#3

I just sat there, under the buzzing florescent lights, staring at a picture of a girl in the rain instead of meeting the pity in my doctor’s eyes...reality was coming into focus: what we thought would become our third child, was becoming our third miscarriage.  The last light of hope had been snuffed out as a forth sonogram revealed an empty womb and a bump on my left ovary.  Lab results said the baby was already on it’s way out or fused somewhere it would never survive.  More blood work should help determine what direction we were headed, but I was told Methotrexate would need to be administered as soon as possible if the dr. did not like the morning results. 

I went home that night and told my husband I may have to take a chemo drug to kill the baby that may or may not be lodged in my ovary.  When looking at it logically, there was no other choice.  If I did nothing about it, my ovary would eventually burst and I would internally bleed out.  I would die.  Either way, the baby was gone.  But for a night I had to wrestle with myself, the emotions, the loss...present or impending, the utter alone-ness, my two oblivious and living children who still needed their mama...palpable yet nameless guilt...an unexplainable sadness in my soul...fighting the tendrils of depression that sprouted from the fertile soil of that sadness...fearing the stabbing pain I felt in my pelvis would rupture and finish me off in my sleep.  

I dozed for a few hours in the early morning then dressed and drove to hear the verdict.  No, the baby was not in the ovary.  The pain and bump were from a burst and benign cyst with really bad timing.  Yes, you are miscarrying and the baby will be passing soon.  There was relief that I did not have to make a decision, take a drug, end a life.  Slight buoyancy that I was out of the woods and ok.  But all at once those same buzzing lights, pitying eyes, faint thai smell from the nurses lounge threatened to undo me as I rudely bolted to the door and out of that place.  

But as I wept in the car, feeling silly on a level for mourning so deeply for something so small...I realized something...I was not alone.  I had three texts waiting for me.  A voicemail. I glanced at the card on the passenger’s seat. 

My first two miscarriages were largely hushed and quiet, the fallout was less but the feelings of internal loneliness and ache were crushing.  This time I had chosen to take my own advice and pushed against every prideful, private, angry tendency and told some dear people in my life when things started looking doubtful weeks prior, asked for their prayers, for their support. And they gave me more than I could have imagined.  They made all the difference in the world.

It was a group of about six strong women I’ve come to know and love and trust, near and far.  And they got me through this.  I was floored to experience such a demonstration of love and care and support and practical help from these incredible friends.  Texts, calls, books, mail, prayers, words, babysitting, embraces.  Most of these women had not experienced a miscarriage, but that did not inhibit them from being there for me during mine.  Extending of themselves.  Shifting their schedules to watch our boys.  Praying for me.  Encouraging me.  Telling me they had no idea what to do or say, but they would be right by my side through it all.  

Today is October 15th:  Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.  Today is to remember the little lives we’ve lost.  And today is also about awareness.  Awareness doesn’t happen unless we open up and let others in.  And letting others see and taste and experience our pain is hard.  It’s vulnerable. It’s choosing not to press the hurt into a bolus of anger and resentment and swallow it whole and alone.  It’s taking that uncomfortable step and telling others and allowing them to help bear the pain.  It’s also letting women aching in their own silent hells, know that they are not alone, either.  

The hurt is still raw for me, just barely a week old, and most of me doesn't want to write this.  It's not eloquent, it's pocked with errors I don't have the energy to correct, it's more raw than I'm comfortable sharing.  But if I wait until I'm healthy and happy and well, it will never get written.  

So today, I'm writing this for you out there who think you're alone….you're not.  Tell a select few friends, see a counselor, share your pain.   It will help greatly.  It will begin the healing. And today, I'm also writing to those in my life, neighborhood, timezone, and beyond who were there for me and continue to be.  

My Furry Babes: Introduction to Drool City

by: Christen Vermeulen

Confession: I love my dog more than most people.  

It’s true.

Dogs, in general, I prefer over human beings. Yes, I am one of those crazy people who, in another life, should have been a California hippie, strictly vegan, protesting against animal cruelty, and working as a veterinarian fostering dogs until a good home was found for them. 

But in reality, I grew up on a farm surrounded by corn fields with a love of grass-fed, free range beef. I also chose nursing as a profession that puts me in direct contact with some of the worst humans I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing. However, in my former life and my present one, my love for the canines has not waned in the slightest.

Every family pet I’ve had was not just an animal, they were escalated to a member of the family. I could easily write a book about each of our family pets; they have existed since my earliest memory and saturated my lifestyle as one never being without a dog.

My current dog, Jasmine, just turned five years old.

She is a female Newfoundland coming in at 115 pounds, and considered “small” for a Newfie. Jasmine and I are buddies and she makes me a better person.  

Why?

I can’t be lazy when I’m around her, I get outside, she teaches me patience, and unconditional love. She follows me around quietly with what I call “hopeful eyes,” heaving heavy sighs, and laying her huge, fat head on my lap until I take her on a walk, swimming, or fetch. Over the years, she has also taught me to not be so attached to material things.

Newfoundlands are huge, hairy, slobbery, uncoordinated beasts without exception. My husband and I have had to rearrange our furniture, vehicles, travel plans, and living arrangements around our dog. And then not care about the prestine condition of any of them too much. 

I daily vacuum her bales of fur in every crevice of our home, scrub off the dried slobber that has formed a thin layer on our most expensive things, and have come to terms that my car scent will always be “wet dog”.

But when I look into her sweet brown eyes, I know she doesn’t recognize anything other than what I ask of her, she loves being around me in any capacity, and only cares about quality time spent with those she loves while doing the fun doggy things she was born to do. 

Who wouldn’t be a better person hanging around that for five plus years?

So, be forewarned, my love for dogs does not stop with just my own pet...it expands to pretty much all canines. And you’ll be hearing a lot more about dogs from me. 

So if you don’t like heartwarming stories about unconditional love, silent support in hard times, tales of destruction about tails of destruction, and random facts about my furry babes, well, I’m not saying we couldn’t be friends...

....but I definitely wouldn’t trust you.

The Bum Encounter

One morning I was in the kitchen washing dishes while my 14 month old son was scribbling with Crayolas on the dining room floor.  All was pretty peaceful and I breathed out a contented sigh.  But that quickly changed when minutes later Jake plodded toward the table and the following scene played out in horrific slow motion:

Lucy is minding her own business eating breakfast remnants off the floor and cannot see Jake tottering up behind her. I think he’s going for her tail but veers south at the last second and…yes, to my absolute horror…

index finger inserts in dog anus.

Now, there are lots of ways I could have reacted:

But much to my surprise and against my natural bent, I didn’t do any of these things.   The belly laugh rocking my child like internal seismic waves in the wake of my fleeing dog prevented me from all those acceptable above reactions.  Instead, I started to giggle…and before I knew it Jake and I were both in a pile of explosive, hiccuping, tearful laughter.

Eventually we righted ourselves, took some deep breaths, washed our hands, and had a serious conversation about how little fingers must always stay out of certain places…and orifices. Then we sought out Lucy to make things right.

Parenting is serious business.  It’s taking the little lives God has entrusted to us and shaping them as best we can. And many days, it feels like bone-crushing work weighed down by:

• the huge responsibility of the task
• cycles of frustration and defiance
• days that seem they will never…EVER... end
• long depleted patiences reserves 
• nights sputtering to a stop on the fumes of mutual exasperation.

But parenting can also be full of laughter, if we consistently choose to veer away from our natural reaction and enjoy the hilarity of a moment.

The “Bum Encounter”  was actually a situation that helped me learn to approach motherhood with more laughter instead of frustration (and shock…and disgust) and has benefited us all years later.  It even helped Lucy become more wizened and wary to the ploys of a curious little boy and avoid other unpleasant situations (…like repeated toddler-conducted proctology exams…) and they are great friends today.

Laughter is a healing, day-changing, prescription for my soul.  Though I’m pretty certain this will never be something my dog looks back and chuckles about, I’m thankful for her help in creating a laughable moment that helped introduce many more…and thankfully not at her expense.

How have laughable moments caught you off guard and changed the atmosphere in your home?

Baby Bath Time Blues

by: Andy Doolittle

I'm all alone this night with she

As her head is propped upon her knee

And a ducky’s shoved up in my face

...As she stares up in to outer space

....And drool drips down her tired face

.....As she tries to find her happy place 

And I splash her real hard just in case...

She slips into a restful nap 

Upon the turquoise bathroom mat,

And forgets about my bubbly needs

...And how the washcloth makes me sneeze

....And lonesomeness that makes me wheeze 

.....And tepid waters cause me freeze

I hear Jake’s joyful laughs with dad

That make me mournfully so sad 

Enough of this! I'm done! I'm through!

Grunting hard I drop a poo 

Then toss it over, "bombs away!"

(Yikes, had lots of corn today)

It lands with force upon her thigh

Her stupor clears.  Her screams so high!

Andy Stop!  Oh my WORD!

Chill out mom, it’s just a terd...

As she squeamishly flicks off the pieces

Of my nicely, well aimed feces,  

I grab my Tigger bath time pails

Filling each up to their tails,

Then dump them over on the floor 

She skids!   She slides...into the door!

Tires to dodge the poo but can’t 

And shouts a loud profane-filled rant

Then pirouettes, attempts to stand

Flailing, reaches with her hand...

The countertop, but grabs instead

The towel rack and smacks her head

She sinks down on the floor to rest

But lands upon the tube of Crest

A speeding light green minty arc

Sails up straight and hits its mark:

Her unwashed, curly mass of hair

She slumps and sighs out all her air.  

Now’s my chance to join my brother!

Just must get passed the injured mother....

I slide with grace onto the floor

Hopscotch by poo near the door

Twirl passed bobbing toothpaste bits

Then give her one well-planted kiss.

You’re real sweet, Mom, but for your sake

I never bathe without The Jake.   

Andy is 15 months old and the youngest of two brothers.  He enjoys the intricate passed times of shredding paper into indiscernible bits, particularly tax returns and warranties, and using the living room walls as a self-expressive mural.  He enjoys the freedom of the naked-state and has expressed interest in founding the first infant nudist colony.  One day, he hopes to swing on the ceiling fan in a brother-built sling and ride his dog like a pony.  His life motto would be, "If you can grab it, you can throw it."

Under the Table, Drawing

I grew up in a tiny rural town in an old farmhouse perched on top of a lopsided hill.  That house held my fondest memories as a child (and a ton of lady bug carcasses).  Our favorite place to congregate was the old summer kitchen where we shared fights, homework help, and my mom's incredible cooking.

As my two sisters and I grew older, the tiny kitchen became tinier and our tired old table had to go.  Its replacement was a solid, beautiful, oakey thing that could hold half a football team.  

One day, we were laying on the kitchen floor when one of us had the brilliant idea to pull out the markers and brand our new table.  I, being the oldest, obviously delegated the delinquency and Christen scurried off to grab the Crayolas.  

Now three giggling girls hiding under a table trying to draw on it in secrecy while nearly imploding from the rebellious joy of it all, were bound to be quickly discovered.   

And we were.  

As the table cloth flung up, we froze and stared up at our mother, staring down at us.  

No one spoke for a good ten seconds as she took in the scene; her eyes weighing everything, looking to each of us.  

"What are you girls doing?" she asked, face unreadable.

"Um….drawing…under the…table," I hesitantly offered.  

"Hmm…." she said

(Here it was:  the punishment.  De-poopig the chicken coop?  Weeding the garden?  No Full House?!)

"Hand me the pink," she smiled, as she dropped onto her belly and wriggled under there with us.  

Whaaaat??!

The tension bubble burst with an explosion of laughter as we scrambled to get her a marker.

She drew her picture then left us to one of the most incredible afternoons as we scribbled stories, faces, and signatures into the oak.  A turning point afternoon for me.

Fast forward 20 years, right before babies and Texas happened, and Mom showed up in our driveway one day with a pickup truck and some elbow grease, delivering the best birthday gift I could imagine:  that old table.  After years of Easter egg dying, hot cookie sheets, blanched tomatoes, and manicures, nearly all the finish was long gone and many scratches, ruts, and gashes gouged its surface.

My husband and I set to work restoring it.  We sanded down the top, refinished the polish, replaced the leg bolts, then sat for quite awhile reading all the things three little girls scrawled under there long ago.  

That table has been through a lot: six moves, the aforementioned Easter eggs and cookie sheets, late night curfew-fights, loud family meals, louder games of Euchre, raspberry stains, spilled milk, sharpies….

It is well-lived, well-used, well-loved.

I want my life to be like this table and the choice my mom made decades ago to sacrifice one of the nicest things we owned, for years of memories and experiences to come.

To keep things…and hearts…pristine and undamaged, a kind of quarantine has to be instated.

"Keep back!  Shoes off!  Don't touch!"

…like a formal living room padlocked and laser guarded, reserved only for holiday relatives or a visit from The President.

My life, nor this blog, is anything like that living room.  It's messy, funny, unpredictable, emotional, and exhausting.  So that is much of what you can expect when you take a click here.  Plus:

• multi-contributors' transparent articles/thoughts/ reviews/strangeness
• reader interactivity
• giveaways
• motherhood glories and defeats
• funny things
• faith things
• painful things
• weird things

So pull up a chair (sorry about the Playdoh...) and share a cup of coffee in a well-lived kitchen around an old crayola-ed table and raise a toast to this crazy life.  Then grab a crayon and and spend some time of your own, under the table, drawing.