Monday, June 22, 2015

The Birth of Reba Jane

This story really begins back in 2007.

I was 21, I had 2 kids, my oldest wasn’t yet 3, and I was staring at that double pink line on the positive pregnancy test.  I was in shock.  I was scared.  I was overwhelmed.  I didn’t think I could handle another baby when I already had 2 to take care of.  After a long and faithful discussion with my husband, Jake, we decided that 3 was the perfect number of children, and in June of 2007, Jake had a vasectomy, effectively stopping our family at 5 people.  It was perfect.  It fit well and we were completely in love and in control of our little family.

4 years later, I had a dream.  Do all life decisions start with a dream? In my dream, I was folding laundry.  I know, life changing.  Bear with me.  I’m sitting on my couch folding laundry, and on the floor in a baby bouncer, is a little baby.  My dream self things “huh, somebody’s baby.”  Then the baby starts to fuss, and I keep folding laundry, waiting for this baby’s family to come and start taking care of it.  Nobody comes.  I keep folding.  How big is this pile of laundry?  The tiny little baby, in it’s tiny little seat starts to cry, and because of the kind of person that I am I just can’t stand it.  With one last exasperated look around my empty living room, I see that no one else is coming for this baby, so I go and pick it up.  I sit down on my couch with this little baby and out of instinct or habit or dream logic, I put the baby to my breast, because that’s what you do with crying babies.  The baby latches on and I wake up, flooded with awareness.  Is there a word for that feeling? Everyone has had it, but no one can describe it.  A wash of light and understanding that was overwhelming to my senses.  I awake knowing that this baby is mine and it is supposed to be in my home and with our family.  Uh, but one problem.  We can’t do that anymore!

I tell the dream to my husband, tears rolling down my face.  He takes it in as only a man who has had surgery on his man bits can, consoles me, and says he will think about it.  Knowing this is a huge thing for us, monetarily as well as eternally, we give it some time, waiting for the feeling to be overwhelming.

In the winter of 2013 it became overwhelming, and in March of 2014 we used every last cent of our tax return to have the surgery reversed.  Recovery for Jake was harder than before, but he healed beautifully, knowing that this was something that would bring so much happiness to everyone’s life.  In the end I know that we were incredibly lucky and blessed to have conceived as soon as we did, and in July of 2014, I was once again staring at those 2 pink lines, a positive pregnancy test.  This time the tears were good ones.  Happy dances ensued, hugs, more tears.

Before our 20 week anatomy scan was even scheduled, I knew who this baby would be.  This was Reba Jane.  She was a feeling that had come to me years before.  After the dream, before the reversal.  It was like a tickle in your throat, it wouldn’t go away, and I knew that this person would be the one to join our family next.  A strong spirit full of patience and wisdom, but with enough conviction to keep bugging us until we made a way for her to come.  I never doubted it, this baby was Reba.  Jake tried to deny it, and thought maybe a boy, but never doubt a mothers intuition.

At one low moment, I was worried that the baby was too still, that I couldn’t feel her moving enough, and again, Reba spoke to me in a dream.  I dreamed I was attending a tropical paradise.  There was a large pool where people could swim with dolphins, but instead of dolphins, these were baby sharks.  Harmless, but aggressive and energetic, full of movement and verve.  I waded into the pool with apprehension, not really sure I wanted to swim with sharks.  The water was up to my knees, and warm and clear, the sun was hot on my face, and I felt a small rustling along my ankles.  I look into the water and see a large, rusty colored catfish.  The size of a large child, this catfish had long whiskers and soft fins and it slowly circled my body and it gently brushed against my legs over and over, then it just as slowly swam away.  I left the pool and told the men in charge that no sharks came, just the catfish.  The men exclaimed “The Catfish! It never comes to anyone! It must really love you!”.   I woke knowing Reba was my catfish, strong and gentle, not full of vigor, but not weak at all.  Just a gently swimming being who didn’t need large, splashy movements to celebrate life.  From that dream on, I settled comfortably with the knowledge that my daughter was fine, and gentle, and didn’t worry anymore.

On April 3rd, I began to lose my mucus plug.  An exciting moment for any pregnant woman, knowing that the end (and baby) is near!  There were some contractions, but they were sluggish and irregular.  Excited to get things going, Jake and I went on a long walk up my favorite hill.  And kept walking and walking.  We watched the sun set and timed contractions the whole time, excited to keep them going, afraid to go home and have them stop.  Eventually I got too tired, and it got too dark, to go on and we decided it would either happen or not, and returned home for a hot bath and some sleep.  I sent a message to my birth team that I was in the early stages, and to be ready.  My doula prepared to come while Jake called into work.  My sister charged her camera battery and my sister-in-law drove home early from a party.  Around 11pm, my crew started to arrive.  Strangers introduced each other and hugged, knowing they would share a life event together before the sun rose.  My sisters arrived, some nervous, some elated, some pregnant themselves.  I was so glad to not only share my birth with them, but to help normalize it, to share my knowledge was well was something that was powerful to me.

I had tried to rest, but there’s that feeling of early labor.  Excitement, nervousness, wisdom.  It’s like your mind expands and you connect with the universe, but you can’t completely let go, because the 7 year olds wants a PB & J, and you need to replace the toilet paper roll, and your husband is vacuuming your birthing space to make sure you’re comfortable while you labor.  The universe is only so close.

I mom’d, and would simultaneously stop and breath through a contraction, sometimes swaying my hips if it was a good one.  One of my affirmations was “This pain is not stronger than me, because I am the one creating it.”  Therefore, every time I would have a strong contraction I would exclaim to Jake “This is a good one!” knowing that it was doing good things in my body, moving and expanding and opening.  That mindset is easier to keep in early labor, and not so much near the end.

Once my people began arriving, I primarily stayed in my birthing space.  I had created a cozy little nest in our master bedroom.  There were banners of affirmations, and bits of cloth that I had received at my baby shower.  I had asked the women attending to bring a bit of cloth and a story of a strong/powerful woman to share, so that I could sew the fabric into a banner and remember the strength of women while I labored.  If nothing else, it made the room very festive.  The fabrics I received were beautiful, and the stories even more so.  We don’t hear a lot about strong women.  The stories are all about men.  But the world is full of women who worked hard, tried hard, did hard things, and succeeded.  I kept their strength with me, tucked in a special pocket of my heart.  I liked to think that their spirits were watching, cheering me on, and I didn’t want to let them down.   Wanting their approval gave me strength.

I knew from past experience that I liked to stand when labor got hard, and I knew that since I was approaching this thing in the middle of the night, I would be tired, so I decided early on that I would sit as much as I could.  The most comfortable place to do that was on the birthing ball.  I would sit on it, rest my torso on the bed, and tell jokes to my adoring audience.  They laughed in all the right places.

I had invited 5 women to my birth.

My sister Hope, halfway through her first pregnancy herself, pulsed with maternal light.  I was (and am) honored to guide her down the maternal path as we shared our pregnancies.  She was both excited and steady.  And surprisingly her husband tagged along and was very welcome. 

My baby sister Winter, a budding photographer, came with her camera, and was so prepared.  She immediately started snapping shots of this and that, both respectful of my space and still capturing tender moments.  I was a young teenager when I watched Winter born at home.  It felt like completing a circle.  She is a woman now, and I was joyous to have her there.

My newest sister, Emily, is married to my brother.  She is a nurse and works in the office of the Dr. I saw for my prenatal care.  Emily, despite her fantastic medical training, was incredibly supportive of me following my intuition.  I was apprehensive of having her there only for her own comfort.  I give birth in a way that most people will never know, and I did not want her to fear at any moment.  She and I had a chance to connect during my pregnancy, and I am so glad that we had this reason to grow closer together.

My dear friend Ellie has been my friend since Paul, now 10, was a baby.  She had recently been training with a local midwife, and has a tender and strong soul.  I knew she would bring a beautiful energy to my birthing space.

My new friend Megan, is a woman of power and compassion.  She uses her talents to aid women in labor and birth as a doula.  From the moment I met her I knew that I wanted her at my birth, I tentatively extended her an invitation and she readily accepted.  I am so honored that she accepted my friendship and came to honor my birthing time. 

With all these women, I worried for a space for my husband, the most important person in this whole process.  All of our children had been welcomed earthside in his hands.  He was, and always has been, my main support and guide during childbirth.  Would Jake feel pushed out with so many other people to share our space?  We came up with a code word that he would use if at any point he was uncomfortable with the situation.  If he asked me “Do you want some spaghetti?” that meant that he needed me to clear the room so he could focus on our child and I.  Bless him, he never asked me if I wanted spaghetti.

As the contractions grew stronger and the power my body was using intensified, I would stand off my ball, sway, vocalize.  The children were in the other room playing video games or watching T.V.  Occasionally they would come in and whisper encouragement to me and pat my back.  I reveled in their sweet love.  I had tried to prepare them for what birth looks and sounds like, and I had hoped that they wouldn’t be frightened by what they saw or heard.  The fact that they would offer me encouragement tells me that they understood the power of the situation, and held only respect and love, not fear.

Our room is large, but there were 8 people trying to fit into it comfortably, some of them moving around, and it could have felt stifled or cramped, but it felt cozy.  Whatever space was left in the room was quickly filled in with all the love.  It was as if a soft mist of peace oozed into every possible cranny, and I soaked it in like sunshine. 

Early labor comes with so much excitement and anticipation, but a woman knows when things start to get heavy, she recognizes when the real work is happening and when it’s time to focus.  As my body started to make the long, slow, uphill climb that is the second stage of labor, I found many ways to cope that were helpful.  Vocalization was important, low deep moaning pulled from the depth of me.  The deeper the sound got, the more open my body became.  Unconsciously I visualized guitar strings during the peak of contractions.  When the contractions were small and stirring it was the smaller strings, they would vibrate softly in the void of my mind.  As the contractions got bigger, so did the strings.  Deep, round, steel vibrations buzzing in the darkness of my mind.  The string would buzz until the end of the contraction, and then it would fade away, and I would focus on my lovely people, tell a joke, have a laugh, and then it was time for another one. 

When the feelings in my body were so strong, and the power so great that I felt it couldn’t be contained, I tried to channel it through my body instead of fighting it.  I was standing, lowing, pulling on the arms of my husband for support, receiving counter pressure on my back, loving caresses on my arms and legs, gentle fingers in my hair, and sometimes it still wasn’t enough.  The only way to expel the giant pressure building in me was to let it wash through my body, and let it leave, like waves in a cave.  Every part of me had to be open for the pressure to wash out of me.  My mouth hung open with air and low tones, and I held my palms open, facing the sky, channeling waves of energy through and out of my tired body.  It became my go-to pose, standing, supported on the bed, one hand hooked on Jake’s arm, the other lying on the bed, palm open and up, head thrown back.  There is nothing like the power of labor.  The power you create to expel life, it’s the power of the universe, and it isn’t small, and it isn’t simple, and it isn’t easy.

Someone would remark “You’re doing so good.” “Great job, Abby!”.  I would realize ‘I am doing good! Look at me go, I’m so great at this! Good for me!’.  I would pulse in a high squat during contractions, and they would tell me how strong I was, how amazing I was.  Positive affirmations can come from more than just you.

Laboring through the night made me tired, but labor is also hard work! I knew I was getting tired, and I was looking forward to the time when I could push out my baby, hold her, smell her, stare at her.  Occasionally at the peak of a contraction I would give a little push, to see if it felt right, and I was so discouraged when it didn’t. But finally, after a couple of tries, the feeling was right, and I bore down.

The tricky thing with pushing out a baby, is all your pushing muscles are used to pushing out one thing, and you push it out daily, so naturally, that’s the first thing to get pushed out.  I was focused on visualizing being open, and channeling the vibrations of my body, but a small part of me was aware enough to think “Dammit! I just pooped in front of my friends!”.  I heard a gentle exclamation “Oh, OH, ohhh.”  And I heard a flurry behind me, a soft rustling of chux pads being replaced on the floor, gentle hands wiping my legs and bottom.  I didn’t ask which of my friends wiped my butt, and I like to pretend it didn’t happen, but now I know that they truly love me.

It took a bit of time, and I pushed with every contraction, sitting down in between on my birthing ball.  All through my labor it was someone’s special job to push the ball back underneath of me after a contraction was over so that I wouldn’t have to bend over and roll it in to place.  I would sit on the ball, hoping to feel pressure in my birthing canal letting me know that the baby was moving down and ready to crown, and it was both comforting and disappointing to sit down comfortably after each pushing contraction.  But It finally happened!

I tried to sit, I was so tired, but I couldn’t, it was uncomfortable and full of pressure and before I could even tell that to the people around me, another contraction rolled over me, and I was off to the races again.  Pushing, vocalizing, pulling, opening, breathing. I felt her head descend and engage, and I felt myself stretch to accommodate her crowning.  Knowing I didn’t want to tear, I took a breath and tried to slow down, allowing myself time to stretch around her, letting my skin find it’s give.  Try being the operative word.  When I eased up, I thought her head would stay where it was, engaged, but waiting, but both my body and baby had other ideas.  I felt the head still tumbling out of me, with a small rumble.  I kept trying to slow it, to stop it, to hold it in with kegels, and all of this happened in a split second.  I had enough time to utter the words “I can’t stop it”, and her head was out.  It surprised everyone.  We all thought we had a bit of time! Jake jumped off the bed, preparing to catch the baby, as he had with all the others.  As he rushed around the bed, Ellie exclaimed “ She’s in the caul! Come take a picture of this!”.  Of course! She was in the caul! I realized my water hadn’t broken yet, but during labor that thought hadn’t processed to the point of realizing that my baby’s bag of waters was still intact.

Elation came at the realization that I was almost done, and I anticipated the next contraction with excitement, ready to meet my baby.  The next push and she was there, Jake caught her behind me as she came out with a rush and a splash of water.  The moment a child is born is a magical thing, no matter how that baby is born.  It’s like the whole room, the whole world holds it’s breath while the universe rushes into the room and time freezes while all hearts begin to beat as one.  My bedroom wasn’t any exception.  The whole room exploded and froze at the same time as she entered.

And then there was a collective cheer when she gave her first gurgled cry.  Euphoria.  I stood at the bed, like a proud president after a rousing speech.  Triumphant and separate from the celebration behind me.  It was my own moment to revel in my power and triumph.  I breathed deep, my chest heaved, my legs shook, power filled my skull, my lungs, my hands, my throat.  I had done it! Tears and smile were my medal, I was triumphant. 

I cried “You got her?”, “Oh my baby!”, “My sweet baby!”.

And when I was ready, I turned, and lifted my leg so that her intact umbilical cord could pass beneath me.  I knelt and Jake passed our new daughter to me.  She was covered in white, waxy vernix.  It plastered the dark hair to her head, was stuck in chunks in the soft curve of her ear, it slid from her eyes and she slit them open to peer at her Momma.  She twitched her fingers and worked her mouth, using her body for the first time outside of her soft, watery world.  She let out the occasional cry, working the fluid from her mouth and lungs gently, naturally.

Despite reveling in the power of the women filling my bedroom during labor, they could have not existed at this point.  It was me and my baby, the two of us had done an incredible job of getting her on this earth.  We both worked hard.  I kept telling her what a good job she had done, rubbing her head, counting her toes, smiles leaked from my face, full of joy.  After her cord had emptied itself of all its blood, giving the last bit of myself to my baby, her big brother Paul cut her white limp cord, her last link to me.

I passed my sweet baby back to her Daddy, and knelt to pass the placenta.  It came out with a squishy plop, done of its job, ready to retire.  We stayed there on the floor for some time, Us and Our Baby.  Congratulations and kisses were passed around, and the crowd parted to let the children through, eager to greet their baby sister.  Elated, the hours passed, and the adrenaline left my body, and I began to feel tired again.  I could tell it had been a long night for everyone as my beautiful friends began to leave.  Birthing is hard work on everyone, and I admire the people who make it their living, however they attend it.  Tired eyes and joyous smiles gently said goodbye and my home was soon full of just our newly grown family. 

It felt a bit deflated to have my group leave, they had brought so much energy and joy to my home, and I wasn’t ready to the night to be over.  But I was glad to send some of the magic home with them, like party favors.  I hope it sits on the mantle of their hearts, a cherished memory, as their presence does for me.

Sweet Nona had fallen asleep while my labor was still progressing and she was gently carried to bed.  Paul and Beau both took a minute to kiss and hold the baby, but soon their exhaustion caught up to them, and they too went to bed.   Jake gently dressed the baby in her first pajamas while I washed myself off, and we tucked into bed in the early morning hours of April 4th.

I didn’t want to sleep, I just wanted to stare at her.  Sharing in the elation with jake, we lie there together, following her fingers with our own, tracing the curve of her ears, the length of her foot, seeing how well she fit into the curve of our arms.  Eventually we did sleep, full of love and possibility for our new daughter.

We named her Rebecca Jane Rae, Reba for short, and she was born at 2:18am on April 4th, under the Blood Moon Eclipse, a sister of the Full Moon and the Universe.  She weighed 8 pounds 2 ounces and was 19 ½ inches long.  A perfect baby, she brings peace and happiness and hope to our family.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

8 years: A Love Story

Once upon a time.

There was a man. This man was a Big Man. He was taller than other men. He was broader than other men. He was thicker than other men. He was heavier than other men. He was a Big Man in every way.

This Big Man liked order. He liked simplicity. This Big Man liked straight lines and neat equations. He liked the expected and normal things.

Elsewhere, in this Big Mans world, there lived an Average Girl. The Average Girl was a girl just like any other girl. She was of average beauty. She was of average intelligence. The Average Girl had an average talent and came from an average family. The Average Girl was loved with an average love, and loved others with her own average love. The Average Girl acted and thought and was just like everyone else around her.

But the Average Girl had a secret. Deep down, in a quiet place of her heart that she was barely aware of, she craved all things unaverage. She craved bright colors. She craved loud noises. The Average Girl craved tall trees and fast water.

One day the path of the Big Man crossed the path of the Average Girl. Their meeting was amicable and friendly. When the Big Man met the Average Girl, he saw her as everyone else saw her. She was a girl of average beauty. A girl of average intelligence. A girl of average talent.
But the Average Girl saw the Big Man as something more. When she saw the Big Man she saw more than a man taller than others, broader than others or wider than others. The Average Girl saw in the Big Man her own bright colors, loud noises, tall trees and fast water. He was the one that would release the desires of her heart.

Over time, the big man began to see glimpses of something other in the Average Girl. He would see a flash of color, or a crash of sound. But they were muted, and distant, and he gave them little more than a passing thought.

Eventually the Big Man and the Average Girl parted ways. Their leaving was amicable and friendly. Sometimes a letter was written, or a conversation was had. The years floated past and the Big Man and the Average Girl moved on in their lives and they began to forget each other.

Years went past and the Average girl began to remember. She began to remember the Big Man and his quiet, neat ways. She remember the way the colors jumped inside of her when he was near, the way the noises sang louder. So she began to search for the Big Man. She looked, and asked and searched. Then she waited. And then she looked and searched and asked some more.

One day, one day, the Average Girl found the Big Man, and she arranged a meeting. The day came, and he was there in a room, waiting for her. She saw him, and time slowed down as if the wind had frozen. He stood up from his chair, and she was reminded of how big this Big Man was. And the colors inside of her were bright, and the noises we're loud, the trees were tall and the waters fast at the sight of him.

And when the Big Man saw the Average Girl enter the room, he didn't see the Average Girl he expected. He saw turquoise. He saw thunder and lightning. He saw lemon yellow and swollen rivers. The Big Man saw great forests and rushing clouds. He saw in the Average Girl everything she had ever wanted to be.

So the Big Man made the Not So Average Woman his bride. And he loved her with a big love. And she loved him with mountains and magenta and red clay.

And they both lived happily ever after.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Late night ramblings

It's 12:34 am.

Jake is asleep on one side of me and Beau Boy is wide awake on the other side. He keeps asking me what I'm spelling. We are sharing one blanket and he keeps kicking it off because he's totally not sleepy. A five hour nap will do that to a kid.

I had an extremely large pile of clothes on my bed this afternoon and when I finally worked up the courage to out them all away I realized how few of them I actually wear. But I can't bring myself to give any of it away. Plus I remembered how many awesome skirts I have. Yay for sweet, big hippie skirts!

I have one pair of pants that I wear, but I only wear them when I'm getting dressed up to go somewhere. My Fancy Pants. Literally. I wear them with heels and instantly feel glamorous, and it confuses people that to get dressed up I put on pants. But when skirts are your jeans, jeans become a dress.

My fabulous sister took some sweet pictures of my little family last week. I'm loving this one

But the ones of my kids are even cuter. Check them out Here .

I still haven't washed my hair from when we took these, and, oh yes, I cut my hair. I have a whole post working up on that, but I've got to dig out some awesome vintage pictures. Patience is a virtue.

I had cupcakes for lunch today, but I scraped all the frosting off first. Is a naked cupcake still considered a cupcake, or is a little bit more of a muffin now?

Beau has wandered off into the depths of the dark house, the only one with enough energy to still be wide awake. Poor guy.

It's now 12:44am.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Earrings: good; Shaving: not so much

I shaved my armpits about a week ago. It was a whim. It was kind of nice at first, but now I"m kind of over it. It's not like shaving my armpits has made my husband love me more, or given me more patience with my children, or encouraged me to vacuum. Shaving my armpits hasn't made me smarter or skinnier. It hasn't really changed a whole lot, except that they're itchy now. Not exactly an improvement.

I have an earring collection of ginormous proportions. Seriously. My earring rack is completely full and now I have neat little piles on my dresser so as not to lose or tangle a set. Plus I take all my other pairs off in random places like the kitchen or the bathroom, so I actually have another third of earrings that I don't see often. But you know the weird thing about this earring collection? It seems I can never find just the right pair to wear with my outfit. It would go something like this:

"hmm, well my skirt is red, but I'm really feeling these orange earrings today, do I have anything clean that would work with the orange ones? No, not really. Hmm, well, the blue ones are nice, but no, I really want to wear the orange ones, but I don't want to change out of this awesome, twirly, ginormous red skirt."

So what do I do? I wear the orange earrings with the red skirt. Wearing orange earrings with a red skirt doesn't make me any skinnier, or smarter or patient, but it makes me happier, and that seems to be the most important. So the next time you see me, if my earrings have absolutely nothing to do with my outfit, now you will know why.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Why I deleted my Facebook account

I like to think of myself as a clever person. Funny. Hilarious, even.

So when I sat down on Facebook I usually found myself putting something witty in the status line.

It has been discovered that dishes are actually an alien race sent to take over the population of planet Earth.

Paul is running around with underwear on his head. He gets that from me.

I'm having an affair with cream cheese. Please, no one tell my husband.

But then something happened.

I didn't feel funny anymore.

Now I just felt like a desperate comedian telling just one more joke hoping this one gets a laugh. Was this something my friends even wanted to hear? Or did they want to know what I was having for dinner and if Beau just peed in his pants? It came down to a philosophical discussion with myself about what an appropriate facebook status update was. And that's when I realized

I'm giving this thing too much of my life

Seriously, why was this one website consuming my every thought. I'd be standing at the sink, up to my elbows in dirty dish water, writing and re-writing in my head my next funny status. I'd be having a beautiful moment with my kids and be thinking 'I should put this as my status' .

And don't even get me started on the hours I would sit in front of the computer refreshing and rechecking my homepage to see if anyone has posted something new. New pictures of their kids, new pictures of their house, vacation, party, dog, grandma, shoes. Seriously, why do I care?

Now, Facebook does have its uses. I loved being able to find old friends from high-school. People I barely talked to then are now informing me of their trips to the grocery store, the job their husband got and the name of their new puppy.

Eventually I came to the conclusion that Facebook, for me, was just a form of validation. I wanted people to comment on my posts, or at the very least 'like' them. I wanted oohs and aahs over every picture of my sainted children. But why do I need other people to tell me how awesome I am? Why do I feel that I'm not good enough unless people tell me so?

This post just got deep, and it's about facebook. Kill me, kill me now. Jeesh!

And I don't want to come off as some kind of anti-social witch. I really did enjoy seeing where people are now. I really did enjoy seeing pictures of someones new baby. I really did enjoy hearing of my friends now with kids and spouses. Those things make me happy. Really.

It is very possible that someday in the future, I will reactivate my account. I do miss all the obscure yet totally awesome news articles that one of my friends would always post. And there is a certain acquaintance from high school that always cracked me up. So and so is expecting a baby and I want to see pictures, not to mention pictures from that girls wedding.

They say all things in moderation, and if Facebook was a snowy, cold season, I'd tell you that I'm enjoying the sun now and getting a nice ,golden tan.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

An impulsive spirit

Today goes on day three of having an eye twitch.

It's enough to drive a woman crazy.

I doused myself in essential oils yesterday to try and get it to go away. I put on lavender to relax the muscle, peppermint and lemon to try and wake me up, I had on a muscle relaxing blend as well as a bit of Ylang Ylang for good measure. It worked for about an hour. I smelled like a true hippie, though.

I also wore a dress with a pair of gaucho pants and several long necklaces. A big fat sweater to combat the rocky mountain spring couldn't hide the awesomeness of it all.

I went running in the rain. Sometimes it feels good to do something totally irrational, like go outside barefoot in 50 degree weather and get soaked and enjoy every minute of it.

Saturday, January 22, 2011


Yikes! 6 months? That's all I'm gonna say. And sorry.

So. Where do we start? This feels like the time that an old high school friend and I got together but we had nothing to say because we facebook/blog stalked each other and had nothing new to say because we aren't that close, but are friends. This just feels awkward, ya know?

I've decided that I don't want to change the world. Well, if the opportunity presented itself, sure, I'd take it and wrap it in a tortilla and smother it with sour cream and melted sharp cheddar, but that's not my priority anymore. I've decided that the most important thing that I can do right now with my life is to raise kids who will change the world. And if by accident I cause some waves in the process, cool.

I have three kids. No babies, no toddlers. I am officially in the raising stage. Now I shape them into the adolescents that will shape the adults they will become. And the thought scares the crap out of me. What if I mess up? What if I raise strong kids, but they're strong for all the wrong reasons? What if I'm too strong and in the process make them weak? I've had countless discussions with Bigpoppa about how to raise strong kids. I don't feel that I am who I am today because of how I was raised, or because of something specific that my parents taught me. Most of me today is just me through eternity. I will swear without a doubt that my parents molded me for the better, but I am vastly different than my siblings, and we were all raised the same. I am me, an no amount of teaching will change that. What do I do if I have a kid who is inherently someone I would dislike?

Now, let me be the first to tell you that my kids are awesome. They are strong and smart and independent when they need/want to be. And that's how all kids should be. Paul is sensitive and emotional, and feels a need to be validated and noticed. Nona likes to take charge and take care. She's the mother hen to her brothers. Beau, and it may still be too soon to tell, but Beau is carefree and fun loving and shirks all responsibilities. He loves letting Nona take care of him.

I want to know, though, that when push comes to shove, my kids are going to stand for something. And the only way I can think of to make them do that is to set an example. Maybe to allow them a chance ask me questions about having principles.

I don't know guys. I'm just making this all up as I go. What parent isn't?