bewildered by grace

A couple weeks ago you turned four. Four. I know that I say all the time how fast time is passing, and that's true. It's going much, much too quickly for me. A while ago your daddy and I took you for a walk and once again, you were too far ahead, running all over the place and your daddy looked at me and said, "it's always going to feel this way isn't it? Like she's too fast, too far ahead, like we can't keep up with her." It does. It always feels that way. It's such a confusing mixture of feeling like you've always been here and like you just arrived. We're running behind you, watching you do and become all these things that you're just doing (so confidently!) and Daddy and I are wondering how we got here. 

Hi Bella,

I find myself wanting to talk to you tonight, probably in a way you're not ready for right now. You're so little, and so big, and I'm so lost in all of it. It feels like I've always had you, like there's never been a part of my life when you didn't exist. Sometimes it feels like you're new. Like we just got you home from the hospital a minute ago, and I went to take a long shower and came out and you're three and a half. You really are everything to me, in a way that sometimes even I don't understand, and it's hard to feel what I'm feeling right now and not be able to talk to you about it. Because it's you. It's your story too.

Those two days at Children's Hospital when you were so small feel very, very close to me this week. I remember every second of it. Everything I loved was at stake, and I was drowning. Half of your little face wasn't moving, they said your brain had been compromised. The told me you could have serious seizures your whole life. They were worried about your spine (something I haven't really thought of since that week, and find myself thinking of now), they were worried about your face, then they were worried about your heart. That was the minute I was kicked in the stomach. I remember stumbling down the hall to Cardiology, tears pouring down my face and thinking that the saying, "God won't give you more than you can handle" was total and complete garbage. I'd seen the haunted eyes of a cancer mom earlier that day as her nine year old went in for her third lumbar puncture, a very painful procedure. Her daughter was brave, but that woman looked like she'd been physically beaten. I refuse to say that saying to this day. I don't believe it. Unfortunately we don't live in that world, the one where God is totally in control. We took that control in Eden, and now we live here. Where people get sick, even good people. Where little kids don't leave Children's hospital and their parents stagger home, trying to figure out how to possibly keep breathing.

It's not that I don't know you're okay, not that I'm not more thankful than I can express. The day we carried you out of the hospital into the afternoon sun is what I imagine winning the lottery would feel like. You were going to live, and be totally normal. We've been back and forth to that hospital many times between that day and this one, and you've always done just fine. You're fine. But Tuesday is your first surgery. And that's going to be a hard day for me. I don't want to go back into those rooms. The same pre-op room where I saw that cancer mom, heard her daughter tell the doctor that it was okay, he didn't have to tell her how much it would hurt. She knew. The waiting room where they misquoted me how long your MRI would take and after almost three times the wait I'd been told to expect, we calmly asked to be taken to you immediately, or given a sedative. By that point I was shaking uncontrollably, still not used to you being out of my body, let alone out of my arms.  I don't want to go into the recovery room. Where I had to go find you by myself, last bed on the left, hooked up to all those wires. I could live to be a million years old and never forget for a second what you looked like in that bed, and how it felt to see you like that, and wonder how many more times I would have to see you like that. I know it's stupid, but I'm worried about how you'll look when you're done. It bruises horribly - I've Googled photos. For a week or two it's going to look like you were badly burned or beaten. It will look like a step backwards which is frustrating. When the bruises fade, we'll be able to see how successful the surgery was. I'd feel better if I could go into that room and see you with your mark almost gone, and know that it was so worth it. But it's going to look much worse, and then it will look better.

I know you're okay. I do. It's an incredibly quick surgery, done by a very skilled doctor, in the best possible hospital. You don't even have to spend the night. But I'd like to take a moment and tell you, even if you can't read it yet, that I'm sorry about the IV, that it'll hurt. I'm sorry that we live in a world where we have to do the surgery at all. A world where some people will only see the mark on your face, instead of the incredible person you are. I want you to know that Daddy and I don't see it. We just don't. But we'd like to have it done before you remember it too clearly. As clearly as I remember that first visit. I want this whole experience to get so muddled in your brain, so crowded out by great memories, that one day you look at baby photos of yourself and have to ask us what the mark on your face is.

I love you honey. So much. And the anticipation of the surgery is going to be the worst part. After that, it'll be fine, and you'll be fine. The surgeries after that (they say three or four) will be slightly easier because I'll know what to expect. This time I don't, and I'm a little afraid too. But we will get through it together. And you're excited because we're going to stay at a hotel with a swimming pool and go for a hot tub the night before. Because you're awesome like that. You know about the IV, about everything that will happen, and you're excited for swimming.

Sweet Bella, when I grow up, I want to be just like you.

Mama.

People used to say that about Christians. They were wrong. And right. "Mothers are the meanest group of people in the world" I believe I posted to Facebook not long ago. I took it down almost immediately, thanks to a friend who said that it was a pretty awful generalization and Facebook wasn't the place for it. She was right. I was wrong. And I was right.

I'll preface this with saying that I know some amazing mothers. I come from a good line of them. I have some amazing friends that are wonderful mothers. The other day at a restaurant, I met a waitress who was a single mom, and she spoke glowingly about her daughter. She loved being a mom, and was so nauseatingly in love with her little girl that she couldn't see straight. She found Bella a book in her purse or her car that her daughter had outgrown and gave it to her. It was the first time I as a customer had been "tipped" by a waitress, and I was touched. A total stranger. It made my day. I may have spoken to her manager, called the restaurants head office and spoken to them, saying she needs a raise. I've always been a little overboard that way.

When I was a girl, our whole extended family used to vacation at the lake together. We'd take up a bunch of campsites, the kids slept all over the place, and in the afternoons we'd all meet at the beach. I have a lot of uncles, and a couple of them had boats. Tubing behind a boat with my uncles are some of the best and most terrifying memories of my childhood. I can picture myself back there, sitting in some plastic contraption holding a nylon handle, bobbing quietly in the water and watching my uncles in the boat up ahead in the calm before they'd hit the throttle. Knowing I wanted a ride, wishing against all logic that they'd tow me nicely around the lake at a reasonable speed. Watching to see which one of them was taking the wheel. I never got that nice pull around the lake. It was always a million miles an hour, until I either hit a wave and careened wildly into the air or I got tired and simply couldn't hold on any longer. I don't remember a single trip that ended without a wipe out. That was the point.  

Motherhood feels like that to me. Sitting in the tube, feeling totally powerless and about to be taken on an exhilarating and frightening ride, knowing that I went ahead and got myself into this mess and wondering why. Partly loving it and partly wanting to sob in fright. I think a lot of us feel like that. When women are honest and vulnerable with each other I feel like we are built for such amazing relationships. We connect in such an beautiful way. And if we all feel this way, why don't we rally together, instead of being mean and judgmental and awful? But mom's really are mean. 

I'm on a fun shopping day with my sister and our kids. When we're ready to leave our favorite kids store, adorable purchases in tow, Bella decides to "assert her independence". She says she's taking an entire rack of leggings and when I tell her to put it back she says no. When I tell her she can't talk to me like that she pulls something she's never done in her life and raises her little fist and pops me on the chin three times. Bop bop bop. In front of the sales lady. I'm first of all startled, then angry,  then embarrassed, then lost. What do you do for a consequence? I nearly told her we weren't going to feed the seals at the park, but that's not fair to her cousin who is behaving. I grab her hand and drag her to the bathroom. Which is MILES away. She's barely keeping up with me, and knows I'm incredibly upset, and is screaming her head off. I can't get upset here, not with everyone around, besides, I don't know what I'll say. She's never hit me. I'm desperate for a place to be alone with her, to be able to parent without judgmental eyes and ears. We make it to the bathrooms, and have to wait for a handicapped bathroom because Lord knows I can't go into the stalls. As we're standing there a total stranger comes up to my and my screaming child and says, "Oh! Is that how we always get what we want?"

When talking to people about Bella's health issues in the beginning I've often laughed and said, "We're hoping she's an easy teenager, since she's used up all our stress reserves." Most people laugh a snide sounding laugh and roll their eyes and say, "Yeah, good luck with that." REALLY?! C'mon people. I'm aware that one has nothing to do with the other. When I talk to other moms about the day to day struggles of meal times, or spending less time in front of the TV, or all the stuff that comes with having a three year old, I get told ALL THE TIME, "Have fun when she's 13." Often by moms who don't have teenagers, who never have. 

I get told that I'm lucky I only have one. If I had four then I'd be able to talk. Sure, that would be more stress, but Bella would have a playmate other than myself, and the ability to grow up with a sibling (something Peter and I loved). And could we also take a second and be super honest about that? Bella doesn't have a sibling NOT because we wouldn't have LOVED for her to have a sibling. So shut the hell up. 

In what scenario is it okay to tell someone who is struggling, frightened, and overwhelmed that they're screwed either way? Or that, "you think it's hard now? You've seen NOTHING. Things are about to really, really suck." That's a mean thing to say! And I hear it LOTS. And lets say for arguments sake, that they're right. It's still awful. Maybe more so. 

So let me take one second and be super honest, and really vulnerable. It's hurtful. It makes me feel little, and stupid, and like I'm never ever going to be a good mom. It makes me feel like it's not okay to struggle. It makes me feel so isolated in all this. 

To the mom who glared at me because Bella watched Netflix on our walk - screw you. I'm in desperate need of losing 40 pounds which is one more exhausting thing on my list of crap to do. My kid can't walk because she can't lose weight or I'm going to have to add a nutritionist to our list of doctors and I don't want to. I'm trying to keep her awake so that she gets a good night sleep before we head to our cardiologist appointment tomorrow. Which I'm sure will probably go fine, but I'm allowed to be a little stressed out about without some other mom saying, "At least she doesn't have cancer." 

There's the moms who think I'm an elitist snob and that my daughter is going to be an unsocialized awkward idiot with a below par education if I home school her.(I feel vindicated that unsocialized is not a word) To them? MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. I don't think you're a terrible parent for choosing public education for your child, do me the service of reserving your judgment of me. And also? I am unbelievably scared to home school her. But I want it to be me who teaches her to read. I want to be there for those moments when she figures something out. I want to be able to explain things to her, and learn with her. I realize I'm probably getting in way over my head, and I really don't need to hear it from someone else, usually someone who knows us not at all.

To the mom who wrote the condescending post about the mom in the park with her iPhone who was missing her children's childhoods, I ask, "Who was watching your kids while you were judging every minuscule detail about her?" And to every mom who forwarded it all over the Internet so I saw it at least four times - way to go. Way to forward a mean message about a mom who was likely simply catching a few minutes of "me time" while her kids were happily playing at the park. I've done it. I did it today. I still pushed her on the swing, we still had fun.

I'm not saying I've never stood in judgment, and that I'm not so sorry about that. We've all done it a time or two. But goodness sake, could we maybe tell each other just a little, "Hey, you're a good mom. That's a sweet kid you have there, you must be proud of yourself" Don't be surprised if you say it and some mom breaks down crying in relief. Don't we all feel like we're screwing it up? My goodness, lets throw each other a rope instead of looking at each other drowning and saying, "Wow - you think you can't swim there? The waves are about to get way worse." And then walking smugly away. WHY do people do that? I just don't get it. 

The problem is, it's mostly strangers who do it. Nobody who reads this post is going to be the mom I'm talking about (though I wish the judgy one with the viral post would). So my mission for this week, is to find one of those people - a stranger or a distance acquaintance and tell her she's doing a great job as a mom. I'll tell you how it goes. Someone's gotta freaking say it, and I'm sure not hearing it. Let's have that go viral. 

You are doing a good job, even on the days you're not. Even on the days when you glance at your phone too often, or sit your kid in a cooling bath to write a blog for an hour just so you can get your feelings out. It's not like there's anyone to talk to. I'm here alone almost every afternoon and evening. I'd appreciate (without an ounce of sarcasm), would really REALLY appreciate, being able to go on my walk without the "You're a crap mom" glare. Because it matters to me. More than it should, more than I'd normally ever want to admit. It matters.

You never see yourself doing it, not at the time. When you're young and single, or worse, young and in love, you don't see it. You think you know what you're getting into. 
"Of course there'll be hard times," you tell yourself. "I don't think everything will be perfect." (You do, actually. Think it'll be perfect. You do.) 
You stand at an alter in a white dress and you're so filled with love that even tears aren't enough, and you dream a beautiful, perfect dream. You promise, "for better or worse" and you mean it. And like almost everything in life, you haven't the slightest idea what you're doing. 
Don't get me wrong, you should do it. Even if you don't know, probably because you don't know, you should do it. Get married. Have a baby. Even if you're so full of hope and promise that you're nauseating to talk to, you should do it. It's a good thing. And there's no preparing. You think you'll be different when those times come. You will not be the 22 year old you, you'll be a wife, or a mother. Those words hold a lot more mysticism than they really should, maybe more so if you're a sweet, naive, Christian girl. Somehow, even though we don't believe we do, we are so sure that that ceremony, or that moment when they lay a child in your arms, will change everything. And it does, in a way. But not in the way you think when you're the nauseating 22 year old in a white dress.  In a lot of ways, it changes not one thing. Because at the end of the day, I'm still me. 
I'm standing in the kitchen, three pots bubbling on the stove, a crockpot in the corner, a burn on my hand from pulling muffins out of the oven without a mitt, the dog underfoot, while Bella says, "Mama, I stepped in dog pee and I can't get my socks off." I wait for the part of my brain that's a mom to kick in. Do something. Know what to do! You had a baby, you're a mom. I was there, it was gross and awful and amazing and beautiful. It happened. You had that baby over there, the one with pee on her socks. Deal with this. And for a moment I feel like I'm being electrocuted, just a little. Something in my brain short-circuits because I've never dealt with this. I want to help her but I need to deal with those damn muffins. I want to deal with my burning dinner but my kid has pee on her socks. I really want to kill the dog but Bella will cry, and my neighbors will call the cops if I drag her furry dead body out of my house for peeing on my floor for the hundredth time. Wait, dinner. Turn the oven off. Bella, don't run through the kitchen with pee on your socks! Sit down. Muffins, where are my muffins and why don't I have oven mitts any more?! 
And it's like that. Over and over and over again. A totally new situation that I don't know how to deal with. The other day Bella genuinely asked me, without malice, why she had to listen to me. I just blinked at her. I don't know why we should listen to me. Because I won't forget to make dinner because I'm playing dolls? Because I pay the bills? I was stumped for a minute. Then I made a stupid speech about authority that she processed exactly none of and we moved on. 
I'm flying so blind and, even though it's embarrassing to say, I thought I'd have it so much more figured out than I do. I really did think that. 
We've done the "for better and worse." Both. I'd promise them again, knowing what I do. I'd never go back. But the day to day stuff is totally and completely draining. And I keep thinking that I should know how to do it. The good stuff is so freaking great that even at 22 in a white dress, I could never have pictured the perfection of it. The hard stuff is so awful that you want to find that 22 year old and smack the promise and hope right off her stupid face. And the day to day grind of it is endless. I have somehow lost my identity in exactly the place in life where I thought I'd find it. And not in a depressing, awful, way, but just in a way that makes it impossible to be who I was at 22. Which would be fine, if when that girl left the inside of my head the woman who is a wife and mother arrived. Some identity that would make me different inside, and really great at this.  I feel bewildered. Not sad. Not regretful, not even unhappy. Just a little stunned that my mother must have done this too. Women everywhere must just figure it out as they go. And I know, I KNOW, it was stupid and naive, but I really did think that somehow you'd just know how to do it. 
I respect women in a totally different way. Moms are freaking amazing, and you should go hug yours. Or do her dishes. Or, for the love of all that is good in the world, buy her a bottle of wine and run her a bath. 

You are three. Dear God, how on earth did you become three? I'm sure every one of these letters will begin this way, with my stunning realization that the reason fourteen million women told me while I'd wander unassumingly through the grocery store, bouncing you on my hip that first year, "enjoy this. They grow so quickly." is because you grow SO quickly. I refuse to be one of those women who say it though. Besides, who would believe me? A woman with her first child will never understand how quickly it happens, and a woman with her second doesn't need to hear it. 

(Wow. It's been so long since I've written that they've changed the layout of Bloggers dashboard and I don't know my way around anymore. When did this happen?)


I've been thinking about parenting lately. I have a smart, smart little girl. One who picks up on everything I'm saying and doing and at some point recently, it's occurred to me in a big way that I am raising this child. I know that seems like an obvious conclusion to come to, and parents will understand more easily what I mean. Let me explain this way: I knew I wanted to have Bella. I don't think it really occurred to me that SHE'D have ME. I've been thinking of intentional parenting, about not being so reactive. I saw a Pinterest sign that said that having a toddler is like having a blender going in your house with the lid off. Some days it's like that, and I rush all over the place wiping up frantically even as the mess occurs. On those days, I say no too often. I become impatient. I long for naptime, or a shift at the credit union. On those days, I feel like the worst of mothers. I put her to bed and want to just lay down and cry. And then it hits me. I didn't just have a child. I became someone's mother. And I suck at it. Poor kid. 


So I've decided I'm going to be better. Do better. I'm going to raise my voice less. Practice taking deep breaths. And read. Being a mom is something I want to be amazing at. Surely there's a book or two that could help. Oh wait. There's four hundred and seventy three million parenting books. "How to get your baby to _______" is a pretty popular title. But that's not my question. I don't want to get her to do something, or not do something...wait. This is a lie. I want her to poop on the potty consistently. But I digress.


It's amazing to me that the vast majority of parenting books I've found are focused on the child's behavior. It starts with sleeping through the night, and goes on from there. I have books on how to disguise vegetables in chocolate and how not to have your daughter become a tramp by age 12. All good stuff. I'd like her to eat veggies. I'd like her to maintain her modesty and dignity. Not many of them answer the question, "how do I be a good mother to my child?" There are some, but again, the answers are so contradictory it's difficult to know where to start.


Someone great gave me amazing parenting advice once, when I was being badgered to read a certain book that I disagree with pretty profoundly. Someone was saying it was the ONLY way to parent and had an amazing success rate. Anyway, I didn't want to offend by saying that I thought it was a load of hooey, even if it did work, but at the same time would rather have spent my fifteen bucks on almost anything else. Like a new novel to read at three in the morning while I nursed on demand (insert sad head shake here). Anyway, this great person (we'll call her Schmecky) told me, "It can be good advice and still be terrible advice for you. Every baby is different, but every mom is different too. You have to parent in a way that's true to who you are. If this amazing trick gets your baby to sleep through the night but you simply don't have the personality type to do it, then it's not good advice. Even if it works." (It should be noted that this is massively paraphrased.) 


I've been thinking about that a lot. Parenting in a way that's true to who God made me to be, while still asking him to file down those rough edges. (Someone get the Man a big file - stat) I've been reading, researching, trying to find something that fits. Some sort of a starting point so I can weed through the literature and find something I'd want to read from start to finish. Enter The Hippie Housewife, and the term Attachment Parenting. I'd never heard it before last week, but it's a lot of things that I've always felt about parenting on a wide variety of topics, that happily fit under a heading. Which is nice and organized for me. And helps with my Google search for good books.


-I don't let Bella cry it out. Not ever. Not even now. I won't do it. If she cries. I come. I'll do it until she moves out. 
-I breastfed for 16 months and LOVED it. On demand. And for a baby on steroids, I can't begin to tell you what that meant for me. Sometimes every twenty minutes for HOURS on end. Days on end. I spent our first Christmas vacation in bed with my top off because there was just no point. She ate. I read the entire Twilight saga, to my discredit.
-I co sleep (GASP!) I get the most comments about this one. I probably will co-sleep until either a:Peter gets better hours, or b:Bella tells me she's over it. And if Peter gets better hours, then I don't know what. Both Bella and I LOVE going to sleep together. And if you're about to argue that she'll never sleep in her own bed and Peter and I will never have sex again, you are wrong. She sleeps in her crib whenever I ask her to with no fuss. We love it. It's not for everyone, and our work situation certainly lends itself to it, but for us? It's the best part of my day.


What makes me happy is that Attachment Parenting is not about raising brats. It's not about children who learn that Mama says yes whenever they ask. Anyone who knows me knows I have some pretty strict boundaries with Bella. Probably too many, simply because she understands far too well. This is about acknowledging that I am the adult. I chose to have you, not the other way around. It's about questioning my motives. WHY do people obsess about sleeping through the night? It's not like I don't get the sleep deprivation thing, I do. (Seriously...Every. Twenty. Minutes.) But this is about asking myself if I am reacting to Bella out of love or selfishness. Do I put her first? God tells us that we should put others above ourselves, that we should serve them with love. He doesn't ask us to be doormats, but to be intentional in the way that we love and serve others. I think others includes my daughter. I teach her to respect me when I say no, because I am part of the foundation of how she will relate to God (oh my goodness) and I want her to be obedient to him. But I don't teach her to respect me because I'm embarrassed that she's defying my authority in the grocery store lineup and the perfect mom behind me is drilling holes into the back of my head with her judge-y eyes. (Oh - she shops at your grocery store too? Small world.) This is about my mindset. It's about where my head is at. It is about living in a way that is intentional, instead of in a way that is purely reactive. I suck at it on a pretty impressive level, if you were wondering. But I'd really, really like to learn. What's more important than this?

If I see a homeless man on the street and give him money, and he spends that money on booze, was I wrong?

Today I saw the video for www.Kony2012.com. It moved me to tears. This isn't an issue I'm hearing about for the first time. I've known about the issue for a long time. This is the first time though, that's I've heard someone with a plan, and that was inspiring to me.

Here's the thing though: Kony2012 has its dark side. Their financials are less than stellar, they're not being run the way I would run it. They're supporting the Ugandan army, and that's not something that I'd want to side with. They're also not the only charity doing something. You can Google it all and find a lot of reasons NOT to support this charity. Those are good reasons, and I wouldn't fault you for it, except for one thing:

Who WILL you support?

My problem with picking apart a charity is that it's often done by people doing nothing to support the cause. I don't know that this is the best way to end this. But it's certainly better than nothing at all. My issue with it is that Kony2012 is going crazy viral. It's more or less, all that's on my Facebook wall. And then someone smart comes along and gives you five good reasons not to support Invisible Children, and guess what? You stop being a human concerned about positive change and you become a consumer. You're purchasing charity. You're supporting something with that money and now you want to agree with EVERYTHING the charity is doing with that money. That is impossible, so the immediate response is then to do nothing at all. Take your money and go to Starbucks (by the way, I disagree with a lot of their charities too).

Compassion International, as a charity, is MUCH  better run than Invisible Children, as noted by Charity Navigator - you can decide for yourself if you agree with how they rank what makes a "good" or "bad" charity. But I haven't heard from Compassion International about this issue, and what their plan is. I have seen nothing but www.Kony2012.com all morning. I don't think I'd send them a monthly cash donation, but I'm more than happy to buy the t-shirt and posters and put them up. I'd be happy to raise awareness.

But then that's an incredibly tricky word: Awareness.  It's tricky because we're selfish. Raising awareness implies that if we are aware, we will act. And that's incorrect for a huge number of people. This will get spammed. People will ignore it. The fact that the video is 30 entire minutes long will lose a huge number of people. That's sad. It's sad that people will change their profile pictures and not write their politicians. But if you change your profile picture, and do nothing else, and one of your friends sees, and they write their politicians, then something's been accomplished. You've created real awareness, the kind that produces change, even with your apathetic trend following. And that's something. It's better than nothing.

It's a strange world. It's a world that can't be charted in a financial statement. Invisible Children gave only slightly more than 30% of their total income (over 8 million) to the actual cause. The rest was salaries, marketing, travel expenses, etc. But if their marketing budget makes our government spend huge money in solving the issue, should that be charted too? How much money has been spent as a direct result of Invisible Children raising "awareness"? That's not charted, it can't be. It's possible that this "shady charity" could end the regime of Kony. They might be better equipped to do it than anyone else, and so they got my  $30 today, and I'll get a bumper sticker and some posters that I'll put up. I'd be happy to let you photocopy them if you like.

Don't run somebody down because they're not doing it how you would do it, or how you think is right. You only earn that right when you're doing something yourself. Don't kid yourself into thinking that you're not supporting causes that you likely disagree with when you make your purchases every day.

If I give a homeless man on the street five dollars, and at the end of the day he spends it on liquor, that is not up to me. I believe that God honors generosity and I do not believe that His arm is so short that He can't use that $5 in a multitude of ways. I also believe that God honors education, and thoughtful giving. Occasionally I give to homeless people on the street, sometimes I don't.

You don't have to support this charity. You should support this cause. If it was my child who was kidnapped, who was being tortured and raped I will tell you one truth: I wouldn't care about the politics of who rescued her. I wouldn't care about their spending habits or their political affiliation. I would care about my baby coming home. Find someone, ANYONE, who is working towards that end, who has a solution you can agree with, and support that. With your time and your money and your letter to your local politician. Get involved. Change the world. But DO NOT do nothing and point fingers at those who are doing it "wrong". Do not diminish their cause and turn people who were doing something, into people who are now so confused about who to side with, that they're now doing nothing. That's a crime too, in my books.

So I have some strong and totally ridiculous views on certain aspects of Christmas. For instance:

-I don't think that you should mix and match Christmas light colors. Pick a color, or a series of colors, and stick with it. I don't hate all LED versions of lights, but I really don't like the red, orange, and blue ones. They remind me of those chili pepper lights you sometimes see in Mexican restaurants. Okay, I might dislike all LED lights. I love those really fat old glass lights that glow with wanton disregard to your skyrocketing electric bill. I prefer them in the red, green, yellow combination, but have seen some red and white, and even green and white ones that are super cute too. They remind me of my childhood. I actually despair at Bella growing up in a world where only LED lights exist. The only time it is acceptable to mix the above mentioned lighting colors is if you're adding white icicle lights to a solid color. Someone nearby has their house trimmed in red, with white icicles everywhere. It's gorgeous. NEVER, under any circumstances, change the color of your lights in the middle of your roof line. Don't be lazy. I know you grabbed the wrong color at WalMart. Go change them over.

-Our tree has only white lights on it. Only white lights are acceptable. Decorations are mostly red, green, and gold. I have a couple of white ones, and one really special one that has a tiny bit of blue on it, but otherwise the colors are coordinating, though almost none of the ornaments are. The wrapping paper used on any gift under the tree, must meet the color criteria of the tree above. We found gorgeous blue and silver wrap this year, and we left it for slightly less beautiful, but matching, wrapping paper. This is when Peter laughed at me and called me a Christmas Nazi. He's not wrong. I have issues. My mother has multi-colored lights on the tree. She always has, she always should. Her tree would look wrong with white lights. I understand this is unreasonable, but it's the way it is.

-Christmas carols are classic for a reason. They live forever for a reason. I think Justin Beiber should possibly be sued for his version of Drummer Boy. You do not need to make a carol current, or cool, or different. That song has been beautiful for much longer than he's been alive and I find his version almost disrespectful to Christmas itself. I have no problem with making a new Christmas song. There are quite a few that I really love. I'll do a post soon and we can all share original Christmas songs we love, that'd be fun! But under no circumstances is it okay to totally change the feeling of, say, O Come All Ye Faithful so that it's "trendy" and "you". If you're famous and reading this - don't mess around with what is already great. Also, if you're famous and reading this, I need to update my privacy settings.

Speaking of Christmas carols, my favorite might be O Come O Come Emmanuel. I've actually never been able to pick a favorite. I do really love this one though. I love the haunting sound of it, and I adore the lyrics.

So here's the conundrum: So far, my favorite is the Bethany Dillon version. I have a feeling that there's a better one out there, but I haven't found it yet. For that matter, I can't even find a link to the one I like - it's not on YouTube that I can see. Get it on iTunes. You won't regret that dollar. I just LOVE the last verse of it, even though it breaks my cardinal rule of Christmas songs (don't ever change the original lyrics!). See? I'm flexible! She does a beautiful job on it, and the best part about it is that she doesn't rush it. I HATE speedy versions of this song.

So this challenge will be twofold:
Find me a better version of this song that isn't speedy or obnoxious.
ALSO
Tell me your favorite Christmas song, and your favorite version of it. I plan on listening to nothing else tomorrow and I'm needing to update my playlist.

I really adore Christmas. I love everything about it. It's almost a feeling you get when fall starts closing its doors and winter shows up. In BC that happens in one foul windstorm that shakes the house and then a week later it's +15 for a couple of days and then it's all over. Winter sets in and I wake up to frosty windows and a smell in the air that makes people drag out their Christmas lights. 


I think the world would be such a better place if people were the way they are in December. I mostly hate January and February, and even March is just cold and I'm miserably waiting for summer, but December is a perfect month. It's that everything that happens in December is an occasion. Nothing is just another day; it's one day closer to Christmas Day. We are having two tree decorating parties this weekend. The one with just Peter, Bella, and I will be about moving our breakable decorations to the top half of the tree, and eating snacks and listening to music and watching Bella's face when Daddy lights up the tree. I love it so much. Christmas was great before Bella. It's completely magical now. 


I found this amazing kid on YouTube through Becky, and this is a pretty cool rendition of Drummer Boy. I think his mittens in the video make it for me. Bella loved it. But it got me to thinking, I bet there's a bunch of amazing Christmas music out there, that I don't know, that could be playing in my living room this month. So I'm going to post my very favorite version of one song, and you are welcome to one-up me with a song/video/link to a better version of the same song. I'm going to do it a bunch of times this December, maybe close to everyday. Think of it as NaBloPoMo, but late. And not as consistent. And in a theme. 


Without further ado, here's my favorite version of Drummer Boy. I love EVERYTHING about this version. I love the build of it and I swear to you, when he sings, "So to honor him" I tear up. Every year. And the bagpipes? Totally freaking genius. 






PS - Robyn. Justin Beiber needs to have a chat with Josh Groban. That man knows how to sing a Christmas song. And his hair is way nicer.

This morning I woke up and my friend had posted about being "gutted" at seeing the front page of the New York Times. I had to look - and she picked the right adjective. It's horrifying.

Terrorists control most of Somalia right now. They are an Islamic insurgent group and have decided that they are taking a stand against the indoctrination of Western ideas into their Islamic society. That includes refusing aid of any kind if it comes in the package of anything other than Islam. It includes refusing immunizations for incredibly preventable diseases for their children. It includes refusing food from groups like Unicef. It includes the execution of foreign aid workers. They are hemming their people in, refusing outside access of any kind, and starving their own people to death. There are over 500,000 children who are dying of starvation while other people die to bring them food that they're not getting, because it's coming from white hands. The UN is launching investigations into organizations bringing aid because so much of it is being skimmed by known terrorists. It's illegal to aid terrorists, obviously. So if 20% of the food goes to dying children then we stop that 20% because it means 80% is aiding terrorists. To say the situation is complicated is a mass understatement. What on earth do we do? How can we help? It literally looks hopeless.

I'm going to draw a pretty controversial parallel here, just because it's something I can't stop thinking about. You should know I want to be wrong. I want these two things to be separate. It would make me feel so much better about myself and I'd like that. But I don't know that I'm wrong.

Last week while waiting for the ferry, we took Bella to the little park at the terminal. There were two kids, I'm going to guess aged nine and six. They were both so obese that they couldn't play. The little girl ran exactly the way Bella does. Like a speed walk, because Bella hasn't figured out the slight jumping motion that is intrinsic to actual running - this little girl physically couldn't do it. She was trying to ride the carousel, but the moment her dad went to push it, the amount of weight and lack of muscle tone literally didn't allow her to stay on. The motion of the carousel turning forced her off, as though her dad was pushing it sixty miles an hour. He tried again and again, and she flew to the ground over and over and you could tell it wasn't connecting with him. "Hang on!" he'd yell as she hit the ground. I couldn't look.The word 'abuse' popped into my head and I couldn't think of a good reason to make it leave. Maybe it was genetics. Maybe. The six large take-out containers of deep fried food that the mother was holding indicates otherwise, but I guess there's always that possibility. You don't see those kids over in Somalia though. The ones that are genetically predisposed to be huge. They don't exist there, why do they here? I don't know - I'm asking in earnest.

I'm asking how those two things can exist simultaneously. I'm asking how one is better than the other. One is seemingly about religion, one is about....what? How can we literally eat ourselves to death on one half of the world, while they starve on another? Because we can afford it? That's hardly an answer but it's the only one I can think of. Not only can we afford it, we think it's actually a basic human right to eat what we want, when we want, and not have to pay the consequences. Am I being unfair? Childhood obesity is killing our children. Starvation is killing theirs. They're refusing aid. We're refusing to eat something other than McDonald's. Both governments bear huge responsibility. It should NOT be cheaper to get a cheeseburger that is so far from actual food that it doesn't rot, than it is to get some chicken and vegetables that haven't been fed or sprayed with chemicals. How is what we're doing different? We make it impossible for poor people to eat healthily. Those poor people get a myriad of diseases that come from eating nothing that isn't chemical and fat at its core and they die from those diseases. While costing the government untold amounts of money in health care.

It's something I've been thinking about a long time: this question of entitlement. It's a basic human right to eat. It isn't a basic human right to eat something different every night of the week, regardless of when it's in season. Because lets face it, if we stopped demanding the exact same food all year round in our grocery store, it would be less likely that those vegetables would need to be artificially produced. It would mean that local farms could actually make money. It would even mean that the food you ate every day would taste better. Our economy would improve. Organic would stop meaning expensive. Eventually it would. I've been trying lately to eat organically, and do you know what I've discovered? You can eat it for about the same amount as you can eat crap, but you can't eat exactly what you want all the time. You might not eat meat with every meal, or even every day. Why do I balk at that, even now?

I'm the "king of sinners", as the saying goes. I was mad at Stupidstore for not having cilantro just yesterday. I have asparagus in my oven as I type this and I don't know who grew it and I know it was sprayed with chemical. I actually don't even know what asparagus looks like growing naturally. I don't know when any of my vegetables are in season, and I eat crap. I've fed it to my daughter for no other reason than that it was convenient at the time. I'm going to crack a diet Pepsi in just a few minutes because I like it and it's not even my first one today. And to a certain extent that's okay. It's okay to go out to eat and to enjoy what you put in your mouth. But I wonder about all this. I don't have answers that bear any intelligence at all. I want some country to storm the borders of Somalia with tanks, killing terrorists left and right dragging food and medicine behind them. I doubt that's a real answer.

I just can't stop wondering if we're as far removed from the terrorists in Somalia as we'd like to think we are. They're killing their people, we're killing ours - we're even using the same weapon. Don't get me wrong. Even typing it makes me want to rebel against my own words. Except that I don't see how those words are wrong. I'm wrong. I'm entitled and I'm guilty and I'm wrong. And though I don't need to feel guilty about being born on this side of the equation, I can't not think about the other. I can't turn my tear streaked face away from the photos because they're too hard to see, as my brain thinks of what it would be like to watch Bella die in my arm, so so slowly. But I should also think what it would do to my heart to see her get so huge that her body shuts down because it can't cope with what I'm feeding her.

So here I sit. Trying to find a conclusion that proves that we are better than they are. I don't have one.

On Friday, we go to BC Children's Hospital one last time. I have one last pink ferry voucher in my bag, one last list of questions for the doctor, one last chance for a trip to Olive Garden with the transport paid for by the government. 
On March 25th, I put a syringe of Propranolol in Bella's mouth for the last time. The other day she needed Tylenol and fought me giving her medicine and it made me happy. It means that everyone was right. She doesn't even remember those months where she had to learn to deal with it, to suck it up (literally). She's happy and silly. She's incredibly smart. She's super small. I bet she still doesn't weigh 25 pounds and I'm just over stressing about it. I'm done stressing about a lot of things. She's currently jumping up and down on the couch saying "No B-S!" Possibly because I just freaked out over hearing an ad for anti-depressants on TV that said that one in five of us are mentally ill and undiagnosed. I may have called the ad a liar and said they were spreading BS to the masses. Bella has hopped up on my soapbox unawares - which makes me laugh. She makes me bust out laughing every single day. Maybe I could get her a little sign and we could go picket some pharmaceutical company. Anyway, I digress - again.
In the spirit of not stressing about things, we are making this last trip a celebration. Bella, my mom and I. My mom has come with me to almost every last one of these appointments. At the beginning we would sit at the ferry on the way home and I would sob my eyes out and she'd hold Bella and we'd talk. We'd try and go shopping before those early scarier appointments and pretend everything was fine. One time, we sat in a hospital room with Bella strapped to heart monitors and we prayed together for a long time for Uncle John. I would take her out for dinner - once to this stupidly fancy place that we rolled Bella into in her stroller. She napped - we had wine and dinner. We've taken turns while Bella needed to be walked around the ferry because she was crying, then because she was learning to walk and we would break our backs leaning over to help, now to chase her as she runs wildly all over the place and says "hi" to everyone she sees. I don't know how I would have done those trips without my mom. She's cried with me, laughed and shopped with me, helped me to get my questions in order and asked her own and remembered the answers when I was too stressed out. 
So on Thursday, as a thanks to my mom for being so amazing during all those early trips we are going here for the night. We're going to take Bella swimming in the amazing pool and then order Indian food to our hotel suite. The next morning we'll have breakfast in the restaurant and drive to Granville Island to run around and shop and look at stuff. Our appointment is at 2:45 and then we'll probably go for dinner one last time and get on the ferry and laugh at how Bella doesn't want to nap and how crazy she is. I'm looking forward to it. Can you believe that?
We do have to talk to the doctor about possible laser treatments for Bella's mark and when that's a feasible thing if it doesn't go away completely on its own. Now when she goes to sleep at night she "prays to Jesus" to "please heal my little mark and make it all better". Part of my spirit, I can't lie, whispers to Heaven, "Seriously, how can you say no to that? Just do it. Please? C'mon..." I guess I know where Bella gets her little "salesman pitch" that always makes us laugh when she wants something. 
We're hoping the mark goes away on its own and it may yet, but I think we've decided that we'd like to take care of it before she could get teased over it, if it comes to that. I have no idea what that entails or costs or anything like that so we need to figure some of those things out. I need an ophthalmologist referral in Nanaimo to do check-ups on her eye and make sure everything is progressing fine there. When her face went still right at the beginning, it did some permanent damage to the nerve that controls her eyelid. When she's super tired it droops slightly, doesn't blink quite as quickly as the other one. Unless she's exhausted, you probably wouldn't know it, but it's one of those things we keep an eye on.  We've never noticed much difference in the way of actual eye movement but your eyes develop pretty slowly so we will probably still check on that every once in a while. 
That said, it's pretty likely that after Friday afternoon - we're done. She's fine, it's over. I think that deserves a celebration. I'm so happy she's okay - so happy that we didn't damage anything with all the steroids or the heart medication. We've decided to take this summer and all just have fun together. We are doing little day trips with her, and taking her to the beach and throwing her a cowgirl birthday party next month, which of course I'm going a little over the top about. I love pony rides - it's going to be great. Can't wait. 
So that's it I suppose. One last Bella update, one more trip to Vancouver to finish things off. One more time. 

We are driving (DRIVING!) to Wyoming. Next week. With Bella. In the car. To Wyoming. A little fuzzy on your geography? It a road trip long enough that if you could draw on the planet with a big red marker, you could see that road trip from space. Bella is going to be in the car with us. Did I mention that already?

I remember last year, the idea of a 14 hour plane ride nearly drove me to drink. I couldn't imagine keeping her in one spot that long. I was CERTAIN that I would end up in a tiny airplane bathroom bawling and holding my screaming child. She did beautifully. Just perfectly, couldn't have asked for anything better. There AND back. And this time, we have a portable DVD player. And folks, I am heading to the library and plan to fill half my car with exciting DVDs. She's gonna love it. The other half of the car is going to be filled with children's Gravol. Don't judge me. It's Bella in a car for 18 hours.

So far, the plan of attack involves an evening ferry out of town and then do most of the trip through the night. And the Gravol. If we can catch the 8pm ferry, we should hit the border around 10:30. By the time she wakes up, we should only have about seven or eight more hours. Eight hours is only two more hours than I strapped her in a hiking backpack the other weekend. She can totally do it. Plus, Dora and the Backyardigans and the Veggies, and Guess With Jess are all coming and will be hooked up to the DVD player. It'll be fine.

At this point I welcome any roadtrip advice or even meaningless comforting lies about how totally great this will be.

Sunday afternoon I will be taking my last pill. I don't expect to enjoy Monday evening much when my body goes "hey! Where's my stuff!" for the first time, -and I expect to hate Tuesday.  I'm willing to have next week as a whole, be a total wash.
I've dropped from 8 pills (not counting the other medication that I quit a couple months ago) to one pill in 8 weeks and as they don't make smaller pills and I don't want to deal with compounding I'm going to quit and tough it out until the withdrawal is over. I don't have to work next week so that'll be a big help. This last drop has been pretty intense. Today I had the worst brain zaps I've had yet, was nauseated enough to take gravol during the day and not care if I was tired, and a screaming headache.
In total, I will have been on medication for ten short months. For not being depressed in the first place, I have a hard time with that number, but it is still a smaller number than my doctor wanted. My taper has been aggressive and I've paid for it (so has Peter and anyone else unfortunate enough to encounter me on a Wednesday). I'm ready to be done. Three more pills. Three more days.
I wish I felt better about the way it all went. I still feel unresolved about the doctor, still want to egg his office some days. I'm still mad and guilty and I still have trouble remembering things that I did only a few months ago. I have no memory of events that I should be able to easily recall. I'm still getting stressed out too easily, still having trouble multitasking, but hopefully those things will start to slowly get better when my body adjusts to having no medication. My family are all saying what a drastic change they've noticed in me since my starting to wean and that's good. I still spend all my time wondering how I got here, upset at what I've said and done, and guilty over things that I can't change now.
I'm tired. I have to tell you though, when I can get myself to relax and fall asleep, I sleep like a dead person. It's the best sleep I've had since those early pregnant sleeps where you're not quite to the sick phase but you just sleep 14 hours a day because you're so exhausted from trying to produce a human. That exhaustion never goes away, but your ability to sleep will, and then it's downhill unless you can get addicted to a batch of anti-depressants and then fall asleep after dropping your nearly lethal doses to something your body is supposed to be able to handle. If I could quit the nightmares, I'd be golden. The other night it was trying to escape from Russian Mobsters in Tokyo who wanted to rape me, but I was so blind drunk in my dream that I kept stopping while running away and looking at these amazing shoes for sale in the night market, then remembering these guys wanted to do horrible things to me and running again. This is strange in that I don't know any Russians, have no idea why they'd be cruising around Japan, have never been to a Japanese night market (though the Thai ones are cool) and have also never been blind drunk. Or raped (thank God).
Then it was humpback whales who ate Bella because she fell out of a window while looking at them. I'm scared of whales, did you know that? I think they're amazing and majestic and so beautiful, but if I were kayaking and came across a humpback whale, I would pee my pants and probably have a heart attack and drown while the whales ignored me. I was swimming in Hawaii once and I looked down to see a huge sea turtle beneath me and I lost my mind. I was on the beach hyperventilating with panic while marveling at how beautiful it was in about two seconds. Poor turtle. Seriously, what did I think it was going to do? Chase me? Geez. Sometimes when I'm swimming I think about all the creatures that I'm sharing a body of water with and my heart races so badly and I feel so tiny and insignificant, and okay, edible, that I have to go lay on the beach and have a Smirnoff Ice and calm on down. I love to swim - there's something so free, and so quiet about being suspended underwater - just don't be stupid and think "Holy crap! I'm in the same water as like, thousands of whales, some probably within a couple of miles of here. Robyn saw killer whales on the ferry last week (jealous!!!) and those whales could easy be near here by now".
Now that you're all sure that I'm insane and really should be on some form of medication, I'm going to go and mix my powdered cement supplement with some water that I should be drinking WAY more of, take two natural relax supplements (that I may keep around the house forever, because I'm, well, me) and a couple of omega and DHA supplements, a prenatal vitamin (because EVERY woman should take them - always) and crawl into bed and finish my book. And pray that I sleep dreamlessly. Goodness, that would be fantastic. Three more stupid pills.

I'm a firm believer in loving where you live, which is really easy for me. I remember vacationing in Coombs as a girl. I remember getting a pair of white cowboy boots at one of the kitschy little stores that surround the main square when there was still a huge ferris wheel in the center. I wore those boots with a short baby-doll dress for my birthday so you can date that accordingly, if you wish. I live here now and every spring when the Alberta and Saskatchewan license plates start showing up, I grumble with the best of the locals about how, "You've seen Oceanside, now go home!" Secretly though, it's amazing to live in a place where people want to vacation - where I used to vacation. Yes, it means that on a sudden Tuesday in June you can't get anywhere near Coombs market to get your organic veggies, but hey, look at the view here! I can cope. Begrudgingly.

A few days ago, Peter and I did a "tourist at home" day. I love being able to have these, and I enjoy them every time. We packed up Bella and drove the fifteen minutes to Parksville and enjoyed the sunny view while watching the clouds come in over Mt Arrowsmith, threatening rain. Our first stop was Qualicum Cheeseworks, and no matter how many times I go I have so much fun. It's the Saskatchewan farm girl coming out in me, a piece of my DNA that I'm so happy Bella has inherited and Peter doesn't understand as I breathe in the glorious smell of a working farm. Yes, that smell is manure, but somehow when mixed with fresh spring air, hay, dirt, and the musty woodsy smell of an old barn, it becomes an intoxicating perfume to me.

I'm sure they'd be just as busy if they charged for parking or admission, but I love that they don't. This was the first time we'd taken Bella, and folks, she LOVED it. She went wild. She chased a duck who was well mannered enough to not bite her fingers off, as I would have done. She squealed at baby chicks and asked politely to be left in their cage with them for all eternity. She kissed a sheep on the nose and saw a calf born two days ago. The best part of the day was when we entered the bunny pen and while I was cuddling the most adorable little rabbit, Bella asked her Daddy if she could "please kick a bunny?" I kid you not. She unfortunately inherited her father's DNA which involves seeing some kind of sport with a complicated rule system and a high incidence of total disaster during every day activities. I guess the gorgeous little lop-eared creatures sitting peacefully in the sun just begged to be punted. I thought they were so adorable I could just cuddle them making squealing noises forever, but once the critter in my arms decided I had taken things too far by kissing it's cute wiggling nose, it leaped from my arms and went running about the enclosure. Bella stopped asking to abuse the animals and giggled uproariously. Apparently they just weren't moving enough for her.

We ended up in the shop while Bella ate her weight in cheese samples that they make fresh on the farm. I had two tiny spoonfuls of the berry cream cheese that they make and held myself back from buying them completely out of stock. Bathing suit season is just around the corner but oh, the texture of that cheese and the taste of fresh berries just makes me think of croissants and forget about the sight of my love handles in a pair of cute jeans. I could bathe in that stuff it's so delicious. In great news, I found out that they sell organic beef in small portions so I'll be back a few times this summer yet I'm sure. The wonderful lady behind the counter did not comment on the amount of cheese we consumed (we're a family of little will power) and instead offered us a few wine samples. Peter responsibly frowned at the time (it was still well before lunch) while I headed over to the bar and sampled some local gooseberry wine, which made me think of a picnic on the beach with some fruit and bread, and perhaps some of that berry cream cheese. We ducked out after buying a new cheese knife and a cute magnet before I lost total control and ate and drank and shopped myself into oblivion.

From the farm we were off to Little Qualicum Falls to show Bella where Daddy asked Mommy to marry him seven years ago and started the chaos we now call everyday life. She's obviously still far too young to care, but it was special having  her there. We took a bunch of pictures and Bella ran around kicking pine cones which turned out to be a wonderful substitute for those poor bunnies. I shot some video of Bella and Daddy playing the above-mentioned complicated game (this one involved seeing if you could whack Mommy with the pine cone) that I'm sure I'll watch when she's off in college refusing to answer my calls. It occurred to me that days don't get more perfect than this as we acted like idiots in the car trying to keep Bella awake during the short drive to Coombs Market. We got parking in front of the General Store (imagine!) and we wandered around looking at things that I've seen a million times before, and bought in other countries. It was a joke with my family when I traveled that everything I brought back from some exotic place like Japan, Nepal, or India, could be found and purchased with ease at Coombs. It used to make me so angry but now that I buy plane tickets with much less frequency than I used to, it just makes me happy. We shared lunch and found out that there is now a new Italian restaurant in Coombs and as I am as big a sucker for pasta as I am for delicious cheese, I'm sure we'll include that as our next stop.

To think, people from the prairies spend heaps of money to get here, and this is where I live. I saw my first smattering of Alberta, Washington, and even a Colorado license plate on the way home and I couldn't help but laugh. Welcome to Oceanside. You really should just move here.

Goodness sakes. I'm sick to death of being on this medication. I know, I'm sorry. I'll try not to whine. I'm down to 75mg which is actually pretty amazing Given that in February I was taking 400mg and two different medications. I feel more like myself most of the time. Wednesdays are total crap though, and are becoming increasingly difficult. I drop my dose on Tuesday at lunch and I'm usually in bed before my body notices that it didn't get all of it's dose. By morning? I'm not a good person on Wednesday as my body realizes "Hey!! What the?" and tries to work with less hormone than it normally has, which is way less than it's had in the past. I'm generally angry, irrational and overwhelmed not to mention totally exhausted. I fight a headache for the whole day and get zapped fairly frequently.

By Thursday I get zapped intensely and often one time after another. On a Thursday my mood is more even but the zaps are incredible. I can't deal with a sudden change in temperature, like walking outside, or opening the fridge. If I touch something cold (like go to pour Bella's milk) or drink something hot (like the coffee I refuse to live without) I will get a very strong electric shock in the base of my skull. Often they're bad enough that if I'm talking, I completely lose what I was about to say. I find myself confused and disoriented often. I don't love to drive on Thursday and funny things become really hard for me. Like sitting and standing too quickly or turning my head to look into the back seat to see how Bella is doing. Or shoulder check. Like I said, I shouldn't drive.

By Friday I feel not bad. My mood is controllable, the zaps aren't great in the morning but even out by afternoon and by Friday evening I feel good. Saturday is a give away. It goes either way. Lately, as the medication dose I am on is down, but the percentage that I give up every week rises (It's was a 33% drop this week, next week is 50%) Friday can be marginally better than Thursday, and Saturday can still be manageable but pretty crap. Sunday though, I am myself, and Monday is the best day of the week. My body feels fairly well adjusted to the new dose of medication, just in time for me to drop it again the next day and by Wednesday I'm a raving bitch again. Sorry for the language. The woman I talk to at Point of Return said that that's the actual medical term for it, and Peter reluctantly agreed that it was fairly accurate.

Robyn used to go to school for Monday, Tuesday and half of Wednesday. Luc, being the sensitive little guy that he was, used to be okay on Monday (he'd just seen her that morning), and on Tuesday you'd try and plan an activity or something to keep him distracted, but Wednesdays were just crap. Wednesdays he could throw himself on the floor at being gently told that ice cream was not a suitable breakfast option, and weep openly. We started using the phrase, "It's okay. Nothing's wrong, it's just Wednesday." Wednesday night by dinner Robyn would be home and he'd be great. It's funny how many things happen on Wednesday that we apply that to now.

In good news, the taper is hard, but I'm making it that way. I could go slower if I wanted to and my zaps would be fewer, my moods more even. But I'd have to look at that pill bottle for longer and I just can't. In two weeks, I could possibly be done. I might see what my work schedule looks like and wait for Peter to have a day off at home with me and take my last pill the day before. Then I know I'm ok if I have a rough patch. I'm praying that it'll just be another drop, but I'm scared of that. I may just load myself up on Gravol and try to sleep through it. But I'll be done.

I still am having trouble remembering big stretches of time over the last few months, but my health feels better, and I've been managing some very occasional exercise. In dropping the meds, and starting to actually care what I eat and what I look like, I've lost seven pounds so far with not very much effort at all. At the worst, I was only ten pounds lighter that I was the day I went in to have Bella. I remember not caring that I was going to be fat forever and never like the way I looked again. Now my disgust with my own body and the mental state that got me there knows no bounds, so that's a good thing. Any strong emotion that promotes action is a good thing since what we noticed most on the drug was my inability to really care about anything other than Bella. I noticed my horrifyingly messy house the other day and it upset me so much that Peter kicked me out to clean it. My old doctor would say that that proves my OCD diagnoses but he'd be wrong. It proves that I'm me, but still a little too drugged to deal with the overwhelmed feeling that a messy house has always given me. I know it sounds funny but those things make me happy to see returning. Bad self image is better than no self image. Plus those seven pounds gone make me happy. Really happy. Happy enough that if the sun shines, I might walk around Westwood lake tomorrow. Anyone want to come?

Except it's not, because it's Bella. And she's not me, just all the very best and cutest parts of me. Anyway, go see her blog - lots of pictures, if you've been wondering how she's doing.

Quick, because this post can't be just another link to yet another blog that I keep up on - I will add a little filler with what I would have used as Facebook statuses lately, had I been signing in.

Tonight when putting Bella to bed, I noticed that she has another diaper rash. Or diaper blisters as they are in our house. As I was smearing her private parts thick with cream she says, "Ooooh! Make-up! Thanks!"

Two nights ago Bella found some of Robyn's expensive makeup that she'd stolen and stashed away for later. My mom showed her how to put her fingers into the hot pink blusher, and then rub her fingers on her cheeks. Cute. So they leave, I wash her face and I'm putting her to bed later on and we're doing the whole, "night night toes. Night night tummy." and Bella all of a sudden strokes her cheek and says, "Night-night makeup. I love you makeup"

Oh dear. That kid makes me laugh my face off every. single. day.

She is also terrifying me with things that I didn't think we'd have to deal with until YEARS down the road. Like a love of Justin Bieber. Thanks Shelly.

Just got a call from Urban Beet. I won dinner for two at Urbana Pizza! This is good news in that we went there a couple of weeks ago and really liked it, and bad news in that my sorry butt should consume nothing but salad for the foreseeable future. 

It's also good news in that Peter and I could use a date night. Probably every other night for a year. It's one thing to have a baby, but to have a sick baby, followed by a crazy wife (even if it was the medication) plus all the ins and outs that being new parents entail, has been hard on us. We're not doing badly, not at all, but relationally, it feels a little like we've both been hit by a truck. And then backed over. We're discussing marital counseling, maybe once I'm off medication.


It's funny to put all of this out there. I found out yesterday that someone else reads my blog that I didn't know about. If you're reading, "hi Karen!" 


Side Note: if you're reading, you should comment! I like to know if you popped by. Also, I cannot type "popped" without typing "pooped". And it always makes me laugh, even though that type of humor usually doesn't do it for me.


Anyway. It's crazy how people change. And how they stay exactly the same and all the pieces in between that will drive you crazy, make you laugh, fall in love, or pull your hair out. Bella is changing. I don't have a baby anymore. She's a little girl. She has opinions on what she wears in the morning, whether she wants to keep her jammies on or wear a dress or jeans or what. She wants to wear my jewelery and make up all the time. The ear-piercing rule used to be, "when they're old enough to ask, and understand it will hurt." I was five when I had mine done, I'm sure she'll ask LONG before then. I predict this summer. She already asks, "Mama, bracelet? I want it?" when we're checking out at some store. She takes her little purse shopping and has opinions on what shoes she likes and the other day decided she didn't like marshmallows because although they tasted amazing, she didn't like being sticky. She is all things girl, and I love it. Love. It. But she doesn't sing to sleep anymore, and she mostly likes to fall asleep on her own, after a very short "snuggle" if I'm lucky. 

Peter is different, and so much the same. He feels the same about me. The things we fell in love with in each other have been buried under a lot of "Life" and we are digging though, sorting what's important as though we're beggars in a distant country, searching for something in the mess that we can save, maybe sell, or use to make a life. Some days there's a lot to find. Some days we sing Bella to sleep, Peter with his guitar, which she loves. I hold her in the dim light of her room and life is literally so perfect you could just bust apart in a million pieces with the beauty of it all. 


Then I freak out over nothing and ferret through my screwed up brain and try and figure out which thoughts are mine, and which are just the medicine. Sometimes I miss them and I boil over like an unwatched pot and make a mess. Peter gets the lucky job of cleaning me off, and usually himself, and trying not to take me personally. I told him today, that if it wasn't for Bella, I'd leave and come back when it was over. I'd find some place to hide with my pills and my vitamins and my wildly swinging moods and when I lashed out or freaked out or got brain zapped until I was so jumpy that I could kill you for the smallest imagined infraction, the only people who would feel it would be the squirrels I'd scare out of their trees. Sometimes, I'm scared out of my own tree, so it seems fitting.

It occurs to me that this is when people give up. That this is when a lot of people would decide that the means doesn't justify the end, and they'd part ways. Sometimes I want to go just to save Peter the upset of dealing with me. I'm angry and guilty and that seems to be about ninety percent of what I feel. As the medicine drops the angry goes down and the guilty goes up. At least the guilt is just mine. There's not a lot of what we started with some days, but somewhere underneath this nonsense is a foundation we built in better days, and I trust in the foundation. I trust the people who built that. I believe in the methods they used to build it. Although some days you couldn't tell from looking, not even from the inside, this is a construction project, not demo day. They look the same though don't they? For that period right before things get built, you can't tell if a house is being torn down or put back together. We're even doing some remodeling, though it's occurring to me now I'm taking this metaphor a little far.


There's things that we abandoned in the early days, or things that we allowed to be taken from us that we're willing to fight for now. Things that we know we can't live without. Mostly, we want to be a family and we don't want this life we've found ourselves in. I promised Peter a very long time ago that I'd never become the kind of wife who wanted nothing but a house, a white picket fence, and a mortgage. I want a life of adventure, and one of missions. I meant that. I mean it still. We said vows when we got married and nothing has changed. We've made them to Bella when we dedicated her, promised that she'd never come from a broken home and we meant it. 

This seems to be our song lately, the one Peter plays to Bella on his guitar quietly at night in her room as she looks back and forth between us and you can actually feel the Earth quiet around us and things go exactly right for just a few minutes. We belong to each other, and nothing changes that, not ever. But we belong to something more than ourselves as well, and the greatest peace lies in that. It's a peace I need so much more of, and one I'm learning to grab onto, trying not to remember a time when I didn't believe it was mine all along.