two years in the Army, but little did we know how quickly the doctors would warn us that my condition would probably prevent us from having more. Soon after this prognosis, we lost two children whom we desperately wanted when I suffered a miscarriage, followed by an ectopic pregnancy. But from this loss we’ve learned what a precious gift each soul is, and that we need to trust God’s timing for our children rather than worry what others will think.

Through NFP we’ve also gained a beautiful bond of trust in our marriage, natural relief for my condition, and the miracle child I now carry despite the doctors’ predictions! God never promises smooth sailing, but since we’ve surrendered control and allowed God to be the “Captain” of our ship, we have truly gained more than we can imagine.

Resources for Fertility Awareness and Natural Family Planning can also be found online at Radiant's Extra Features. 

Do You Love Yourself?

Ok, ladies (and you guys manly enough to admit it), it’s time to face the music: we are not nice to ourselves.

It’s clear that our society focuses on form over function, and most of us take the bait without a fight. We’re masters at holding up the magnifying glass to pick and prod at every little imperfection we can find. And by degrading ourselves to such a level that we can’t find one good thing to say about our bodies, we consciously or subconsciously do the same to others. We constantly compare ourselves (and others) to what we’re fed to believe is ‘prefect,’ and when we don’t measure up (as we’re bound not to) we become caught in the vicious cycle of superficial self-betterment and shrinking self-esteem. We might as well be walking tabloids. (Cue another frantic yet futile search for miracle creams that surely will erase wrinkles, acne, under-eye circles, cellulite, ghostly skin...).

I’ve been especially guilty of this lately as I've been feeling, in a word, l  a  r  g  e. I know I’m pregnant, but seriously, how easy is it to feel good about your appearance when you walk around constantly expanding every day and you have to wear a blimp of a maternity uniform, commissioned by the lowest bidder who was obviously--no offense--a guy? (Without pen pockets to boot!) And it’s hard to ignore the ugly lines that continue to crisscross my belly in greater numbers each day…my belly that once upon a time was covered with real skin but now resembles an albino raisin. (No thanks to the entire basket in my bathroom filled with half-used “stretch-mark reducing” products).

Thank goodness this for this lovely post from the Modern Mrs. Darcy that just came along to knock me off my horse. In a nutshell: I certainly don't want my daughter to grow up criticizing herself, so what's my excuse? The Modern Mrs. Darcy asserts that we already know we should love our bodies and ourselves, we just don’t know how or where to start. So what to do? She says we need to focus on what our bodies can do, not what they don’t. (Or how they haven’t measured up). Function over form. As in, who cares if you think your [insert attribute] is too big or small? You should only be concerned with what said attribute was created to do...and subsequently thankful that it does its job. Case in point: instead of focusing on my beeeg-ness right now, I need to focus on the fact that my body is doing specifically what it’s designed to do--precisely because God has blessed me with the chance to be a mom once again. And I should truly be thankful that my body is tackling this amazing feat (as thankful as I am for the amazing kid who’s at the root of it!) instead of standing in front of the mirror poking my extra-cushy tush and scowling at myself because I wish it were just a bit smaller.

So I’m taking on the Modern Mrs. Darcy challenge to sincerely consider how great my body is—AS is.

By the numbers:

• 5 times (with the help of the great Creator) my body has carried new life..and against the odds at that
• 3 times my body has expanded to crazy proportions to accommodate our children within
• Twice (so far) I have done the extraordinary work of bringing our Love in human form--our children--into our arms
• Twice my body has morphed from baby carrier into baby feeding machine…and I have been able to delight in the fact that my nourishment (in part) has allowed our kids to grow from newborns into incredible little people!
• And once and for all, my body has sustained me through the absolutely exhausting but oh-so-rewarding joy of mothering my children and loving my husband…all while withstanding the constant demands of my other [crazy] day job—ruck marches and all.

Now it’s your turn! The Rules: Be sincere. No sarcasm or fake answers, just a true, honest-to-goodness analysis of the things you appreciate about your body (you know, the one that God intentionally crafted as completely fabulous). I challenge you to list at least five!

Ready…
set…
go!

3rd Trimester!

It’s finally here! Third trimester feels like such a milestone, but I also feel like time is flying all of a sudden. It seems like yesterday that we were holding our breath through the first few weeks of screenings and ultrasounds, praying that this baby would make it into our arms, starting to feel a bit of hope as we watched his little heartbeat get stronger each time. So I’m amazed as I realize that our little Ethan has now been thriving for a good seven months! Though we still have a few critical bends in the road ahead of us, there’s so much to be thankful for already! This guy is definitely the most active of our kids so far, and I love when I feel him rolling or kicking or punching (though yes, it gets exasperating at times). He’s even developed a bit of a personality, and has no problem letting me know with a good jab to the ribs that he’s hungry when I’ve strayed even ten minutes from our meal time.

...and Ethan is his name-o!
(not that it's been a big secret or anything,
we just hadn't gotten around to officially
announcing it to everyone...)

As excited as I am that we’ve made it to 3rd trimester, I was still overwhelmed when the nurse handed me the hospital registration packet at my last appointment—implying that I have much less time than I've allowed to get stuff done before Mr. Ethan makes his appearance! I have gone through all the old bins of baby clothes (which still probably take up more of the garage than necessary), tossed the newborn stuff in the dresser reserved for Ethan, and done my fair share of nesting. But I’m fairly certain that no matter how many times I clean the bathroom or re-organize the medicine cabinet, my closet, or the kitchen pantry, it still won’t get us any closer to where we need to be on the Big Day. So even though it makes my heart rate go up a bit, I admit that Peter is right in saying that we should probably dig out the infant car seat from storage to put in the car...and pack the “go” bag (just in case…but still!) and maybe put a pack or two of newborn diapers on the grocery list one of these days. Along with the thousands of other things my brain begins to agonize about when it starts down that road... (like I should probably get some new pacifiers…and another bouncy seat or swing since the kids destroyed the first one…hey! maybe I should wash those newborn clothes that were in storage for two years! Should I get another pump?…oh yeah and those baby bottles, I know I saw them somewhere. Maybe in the kids’ closet with the car seat fleece…gonna need that right away, it’ll be winter…hmm, maybe I should make a to-do list!) 

28 weeks!

But regardless of how quickly it all sneaks up on me, I need to remind myself foremost how blessed we are to be exactly where we are at this moment, enjoying a new uber-fidgety bundle of life who is God’s answer to our prayers. As for what’s in store, we’ll get to the to-do list soon enough! (thank goodness Peter is so good at packing!)

Colorful Language

Though he isn’t quite two, Erik has been quite the chatterbox for awhile now thanks to the daily influence of two very vocal 3-year-olds (his sister and our Nanny’s daughter). His newest language obsession has been to ensure that no noun goes without an adjective. Specifically a colorful one.

Stealing Marie's
brown sunglasses

For example, last night he wanted to wear his green crocodile pajamas and climb in bed with his blue hippo nene (blanket) and take a drink of his white milk from his blue and green and yellow lion cup (followed by a roar for the lion).

Erik running to throw a tantrum after Marie
reclaims her brown sunglasses

He (and the girls) have also come up with random nonsense words that for some reason strike them as particularly hilarious…especially when used as insults. In the past week I have been called a ‘buka’, a ‘doodie’, a ‘gook,’ and a ‘noot,’ and while I’m not sure what the difference is between each of these particular offenses, hurling such insults at me sends them into uncontrolled fits of giggling.

The icing on the cake of colorful language came this morning. It began as usual when Erik woke up and put on his blue and red and white crocs, then sweetly complimented me on my brown pony (hair tie) and purple toe polish, as he told me he liked them both very much. At breakfast he narrated each move as he climbed up in his green big boy chair and put on his green and yellow lion bib (followed by a roar for the lion), then thanked me for giving him his brown and yellow cereal squares in his yellow big bowl along with his green and blue and a little bit white dinosaur cup (followed by a roar for the dinosaur). But then I had the pleasure of watching the little gears in his brain work like never before as he tried to figure out what to call his orange juice. Was it orange orange juice? Or just orange juice? Or was it green orange juice since it was orange juice in his green cup? He spent a good five minutes wondering which of the three it could be, then finally moved on from such an earth-shattering question to whimper over the brown and yellow cereal square that had fallen to its fate over the side of his chair. Sadly, I fear the world will never know… 

To call it Orange juice? Or orange orange juice?
That is the question.

Marie Turns 3!

Today our baby girl turned 3! All I can say is time certainly flies. We got to celebrate in lots of fun ways:

A party at Old McDonald's Farm:

A blue flower birthday cake by request:

                            

A special visit from my sister Michaela (aka "Aunt Chica") who is their favorite:

                                                 

A stroll through the neighborhood and down by the river:

The annual (well, semi-annual) tradition of measuring height on the kitchen door: 

3 1/4 inches in one year!

And, of course, opening presents and playing with lots of fun new stuff!

Happy Birthday, big girl Marie!

We Are Fam-i-ly!

Last weekend we were lucky enough to attend the familial circus of another family reunion in conjunction with my grandmother’s 85th birthday. It was an especially meaningful trip since my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer this past year, and I’ve been looking forward to spending more time with her. She, on the contrary, has been looking forward to spending more time with her only great-grandbabies—our kids—who she claims are the cutest and smartest kids ever. (Not sure I can argue with that one).

So we set out Friday for the two-day whirlwind trip to the family reunion of the century. On my mom’s side, the family members we consider my close relatives still include many second, third and fourth cousins, some twice removed (or whatever you call it). My grandmother was the youngest of nine kids so it gets pretty complicated. (My wonderful mother-in-law, the genealogist, could probably have it mapped out in ten minutes). We usually spend at least a small portion of any given family gathering trying to figure out what the official terms are, then give up and swear that one day we’ll write it all down.

So, with such a spread of relatives making up the the Usual Clan, it was quite the sight as the parade of even more distant relatives continued to pour in to my aunt's home. The Usual Clan agreed that there were definitely more people there we didn’t know than those we did. As my uncle said prior to the cake cutting, “…look around and introduce yourself to someone next to you. Because even if you’ve never seen the person in your life, chances are you’re related!” Altogether we had a grand time, characterized by the pitter-patter of hundreds of kid feet traipsing from the bouncy house to the pool, some unabashed antics from the keg squatter crowd, and a lot of good, old fashioned cheek pinching to accompany the exclamations of, “my how you’ve grown!”

All the grandkids and great-grandkids

Once the 150 to 200 people had come and gone, I finally got some time to chat with the guest of honor. Despite all of my grandmother’s pain and suffering, her spunk is still very much alive, and she willingly shared wisdom and many memories. She told stories of the love and happiness that filled her home growing up, even in the midst of sacrifice and hunger during the Great Depression. She also spent some time reflecting on her one and only love, my grandfather (who died when I was seven). I tried to burn as many things in to my memory as possible, especially these words of wisdom that really resonated with me:


“Your Grandfather and I were so different. And so stubborn! We used to say that the only thing we agreed on is that we both hated the color red! But sometimes, that’s all you need. We were so in love… and every day we made that choice—to keep loving each other.”


I want to remember this concept—that every day I must choose love. Not just when interacting with my own family, but with all those I come in contact with daily at work and outside of work. When I look back on my life, I hope that—like my grandmother—I can say that I made the conscious choice to love each and every day in the best and worst of times…and that I made the most of each memory, crazy relatives and all!

Apparently my brother recalled an awesome mid-jump picture 

of Peter and I at the last reunion 5 years ago and wanted to try it again. 

Didn't turn out quite the same...

Family!

Opening her birthday present--a Great-Grandma "Brag Book"

...and the Craziness ensues...

Hyp Mama: Lesson 1 - The Power of Words

Many of you have seen these posts and expressed interest in finding out more about Hypnobirthing. You can find all the posts I've written about it here:

My Discovery of Hypnobirthing: 

Hypno-What?!

The Hypnobabies Lessons I've blogged through:

Hyp-Mama: Zero Day 

Hyp-Mama: Lesson 1 - The Power of Words

Hyp-Mama: Lesson 2 - Out Like a Light!

Hyp-Mama: Lesson 3 - Blissfully Numb

Hyp-Mama: Lessons 4&5 - Push it to the Limit

Hyp-Mama: The Grand Finale - Ethan's Birth Story! 

And also be sure visit the Hypnobabies website, www.hypnobabies.com, for more great information. (Some of the Hypnobabies links embedded in my posts may be outdated since Hypnobabies has updated their website). If you have any questions or want more details, please feel free to send me a message and ask away!

---              ---              ---

"A rose may still be a rose by any other name...but would you still be as willing to walk up and smell it if I called it a Stinkweed?" -Hypnobabies Workbook, Chapter 1

When I first read Lesson #1 of Hypnobabies, it caught me a bit off guard. It explains, of course, the basics of the normal hypnotic state we experience each day, and how such a state can enable us to naturally manage pain—all of which I expected. But the remainder focuses on changing one’s entire set of vocabulary used when referring labor and delivery. Hence,

Due Date = Guess Date (because really, it is…you’re nuts if you think that little wheel is actually accurate!)
Pain = Discomfort or Pressure
Contraction = Pressure Wave
Labor = Birthing Time
Transition = Transformation

…and so on. I found this concept a bit silly at first, especially in practice: “What is that you say? You’re having a contraction? Not sure what that is, but I am having a Pressure Wave!” Seriously? Oddity aside, though, the science behind it is that we are all suggestible beings. (Marketing 101; must be why all those Facebook ads have me salivating over another pair of cute shoes when my closet is already bursting with ten pairs like it. But I digress). This means the ideas, words, and images we encounter can be so influential that our bodies have a pre-programmed reaction to them. Example: when virtually any woman in the English-speaking Western world hears the word “contraction,” she will likely cringe as her brain associates that word with things like pain, exhaustion, and fear, and her body will respond accordingly. The triggered response may be just emotional, but can easily translate to the physical as well: quicker breathing, tightened muscles, the increase of adrenaline (‘fight or flight’ response), increased perspiration, increased heart rate, etc. Many times it’s a chain reaction.

The more we hear these words and associate them with said negative concepts, the more quickly our bodies learn to respond unfavorably (darn muscle memory!). So one measly word association can stress us out enough to negatively affect what a woman’s body was originally made to do: birth a baby all on its own without lots of fear, drama, medication, or unnecessary intervention. To overcome this, we must learn some new optimistic, euphemistic terms with positive associations which re-train our brains and bodies to work with us and accomplish nature’s original goal.

Same goes with the situational. It’s not just words that trigger a response, but any situation appealing to our senses, especially in a negative way. This includes all those baby shows on TV, since producers know that more drama = more viewership. Dangerous, too, are those horrid labor stories that everyone from Aunt Mildred to the stranger in Target feel compelled to share as soon as they see—and try to rub—your bump.

The Hypnobabies Rule: While pregnant, do not watch any Desperate Laborers shows, and never ever ever allow someone to impart her past (and most likely inflated) “wisdom” and misery on you. These will cause you to view the entire birthing process negatively (be it consciously or subconsciously), even if the end result is positive (read: baby).

So even if a woman’s labor did last five days and she pushed for 12 hours, it should have no bearing on your experience. This isn’t to say that nothing will ever go wrong during pregnancy or birth (because sadly, it sometimes does). Rather, every experience is unique, and just because half the labors in Baby Story end in an emergency C-section or Aunt Mildred had the worst labor known to womankind doesn’t mean yours will be anything like that. In effect, we should focus only on those things we can control prior to the big event (like healthy eating, exercise, and positive mental stimulation) and fill our heads with positive thoughts and associations to help our bodies cooperate, instead of creating a self-fulfilling prophesy with worries and negative thoughts. Accordingly, a woman should tell talkative friends, relatives, and strangers that under no circumstances will she entertain a useless “my labor was more agonizing” peeing contest. So can it, Auntie M.

Luckily, this isn’t too hard for me to internalize since I did a lot of my “re-training” last time…and had a pretty awesome second birthing experience following the pretty traumatic first one. This reinforces the idea that each experience is unique, and birthing a baby can be peaceful and wonderful instead of scary and painful, especially if I continue to learn how to best cooperate with nature. And as odd as it seemed at first, the concept of word power in practice actually worked last time: I felt very intense—yet manageable—pressure, and not much of what I’d classify as actual “pain”. So my focus starting this week is fine-tuning my filter for the positive…starting now. In with the good, out with the bad!

Hyp Mama: Zero Day

Many of you have seen these posts and expressed interest in finding out more about Hypnobirthing. You can find all the posts I've written about it here:

My Discovery of Hypnobirthing: 

Hypno-What?!

The Hypnobabies Lessons I've blogged through:

Hyp-Mama: Zero Day 

Hyp-Mama: Lesson 1 - The Power of Words

Hyp-Mama: Lesson 2 - Out Like a Light!

Hyp-Mama: Lesson 3 - Blissfully Numb

Hyp-Mama: Lessons 4&5 - Push it to the Limit

Hyp-Mama: The Grand Finale - Ethan's Birth Story! 

And also be sure visit the Hypnobabies website, www.hypnobabies.com, for more great information. (Some of the Hypnobabies links embedded in my posts may be outdated since Hypnobabies has updated their website). If you have any questions or want more details, please feel free to send me a message and ask away!

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It’s that time again! It always seems like a switch goes off in my brain right around the 6 month mark, and now that I’m officially 24 weeks along (well almost 25), I’m fully in to the nesting phase and realizing that this little guy’s due date is in the not-so-distant future. Which means it’s time to dust off the books and get back to my Hypnobabies roots so I can do everything in my power to make his arrival as happy and painless as possible (and maybe relieve some endo pain in the process?).

24 weeks!

The Goal: to blog through my journey with each of the 5 at-home classes as a benchmark. 

That way I get some accountability to stay on track and actually practice like I’m supposed to, and you get some…entertainment? Or more likely a reprieve from reading about the joys of birthing if you don’t care and decide to skip all the hypno-posts. Take it or leave it.

Today is “Zero Day,” and next Monday officially starts week 1. (Yes, I’m giving myself a whole weekend to get over the procrastination bit and prepare)!

A brief background for those who don’t know: I stumbled upon the Hypnobabies concept after barely surviving my first not-so-painless natural delivery. I was still convinced I didn’t want meds (theme: I detest medication), and my beautiful little girl was worth every second of the torture, but I was convinced that there was a better way to go natural the second time around without putting myself through the same agony. So when the theme of “pain free” hypnobirthing and hypnotherapy surfaced on my Google search, I was intrigued to say the least…but beyond skeptical. I wasn’t convinced by any woman’s claim of no pain during labor, and totally weirded out by something that seemed so New Age-y.

But after some extensive research I was impressed by what I found in the Hypnobabies course. It explained that hypnotherapy is just a very specific relaxation technique, and that we all go in and out of hypnotic states all day long (zoning out while driving, reading a book, watching a movie). By teaching our bodies to relax as much as possible and get to this state on command even in times of stress, the muscles can do what they’re supposed to during the birthing process instead of fighting the process and creating pain. Made sense to me. I couldn’t find a single negative review anywhere online, and thought the At-home Study Course (with relaxation CDs) would be harmless since it wasn’t a crazy man swinging a green pendulum and turning my eyes in to spirals.

Anyway, I won’t belabor the point (pun intended!), especially since I already wrote a novel-worthy post about it a few years ago and tend have a problem with word spew (Step 1: admit to the problem). But besides delivering a nearly pain-free and deeply relaxing birth for my son, the hypno-techniques were completely compatible with my faith and helped me make my pregnancy and birth a very spiritual experience. Aside from the benefit of relaxation and amazing sleep during pregnancy (since my ‘practice’ mostly consisted of me putting on my headphones at bedtime and passing out shortly thereafter), the Hypnobabies site had a whole page devoted to the fact that the concept works for those of all faith backgrounds, and as you develop your own relaxation cues, words, and a ‘special place,’ it’s easy to incorporate a favorite scripture passage, prayer, word or meaningful spiritual place for each of those things. The most peaceful place on earth that I could dream up was “my” chapel at West Point, where I'd spent many a Wednesday night at Adoration: in other words just me, sitting alone with Jesus and my thoughts in the beautiful glow of the chapel. By making it my special place, I spent my hypno-sessions in the peaceful and loving presence of God learning to both bond with my baby and manage pain. And the experience of bringing Erik into the world was just as loving and peaceful—and truly, honestly 95% pain free (not once did I think I needed any meds).

There have been many nights when I actually missed my Hypnobabies sessions and thought about digging out the CDs (even though I wasn’t pregnant) to get back to that place where I could release the stress, anxiety, and fear of life while gaining such deep spiritual refreshment. Now that our newest little guy is here, I have no more excuses. So it’s time to stop procrastinating and get to relaxing! Week 1, comin' up…