What a Gift!

(Warning: major mush factor)


If you would have asked me seven years ago who I was going to marry and stuck my husband in the lineup, I absolutely would have said, “not THAT guy!”

On that fateful day over seven years ago—our first day at West Point when we met—everything about him screamed “not my type!” He had a tough exterior, a seemingly defiant demeanor, and of course that super sexy buzz cut (admittedly not his fault since all male new cadets at West Point are subjected to this great tradition on the first day). At any rate, I was totally not interested. And he’ll be the first to say that he definitely didn’t see anything special in my goody-two-shoes ways either…

But thanks be to God, we later warmed up to each other enough to have a real conversation or two, learn each others’ first names (I actually laughed when I learned his), and eventually take a deeper look.

Like any road, ours has had its twists and turns, but Peter’s support, sacrifice, and ability to provide the care we need at literally each moment has remained constant. He has the uncanny ability to draw me out of my shell and embrace my vulnerabilities when I try to hide them. I’ve felt his strong arms lift me when I had no physical strength of my own; I’ve heard his words of love and comfort lift me out of grief and pain. I’ve seen his smile, heard his laugh, and felt his joy as we’ve shared life’s blessings. I’ve watched him selflessly let go of his own dreams and opportunities to give us the best life possible, despite the fact that it means so much sacrifice on his end. I've listened to his prayers, leaned on his faith when mine was weak, and followed him along with God into the great unknown without reservation.

On so many occasions he's surprised me with little gifts for no reason, a note of encouragement, or just the right story with the right laugh factor that will make my day. He is fiercely loyal, fiercely competitive, and secretly sensitive. I’ve been privy to his keen intelligence and have battled with him to see who could find the worst OER or NCOER bullet or the make the best Scrabble move. I’ve watched him do the heavy lifting, the manly projects, and the taxes. I’ve shared his love of hockey, skiing, and great wine; I've and tolerated his love(obsession) of Colorado and ridiculously spicy food.

And despite the old adage a man’s stomach is the way to his heart, my observation is that his kids are. There’s nothing that melts my heart more than seeing his heart melt when he’s around our children; watching the way he interacts with them, sharing his amazement at the wonderful gifts that have been born out of the depths of our love, feeling how his heart breaks as we experience loss and lead each other through it.

He is my husband, my soulmate, the completion of “US.” He is my Peter, and on this anniversary of his birth when we celebrate his life, and on Valentine’s Day when we celebrate our love, I submit that I could not be more grateful to God for both.

I love you, my Love...Happy Birthday and Happy Valentine's Day!

Look Who's Talking...

It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly I had my first official conversation with Marie, but I was taken aback a few weeks ago when I stopped in the middle of a dinner conversation with my wonderful husband to hear my beloved two year old, who would usually be making annoying noises by this point in the meal, trying to butt in with her own account of what happened during her day. Her mastery of language has been a gradual process, of course, but recently her proficiency seemed to just blossom overnight. As a language major, I considered myself to have somewhat of an affinity for language…though I admit, I found the whole concept of language development slightly less enthralling when taking my mandatory linguistics course five years ago. Yet these days it’s been more entertaining than I could have imagined to have a front row seat in the evolution of toddler speak.

For instance, the endearing error of Marie's mix-and-match of the first and third person: “Marie wants to brush my teeth and get her hairbrush too.”

Or the concept of time. “Marie, what did you do today?” “I read a book last weekend.” Hmmm. “Marie, do you want to go sit on the potty?” “Not today, in a while. Tomorrow.” Ok, tomorrow it is then.

Then there’s her tendency to form a question using whatever verb she expects you to answer with. Rather than always saying, “Mommy, what are you doing?” she will substitute “doing” with the word “going,” “having,” or “taking.”
Q: “Mommy, what are you having?”
A: “Cereal.”
Q: “Daddy what are you going?”
A: “To work.”
Q: “Mommy, what are you taking?”
A: “A shower.”

Pronunciation has been a continuing effort, as cute as that little toddler lisp is…like when she says “yike” instead of “like” or “Ewik!” instead of "Erik" (which is quite an improvement from her ever-entertaining original pronunciation of ‘ookie’—which we absolutely WILL tell his first date)! She’s getting better at saying “spoon” as opposed to “foon,” but for some reason is ignoring our insistence that she try to pronounce the ‘l’ more clearly in the word “clock.” She’s also somehow mixed up some of her constantans so that “dog” has become “gog” and “truck” has become “cuck.”

There are also those instances where no matter how grammatically correct she is, we can’t help but shake our heads or laugh. Or both. The other night at dinner she was intent on asking everyone repeatedly, “How was your first day, Mommy? How was your first day, Daddy?” First day of what, I’m not sure. Suffice it to say that we each had a great first day. Multiple times.

She also caught on quickly to the concept that batteries make the world go 'round, and if there are dying/no batteries, a broken toy results. Like the Glow Worm that she can’t sleep without. Hence the travesty when Glow Worm started singing his swan song and we couldn't find new batteries in the house. But it was ok, because according to Marie, Daddy was going to fix it when he got home. “Daddy will go to the store and get clean batteries,” she announced. My hero.

Tonight her application of her newfound language skills was to try and reason her way out of going to bed. “I don’t want to go night night!” she whined. “Well what do you want to do instead?” we asked. “Go to Walmart,” she answered without hesitation. Of course. Because that’s what we all do when we don’t want to go to bed yet.

And finally, every so often there’s that gem of a phrase that captures my heart and makes me melt…like the times she calls out, completely unprompted, “Thank you for cooking!” and best of all, “I love you, Mommy! You’re the best Mommy!”

And the smile that accompanies it is priceless.

Unplanned

Last night, I had the privilege of hearing author Abby Johnson speak and was amazed by her courage. In the midst of suffering incredible loss as a mother and facing an exhausting legal battle with her former employer, Planned Parenthood, she has emerged not only more resilient, but ever more capable of sharing the truth. Her ability to share something so deeply personal and painful--especially in the face of her critics--speaks volumes. Abby now continues to reach out to women in crisis with incredible dignity and compassion, giving real help to those facing struggles similar to her own. For those women who have personally experienced the fragility of life, this woman is an absolute blessing.

Abby Johnson featured on the 700 Club:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kf1FVJ6dH5Y 

 

Available at:

http://www.amazon.com/Unplanned-Dramatic-Planned-Parenthood-Eye-Opening/dp/1414339399/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1294797658&sr=8-1

“Time to face up, clean this old house…”

I know very few people who actually like cleaning. Years after leaving home I can still hear my mother’s words: “Don’t put it down, put it away!” Granted, it’s a great feeling when things are clean and organized…but the work it takes to get there is pretty far down on my list of fun things to do. So naturally I was overwhelmed last night as we attempted to get all of our Christmas stuff put away, surrounded by piles of decorations, memory boxes, toys, laundry. The sheer volume of it all was so daunting that I was tempted to just walk away for a few more days in favor of something easier. But as we picked up one item at a time and dealt with it, the room became not only cleaner and more pleasant to be in, but I felt my internal load lighten as well. Once we actually started (with much credit going to my wonderful husband for keeping us on track), it was easy. I realized it’s the initiative piece of the puzzle that I’m missing…the act of will to just make myself to start the task that I need to work on—one item at a time—in order to move forward. As I pondered this last night, the good Lord ever so gently elbowed me in the ribs and said “let’s do some house cleaning in that spiritual junkyard of yours, too, huh?!” And with all my bemoaning aside, I admit that it’s time. I've discouraged myself into a stalemate for far too long, overwhelmed with all the things about myself that I need to change or make better, spiritually, emotionally, physically. So, here I go, one item at a time. No walking away, no picking up an item and putting it down unless I've fully addressed it and put it away where it goes. First up: accepting the joy in life.

“...time to breathe in and let everything out…” –Sanctus Real   

                               

P.S. I’ve given up on 100 words. For now.

100 words or less

Sooo it’s been awhile. I’m shamefully bad at math, but even I can calculate based on the dates that it’s been almost a year and a half since my last blog entry. And that I quit after exactly three entries…yikes. My self-diagnoses is a lack of motivation with a touch of insane busy-ness. But I’ve realized a big problem with my other posts was an acute case of word spew, too. So I’ve decided to try something new: keep up the posting, but in 100 words or less. In case you’re wondering, this post is now exactly 100 words long. But I’m giving myself 200 extra words this time for the year of updates I skipped. Suffice it to say, I’d like to get back on the bandwagon and the “New Year, New Me” thing is the perfect excuse. So here are my updates and goals:

1. My hypno-baby, Erik, was born 15 months ago. The hypno-birthing was nothing short of amazing—I hope I’ll get to use it again!

2. Having my husband home for the past year has been nothing short of amazing. Here’s to him staying home for a long long time!

3. The end of 2010 was filled with significant ups and downs, and has helped me appreciate my beautiful family (and in fact, my life) infinitely more than I could have imagined. Now I just need to work on letting them know that.

4. I’m slowly moving forward in my one-step forward, two steps back journey of faith. God has put some wonderful people in my life recently to help me stay on the path!

5. Final goal: finish the Christmas cards this week since New Year’s has already come and gone!

Now if only there was a word count feature in this blog... 

All you who are hungry...

So when did eating become work? For someone who likes food, it's hard to imagine that eating could ever turn in to a chore. Yet in the space of a few pregnancies, the mere prospect of eating has taken on a whole new light for me.
With my first pregnancy, it was simply the dreaded morning (all-day) sickness that did it. In my naivety growing up, I did not realize that morning sickness lasted more than a few days. Imagine my shock when I was told that it should (but might not) dissipate by the end of the first trimester. I bravely forged on with my food intake for a day or two...and then it hit me. It was like a switch had been flipped overnight. I begrudgingly accepted the trimester-long sentence as night after night, my poor husband named off every item in the pantry as a prospective dinner idea while I gagged and berated him for his insensitivity to my nausea. In the back of my head, I tried to use rationale--after all, it wouldn't work to simply starve for three months straight, would it? Yet as rationale caved to misery, starvation seemed not a bad option. Somehow, between dry cereal, triscuits (which I now look at with contempt), and peppermints, I survived, and luckily even began to thrive again as I coasted in to second trimester.

The second pregnancy stepped my struggle up a notch. I vividly remember sitting at my desk the day I "got" to tell my boss that I was pregnant (again, for the second time in two years, which the Army does not look kindly upon). As supportive as he was in my emotional hour, he for some reason chose that moment in time to come talk to me armed with a pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (never mind that used to be my favorite). That day, as he gave me his pep talk and told me not to worry about others' opinions between bites of his Reese's, it was all I could do to clamp my mouth shut, hold my breath, and pray that I didn't lose my measly lunch of crackers at his feet when the sickly sweet smell of chocolate and peanut butter accosted my delicate nostrils.

So, fully knowing what to expect 'this time around', I armed myself with saltines, oyster crackers, pretzels, and every bland cereal known to mankind. Yet I was in for a rude awakening. It was not so much the nausea that had me doubled over this time (although still a contributing factor), but the sheer, ravenous hunger that gripped my stomach within a half an hour after consuming anything. It couldn't be possible...I was eating seemingly constantly despite my gag reflex. Yet by some ironic twist, after all the food I kept ingesting, I was still constantly plagued by hunger. I soon realized the cause: between growing our new little munchkin and still nursing my oldest little munchkin, my body was literally screaming (in the language of searing pangs of hunger) for more calories. By month two, I was simply tired of eating. By month four, I was literally exhausted by the mere sight of food. Never mind that I had to plan not only breakfast and lunch, but dinner every night as well, since my dear husband was off in Afghanistan dealing with his own struggles. Still, there were many nights I envied his position: Wouldn't it be wonderful to just walk into a dining facility and be handed dinner every night? Just be told what to eat? No menu planning, no cooking... Well, at least I could dream.

I now sit at the brink of the end of this pregnancy, and I honestly wonder sometimes how I've managed to feed myself enough to still be alive. Pre-pepared dinners have helped, and many a bowl of cereal has served as crisis intervention for sudden hunger pangs. Most of the time I simply cope by staring woefully at the open fridge and rifling through cabinets, finally convincing myself that I need to eat something, and hence forcing a something or other down my throat.

But the wonder has led me to a deeper contemplation as well. How have I managed to spiritually feed myself during these times of crisis? The similarity between my physical need for food and my spiritual need for
nourishment is striking, really.

I have always loved to eat; I have always loved my Faith. I went through phases of being picky about one food or another, just as I went through phases of favorite prayers or acceptance of Church teachings; in the end, though, I came to develop an appreciation for good food, as well as great Faith. Through college and beyond, despite my ups and downs trying to maintain a healthy diet in both arenas, I came out on top. At the onset of our marriage, I was about the healthiest I have ever been both physically and spiritually. I loved my natural and healthy foods, I enjoyed a good workout, my prayer life was in good order, and my husband and I were growing in our marriage daily.

Enter motherhood. Just as eating became a chore, in many ways my prayer life did as well. It became work to force myself to meditate on anything profound, let alone utter a rote prayer such as a Hail Mary or an Our Father. My husband and I still took time to pray (or say, in my case) a rosary every once in awhile, and I forced myself to tune in during Sunday mass, but I was not well nourished.

As for my spiritual life during my second pregnancy? As my physical hunger for food seemed to double, so did my need for spiritual food. Forget the stale rote prayers or even concentrating at mass--with a toddler looking for every possible avenue of escape from the pew (to include spontaneous tantrums) it became virtually impossible. Yet I craved something to fulfill me. Without my husband around to confide in or draw solace from, I spent many a day feeling desperate for any form of consolation. Just as I scoured the fridge and cabinets for something to fill my empty stomach, I surfed the internet, flipped through TV channels, and called home far more than necessary trying to feed my starving soul.

Yet it hit me recently that these shallow means of fulfillment--even if they taste alright at the time--simply cannot sustain me. Especially when my family needs me to sustain them. As nauseous or exhausted as I might feel, I still need to get dinner on the table for our resident one-year-old, and in my belly for our soon-to-be bundle of joy. It doesn't matter that I don't feel like thinking up yet another meal, or that I don't have the energy to whip up something. It is precisely due to my lack of energy that I need to eat and gain some energy. It is, in fact, those times when I feel the most begrudging toward food that I need a good meal the most!

Ditto with my spiritual nourishment. It is the times when I am most busy, most overwhelmed, and most begrudging toward prayer that I need it most. I have cried out to God many a time when I feel utterly frustrated, lonely, misunderstood, or simply weary: God, isn't there anyone? I can't deal with this alone right now! Please send someone, I just need someone...

But if I listen closely enough, it's in those moments that He responds, ever so gently, What about Me?

And if I step outside my self-pity just long enough, I'm reminded that He is truly the best nourishment I could ask for, the essence of what I really need--even if it takes extra work. A few crackers might be the easy fix to hold me over for a short while, but in the long run, only a real meal--achieved with real elbow grease--will result in fulfillment and growth. So face the kitchen I will--and hopefully teach my children to do the same!

Hypno-what?!

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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I've inherited lots of wonderful traits from my mother. A love for writing, a passion for my faith, an empathy for others' needs. And the older I get, the more I've discovered that I harbor all sorts of my mother's characteristics I previously denounced: extreme aversion to any and all germs (may God bless the inventor of Clorox wipes!), a strict protocol of how the dishes should be arranged in the dishwasher or cabinets, and--last but not least--an affinity for anything 'natural.' Gone are the days when I turn up my nose at the natural peanut butter or Kashi granola in the cupboard.  By now, my stock is almost identical! Of course this extends past the world of food; I detest taking medicine over any 'natural' remedy I can find, especially when I know my suffering will be limited. Hence my reasoning for choosing to go the way of 'natural' birth with Marie.

I knew that I wanted to deliver her naturally for all the right reasons: a quicker birthing, a more alert baby with  no medication in her system after the birth, and fewer chances of complications that could lead to further intervention. What I was not expecting was the indescribable agony of bringing my daughter into the world. Yes, I had prepared myself for the fact that it would hurt. A lot, even. But I was not prepared for it to feel like that. Like most mothers, I would submit (even moments afterward) that every single second was worth it as I beheld our beautiful baby girl. Yet I was surprised that I was almost willing to give into pain meds, and developed a sudden loathing for Eve and her carelessness that bestowed the 'pains of childbirth' on womankind.

Which brought me to the struggle of what to do the next time around. My daughter was worth it--but she was already in existence, a flesh-and-blood miracle in my very arms. How could I resign myself to the fact that by cooperating with God's will and opening ourselves to possibly create more children, I would intentionally be putting myself through this again? I thought of all the women with two, three, ten children. How did they do it?!

Of course, we could not have imagined that I would indeed be putting myself through it all again a mere year and change later. Five-month old Marie gurgled happily on her playmat while I sat bewildered in the bathroom, the word 'pregnant' blinking clear as day on the test (I made Peter go out and get the 'kind with words' when I didn't believe the first one with lines). With Peter packing the last of his things for his year-long departure to Afghanistan in a few short days, I was beyond overwhelmed. Not only would I be going through it again so soon, but this time there was a chance that Peter might not even be there in time!

Thus began my immediate quest for the secret to surviving natural childbirth, since I 'knew' what to expect based on my first birthing experience. The series of classes (if you could call them that0 that we took before Marie was born were no help whatsoever; the instructors dangled the carrot of natural childbirth briefly as we practiced breathing techniques and swaying back and forth, but then told us all about all pain management we should request as soon as it started to hurt. Right.

So I consulted my ever-reliable source of wisdom and promptly Googled 'natural childbirth.' I read about Lamaze, then about the Bradley method. And then something at the bottom of the page caught my eye: Hypnobirthing.

Hypno-what?!

Highly skeptical, I clicked on the link. It had to be some weird new-age-y thing. Granted, I'd heard of hypnosis to treat traumatic stress disorders, or quit smoking, or lose weight. But being hypnotized while giving birth? That was way out there!

But the site seemed less alarming than I imagined. It talked about the many times daily when people experience a state of hypnosis--watching TV, getting lost in a book, zoning out while driving--and that hypnosis is just an altered state of mind that everyone has experienced. It didn't take a hypnotist swinging a pendulum in front of your eyes. Sounded normal enough. I was intrigued...so I kept reading. Apparently women could learn the techniques to reach this relaxed state (i.e. hypnosis) on their own. Using it for childbirth was simply a way for women to learn how to relax enough to work with their muscles to facilitate the birthing process (instead of tensing up out of fear and tension, which creates pain).

After some additional research, my skepticism was all but conquered. I found comments from women all over the internet saying they had experienced minimal pain, or even NO pain, during the birth of their child by using self-hypnosis. Even women whose said it didn't completely work (they ended up resorting to medication) said they wouldn't trade learning the techniques and using them during labor for anything. I even saw some unbelievable videos on You Tube of women using hypnosis during childbirth. All the feedback seemed positive...it almost seemed too good to be true.

I then stumbled upon Hypnobabies, a program offering a six-week home study course to teach women how to achieve self-hypnosis for childbirth. No need for classes, no visits to hypnotherapists, just me and a manual and some relaxing CDs. I think I could do that...


What really convinced me was a sample Hypnobabies relaxation track online [ www.enjoybirth.com/music/Hypnobabies-Relax-Me-Script.mp3 ] (similar to the Hypnobabies CDs) that lasted about a half hour. I listened to it and there was nothing 'weird' about it...just focusing on relaxing muscles, breathing deeply, etc. So after about a month of trying to convince myself, and talking about it with my mom and Peter to make sure I wasn't totally crazy, I decided it wouldn't hurt to order the home study course.

By the time the kit arrived I was surprisingly excited, and started reading and listening to the CDs right away. The information seemed pretty straightforward, without any strange subliminal religious or new age philosophies mixed in. I found that there was even plenty of room for me to add in my own favorite prayers as I practiced my relaxation techniques. I found it completely compatible with the expression of my Catholic faith. Of course, my commitment to practicing leaves something to be desired. Between working full time and chasing Marie around, I've been a C+ student at best. Most of the time I just fall asleep listening to the CDs...but I figure for what it's worth, at least I've gotten some fantastic nights of sleep out of the program (which can be a miracle in itself during 3rd trimester)! Granted, the real test will be when baby #2 decides to initiate his or her arrival, but I must say that I have been extremely happy with the entire experience thus far!

Of course I'll be posting about the experience, so we'll find out soon how well it all works. 3 weeks and counting till the final exam!

The Sound of Silence

It struck me the other day how incredibly well I've adjusted to the sounds of motherhood.

I was on the phone with the receptionist of the Overhead Door Company, politely discussing scheduling options to diagnose our finicky garage door (a story for another time), when the question seemed to come out of left field: "So how old is the baby?" It took me a moment to process the question before realizing that I had tuned out the carousel-esque tone of the Playskool train as it cycled through railroad-themed songs, not to be outdone by the Tickle-and-Bounce-Me Elmo as he proclaimed, "Toss Elmo! Higher!" All the while Marie babbled happily in the other corner of the playard, attempting with all her might to tip the plastic slide-about twice the size of her--onto its side.


CRASH! Mission accomplished.

"Oh, um, she just turned one" I uttered distractedly as I watched the slide settle into its new position. Ms. Overhead Garage Door cooed from the other end, and we discussed the joys of one-year-olds for a moment before getting back to business. Yet after hanging up the phone, I was still mulling over the not-so-white noise that had become my greatest consolation. I thought back to college when I would--in a meager effort to concentrate on schoolwork--attempt to block out the sound of a roomate's phone conversation, antics in the hallway, or the loud base beat from the room above ours which shook ceiling and walls in time; to no avail. I sometimes found that putting on soft music of my own could serve as a coping mechanism, but more often than not it turned into a distraction as well. Now, in a few short years, I realize that it's not just the sounds in my life that have changed drastically, but my reaction to them as well.

The cacophany of wailing that fills my home is no longer noise to me; it serves as communication. From it, I can calculate whether Marie is hungry, tired, or simply mad that I won't let her have her own way. A screaming child in church no longer phases me (unless it is my own child, whom I quickly attempt to appease if that's the case). And the bantering of toys in the playard--constantly talking, singing, clanging, counting--has become my consolation that all is good and well in Marie land.

In fact, I discovered with wry fascination that it is no longer the presence of noise, but the absence of it, that makes me a crazed woman. When all the singing and chattering has ceased, when all the clattering of slides and carts tipping over is absent, the little panic button in the back of my brain starts screaming at me through the serene calm. I've come to think of it as the calm before the storm. My muscles tense up, allowing me to spring as quickly as possible from the kitchen, or hall, or bedroom, eyes searching wildly for a little 2-foot imp. Many times she is sitting peacefully in the playard, simply letting her mind soak in a good little book. But there was the time she was standing on her little plastic drum, attempting to climb over the playard gate, oblivious to the 4 foot drop on the other side. And the time that she had wandered down the hall into her room and proceeded to empty her diaper pail (hence calling for an immediate bath). And the many times she's made a beeline for Samson's drool-covered water dish or his own bin of soggy toys, smiling with glee the whole way. Like any good stealth, it is these times that she's not only unbelievely quiet, but somehow manages to move lightning-fast. Thus, silence is no longer my friend.

I've heard a few mothers remark that some days they simply cannot take the noise anymore. For me, I fear the opposite as our family grows. With two, I accept the fact that the noise will mount significantly. Perhaps even exponentially. I just hope that when those moments of silence arrive, my ability to maintain a clear head improves significantly, along with my speed!