I Need To Be More Like Them

As a mother of 5 small children, I used to think that my job was solely to mold my kids into what I thought they should be. I thought it was all about teaching and leading and always being the perfect example of what is right and good. I was never aware that I had omitted a huge part of motherhood... very possibly the single most important component in my role as a mother. Somehow, I never realized that it is just as vital to let my children lead, teach, and be an example for me. I now understand that I need to be more like my children...

My first-born, Miss Priss, inspires me. At 9 years old, she has become a shining example of self-confidence and contentment. She has always been this way. For example, when she was 6, she decided that she wanted to start soccer. It was her first time to play a team sport, and she was inevitably placed on a team of girls who had been on the same team for 4 seasons already. My daughter was by far the smallest girl on her team, and as much as it pains me to say it, she was also the slowest. She had no knowledge of the rules of the game, let alone strategy or plays. All this aside, she loved to play. As she would trail behind the other girls while chasing the ball, my heart would break for her. I would wish with every fiber of my being that her little legs could just go faster. Without fail, though, she would come off the field, anything but defeated... "Momma, did you see how fast I was running? I'm getting so good at this!" She didn't compare herself to anyone else. She lets her own personal best be her triumph.

Sometimes, she looks in the mirror for awhile, gazing intently at herself. Now, when I do this, it's with the sole purpose of taking a mental inventory of all the things that I hate about my face and body. This is not the case for my baby girl. "Momma, I'm really pretty." She says this not because she's full of herself, but because she truly loves what she sees being reflected back at her. I need to be more like her. I need to love myself more. I need to find victory in myself.

Sensitiva is 7 years old. Her twin sister was very small and sick as a baby, and required a lot of extra attention. She has a big sister and a little sister, leaving her to be the "middle" girl. She has always been lost somewhere in the middle. She has a classic case of Middle Child Syndrome, which has given her reason to be insecure at times. She has always felt, justifiably, that she has to work harder to get attention. The effect that MCS has had on her hasn't been completely negative, though. Sensitiva is acutely aware of other people's feelings. Out of the goodness of her heart, she performs random acts of kindness. Small favors here and there, when she senses that someone is in need. The most amazing part of her thoughtfulness, though, is not in the act itself. The best part is the way that she always says "You're welcome" before being thanked. I find it inspiring that she sees enough good in people to automatically assume that they will say "Thank you". I need to be more like her. I need to open my heart to the goodness of others without any proof that goodness actually exists. I need to be more selfless.

Next in line is Tiny T. We call her "the runt of the litter". When she received surgery at 2 weeks old, she weighed less than 4 pounds. She was smaller and more frail than her twin sister. Seven years later, my Tiny T is a free spirit. She answers to no one. She is stubborn and strong-willed, opinionated and self-assured. My youngest daughter takes in every particle of the world around her. Over the years, she has developed a sort of sixth sense, always knowing what to say or do to lift your spirit. She magically and silently appears when I'm feeling down or overwhelmed, her tiny arms wide open. That girl gives amazing hugs. She always knows just the right moment to slip her tiny hand into that of her twin sister, because she can feel that Sensitiva is uncomfortable or insecure in her surroundings. No words are necessary with Tiny T... she always just knows. I need to be more like her. I need to be more free-spirited. I need to be more perceptive to the feelings of others.

Then, there's G-Bear. At 4 years old, he is the perfect mix of strength and softness. Being the first-born son, he has an innate desire to be like his daddy. He tries so hard to be big and strong. He puts on his game face and pretends that things don't hurt, physically or emotionally. He wants to be a man. However, in those quiet moments when he thinks no one is watching, he is just a boy. He cries when he scrapes his knee or when he feels left out of his sisters' fun. He is eager to give compliments, open doors, and other things that classify him as a "gentleman". He loves being called a gentleman. G-Bear is silly and strong, soft and sweet. I need to be more like him. I need to find a balance between all the different parts of me. I need to be all the different parts of me.

Last, but not least, there is my 6-month-old, Lil Dude. I was so worried during my pregnancy with him that he would somehow feel like a "replacement baby". I got pregnant with him 3 short months after I miscarried, which seemed so soon. The pain of losing our baby was still so new. I wondered if I could ever really feel the happiness of new life, after experiencing the soul-crushing grief of death. The wounds were fresh and open. After a very stressful high-risk pregnancy, Lil Dude came into the world healthy and beautiful. From that first second, he has shown me that happiness is possible after such sorrow. Our family was not complete without him. I need to be more like him. I need to bring light into the lives of people who feel like there can only be darkness. I need to keep my heart open to the light of others.

Of all the lessons I've learned as a mother, the most important is this:

Rather than worrying about shaping my children into what/who I think they should be, I should relax sometimes and take my cues from them. I should learn to love and accept myself, regardless of how I compare to others. I should open my heart to the goodness of others, without demanding proof that they are worthy of my approval. I should be more perceptive to the feeling of those around me. I should find balance within myself. I should be a beacon in someone's darkness. I should marvel at the way the leaves twist and turn as the wind gently pushes through the trees. I should find simple joy in the way a rolie-polie curls into a tiny ball and tickles the palm of my hand. I should spend more time focused on how truly blessed I am by the chaos of 5 beautiful children and the endless messes that they make.

My children are my best teachers, and I am eager to discover all the lessons that they have in store for me over the years to come. Today, they have taught me that in order to have such amazingly awe-inspiring children, I must be doing something right.

Maybe I'm not such a bad mom, after all.

The Wild, Wild West

Happy Halloween!!!

L to R: Miss Priss, Sensitiva, Tiny T, G-Bear, Lil Dude, and Mommy
Not pictured: Mr. T

Honest to Goodness

Yesterday, my girl Becky over at Life Out of Focus tagged me for the Honest Scrap award. I think it was her way of telling me to get off my lazy ass and post. Your wish is my command, Becks.

Here's how it works:

1. Present this award to 7 others whose blogs you find brilliant in content and/or design or those who have encouraged you.

2. Tell those people they’ve been awarded the HONEST SCRAP AWARD and inform them of these guidelines in receiving the award.

3. Share “10 honest things” about yourself.

So, these are my 10:

1. I shave my arms. Body hair freaks me out, especially on women. I mean, we shave our legs because leg hair on a lady is just gross so what makes our arms so special? Nothing, that's what. Also, I have really hairy gorilla arms, probably thanks to some rare genetic defect passed down from my furry-armed father. Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot.
2. I have a very serious girl-crush on Ellen Degeneres. But, I mean, who doesn't? Honestly, people. The woman is made of 7 kinds of awesome.
   
3. I cuss like a sailor. Like a drunk sailor. Like a really fucking pissed off drunken slob of a sailor.
   
4. I have a scar under my bottom lip from when I was 7 months old and tipped over in my walker, causing me to bite completely through the flesh. (The "Never Leave Child Unattended" warning was, in fact, not merely a suggestion, Mom.) The scar next to it is from when I was 12 and tripped over a lawn chair and bit through the damn thing again. (Seriously, Mom. Did you not learn anything from the whole walker debacle? Your daughter needs supervision! Close, competent, adult supervision at all times. And possibly one of these.)
   
5. Behind the sarcasm and cockiness, I am truly and deeply insecure.
6. I call my mom approximately eleventy-five times a day. Probably more, though.
7. I've always wondered what it sounds like when deaf people have sex. And now you're wondering too. You're welcome.
8. I'm a horrible liar. When I was younger, my parents could always tell when I was lying because I would blink my eyes uncontrollably. (Thinking about that always reminds me of that old song... "You can't hiiiiiide your lyin' eyes...")
9. I want to write a book. I have no idea how to go about it or what I would even write about. That being said, I still want to write a book.
10. Some days, I think about going off my meds. (I'm not going to, Mom, I just said that I think about it. I don't act on everything that I think about. For instance, I also think about what would happen if ninja monkeys took over the world. And that, my sweet little Momma, is what you should really be concerned about. I mean, can you imagine? People would be all, "Oh, look at the cute little monkeys in the precious little ninja suits! They're so adorable!" But that's how they lure you in. Sure, ninja monkeys look innocent from a distance, but they have wicked awesome nunchuck skills. And the little fuckers bite. See, Mom, aren't you glad that you have me around to warn you about these things?If it weren't for me, you'd never know the really important stuff. You're all caught up in the news and worried about swine flu and global warming, but the ninja monkeys are coming! Probably. Either way, I think we should be prepared.)
    

These are the poor saps that I'll be passing this along to:

• Kimberly at Lots of Laundry
• Cara at Momma Says...
• Ashlee at Brain of a Mommy
• Kathy at My Kids Are Growing Up... Now What?
• Emmie at Life Behind the Curve
• al-pal at Here for my Dawgs and Crackahs
• Angel at The Mommy Tsunami
  

A million thanks...

First, please let me clear up any confusion.

Last night, when it was determined that no more donations were needed for Dakota and Shanequa's medical fund, I deleted my previous post. I would've liked to keep it up, removing only the PayPal buttons, but had no idea how to do this. Other people had put them there (along with the badge and code) for me, and being the internet non-genius that I am, all I knew to do was delete the entire post. I will be posting updates regarding Shanequa's condition on Twitter as I get them. Please continue to keep them in your thoughts!

Now, the good stuff... Yesterday was a crazy day. Just when I was starting to get really discouraged and feeling a bit hopeless, the sky opened up and rained down more love, kindness, and generosity than I have ever been witness to in my life. The help that I received has been overwhelming. I have some thank you's to hand out...

I would like to thank Jenn for the way she stepped up and helped me (read: totally did it for me) get the PayPal buttons set up and ready to take donations.

I'd like to thank Colleen for her graphic genius. She designed the badge that so many of you grabbed and posted on your own sites.

A very special thank you goes out to Matt Logelin. Without his support and the support of his amazing readers, I don't think that this story would've reached the masses the way it did. Matt, if there is anything that I can ever do for you or Madeline or the Liz Logelin Foundation, I am ready and willing. Your courage, strength, and generosity are inspiring.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all of the people who helped in passing this story along. I couldn't have done it without you guys!!! I could not believe the huge amount of reposts and RTs. The saying is true: There truly is power in numbers.

I want to express my gratitude to those of you who donated, sent messages of support, or have been keeping Dakota and Shanequa in your thoughts and prayers. It gives me hope to see that there are so many caring, thoughtful, and kind-hearted people left in this world. Sometimes I forget this, but have been reminded over the past few days. Thank you for restoring my faith in the human race.

I'm sure that I'm forgetting someone, but will remember the very second that I click "Publish Post". If you are this person, I'm sorry and thank you!

Basically what I'm saying is this: If any of you ever need anything, please don't hesitate to ask. I hope that I can help you the way that you so graciously helped me... If you need an organ, and I have one to spare, it's yours. (Disclaimer: This offer is on a first-come, first-served basis. While supplies last.)

416 Days

It has been 416 days since my life changed forever... since I really went off the deep end... since my heart broke into a million pieces and left me feeling empty and alone. It has been 416 days.

Just 416 days ago, I woke up in the morning and, just like every other morning, made a bee-line to the bathroom to pee. This is part of my morning ritual, and considering that I was 14 weeks pregnant at the time, it was a very important part. I opened my eyes, swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood on my swollen feet. I immediately felt it. I felt the gush of blood running down my half-numb legs. I felt the warm flood of life-giving liquid trailing behind me as I ran to the bathroom. I turned on the light to discover the crimson pool around my feet. Trying not to panic, I calmly called to Mr.T to bring me my phone so that I could alert my doctor. It has been 416 days since I thought that my pregnancy with my 5th child was going to be complicated with placenta previa and the accompanying bleeding. Just like my 1st pregnancy. It has been 416 days since I was proven wrong.

My mother went to the doctor with me. I told Mr.T that I would call him at work and let him know what was going on as soon as I was done with my appointment. I would be able to inform him of how low the placenta was laying in my uterus and how much bed rest would be required this time around. It has been 416 days since I thought it was nothing serious. The doctor checked for a heartbeat. He checked again. He checked for a 3rd time, and we both thought that we heard it, ever-so-faintly in the background. I was sent to the hospital a few blocks away for an ultrasound to confirm that all was well. It has been 416 days since all was not well. It has been 416 days since I saw the image on the screen. The image of my dead, unborn baby. It has been 416 days since I sat in that little room with my mother and screamed and cried and begged the tech to check again.

I was given instructions to go home and wait. Wait for the contractions... for the birth. So, I went home and I waited.

It has been 416 days since I waited. I waited until 7pm, when the contractions started coming harder and closer together. I breathed and bled and cried and waited. Around 10pm, my water broke. My mother and I retreated to the master bathroom while Mr.T got the 4 kids in bed. It was in my master bathroom that it happened... in a violent blur of pain and heartache and blood and confusion, I gave birth. I'll never forget how tiny and perfect that baby was. I held him (I say him because even though it was too soon to determine gender, my heart had told me that it was a boy from the day I found out I was pregnant) in the palm of my hand and cried for him. It has been 416 days since I held my dead baby and cried for him and for me. I apologized over and over and over and over again. I didn't know what else to do.

It has been 416 days since I gave birth in the bathtub... since I did as instructed by my doctor and 'caught whatever I could in ziploc bags' to take to the office the next day... since I was taken to the hospital in the middle of the night because the bleeding would not stop... since my mother put her hand on me and prayed out loud for me to 'please not die'... since I died a little bit despite her prayers.

It has been 417 days since I buried my dead baby under my favorite tree. No words were said. Not one single word. My daughters were too upset to be present, so it was just me, Mr.T, and G. Just us and a tiny little baby, in a tiny little box.

The days, weeks, months that followed are a blur to me now. I grieved. I raged. I blamed. I made decisions that will haunt me for the rest of my life. Sometimes the pain was so great that it clouded my judgment. It gave me a false sense of entitlement. I allowed the pain to take over.

It has been 416 days since my mental health began to deteriorate... since it turned into something so much bigger than me... since I first saw those black creatures flying at my head, when nothing was actually there... since I first saw people in places where there were no people... since I lost my mind and was too afraid to tell anyone...

It took me 416 days to decide that I can't be silent any longer. I hurt. I cry. I see things that aren't really there. I take medicine to make me "normal". I live in constant fear of being diagnosed with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or one of the other mental illnesses passed down through my family's DNA. Even worse, I fear that I will pass it on to my children.

It has been 416 days since my life changed forever...

It has been 416 days.

My love story

We've all heard a million sappy, romantic stories about how a perfect girl meets a perfect boy in a perfect setting. Stories filled with stolen glances across crowded dancefloors... suddenly, the world stops spinning and the band starts playing, and *POOF* a perfect couple is born. You and I both know that these stories are bullshit, but still we listen. We listen, we imagine, we dream that WE are that girl and HE is that boy and that one day WE just may be that perfect couple. That story could be about US...

My hubs, Mr. T, and I have tons of history. We met a LONG time ago (more than 20 years now), but our story will not make you dream or imagine. Couldn't be further from it. At best, our story will make you glad that it isn't your story.

Let me take you back to Mrs. Huff's 3rd grade class. It was the beginning of the school year. I can still smell the crayons, the Elmer's glue...those God-awful automatic air fresheners in the restrooms with the half-sized toilets and sinks. I can see the horrible turquoise stone-wash denim skirt. It had a big zipper up the back, which I thought was awesome and made me look like a rock star. I remember the white shirt with the huge aqua tiger head on the front... still stiff because I had just removed the tags that very morning. And my bangs, OH my bangs. They were huge...they were puffy...they were bullet-proof. To this day, I wonder how any mother could let her child go out of the house looking that way! In those days, I was chubby, I had buck-teeth, and I wore disgusting perfumes like "Electric Youth" and "Exclamation!".

I hated being the new kid. My family had just moved to town a few weeks before, which left me friendless and alone. No one wants to be the new kid, but there I was...nervous as all hell. If I could have crawled under the carpet and died, I would have stayed there forever. (Or until someone complained about the smell.)

Then I saw him...*cue violin music and slow-motion*

He had a "preppy mullet" (if such a thing actually exists) with little curls at the back. He was bronze and sun-kissed from spending the past 3 months in the tiny town's one and only swimming pool. And his bone structure? Girls would kill for those cheekbones! He was dreamy and I was in love.

I got my seat assignment from the teacher. The desks were divided into groups of four; each of which had been arranged into a cluster. Each desk also had a name tag, laminated and carefully taped into place. I found my name, sat down, and started to put away my supplies. Then I happened to notice the name directly across from me......"Mr. T". That beautiful boy would be sitting less than 3 feet away from me?!? I hoped the Earth would open up and swallow me whole. I sat, staring at my shoes. I think I stopped breathing.

People who know me, know that I'm not fun to be around when I'm nervous. First, I start to sweat. I don't mean the "glowing" kind like most girls do. I mean disgustingly-huge-sweat-rings-even-with-prescription-strength-deodorant sweating. Next, I start to shake. Or, more accurately, convulse. I start to feel like I can't breathe, and worst of all are the butterflies. Not the sweet, fluttery ones, either. I'm telling you, my butterflies are like angry mutant kung-fu vigilantes.

On this day in the 3rd grade, they were worse than ever before. While the teacher is explaining class rules and procedures and expectations, I start to feel it.

First, it was like a headache...winding up my spine, leaving chills along the way in my belly and neck and ears. It went from there to my temples to throb and grow. I was miserable, but didn't say a word, for fear of making myself look like an even bigger loser.

So, I sat. I endured. I started to spin. And then? I puked.

I puked on myself, I puked on Mr.T...I sprayed the floor, our desks, and anything else within a 6 foot radius. The classroom was dead silent at first, but quickly filled with sounds of 20 disgusted 3rd graders desperately trying to get as far from my mess as possible. I was mortified and crying.

To sum it up, the janitor was called, the vomit was mopped, I was deemed an outcast, and was quite certain that the tan boy with the chiseled jaw and cheekbones would never speak to me...

I couldn't have been more wrong.

While the other kids made cruel jokes and tortured me over this "incident", Mr.T never mentioned it once. We became great friends. We talked. We dated. We married. We reproduced.

I'm glad our story isn't roses and candlelight. Our story is big bangs, bad clothes, rank perfume, and throw-up...

It's the most beautiful love story I know....