I know of six different women who live within a half a mile from my home who are pregnant – and that’s not counting me. Not only is there something in my neighborhood’s water, it feels like dozens of my Facebook friends are expecting.
So needless to say I have heard a lot of excited “I’m-going-to-have-a-baby!” type announcements in the past several months.
The problem is, when someone tells me the news there’s an awkward pregnant pause.
Not because there’s a silent break that may lead to the “birth” of a grand announcement, like the pregnant-pause definition suggests, but because when someone tells me they are pregnant, I literally pause.
I have absolutely nothing to say. No words of encouragement or support. No, “I am so happy for you,” and “That is so exciting” phrases seem sincere.
And somehow phrases like, “Good luck,” “I hope your baby is OK,” and “Seriously?” don’t seem situational appropriate.
I feel horrible and yet I don’t know how to change. I’m afraid I have become the sharp pin that bursts every excited mother-to-be’s bubble.
But how can I be thrilled about something that brought me such horrible pain and sorrow? I cross my fingers and pray each day that no one I know will have pregnancy complications. But it still scares me to death.
I guess I am still working through my grief and the anxiety it has forced into my life.
I’m hoping that a safe delivery of my unborn son this summer will reclaim my enthusiasm in childbearing.
Until then, I am sure I’ll give birth to a lot more pauses.
My husband says I am finally at his parenting level.
I have had a major revelation when it comes to picking up the toys around our house. A revelation he swears he had before our oldest son was even born.
I just rolled my eyes at him and told him he could pick up all of our toys if he is so superior. But since he is gone 80 percent of each day at work, that isn’t very realistic.
So, I am glad I have stumbled upon parenting genius.
I think I have finally figured out how to get my boys to help clean up their toys! I have realized something so simple, something that you, like my husband, have probably done from day one.
I am now making my children put away one set of toys before moving on to the next. A novel idea I know, but it is working wonders for my pick-up-all-the-toys-all-the-time anxiety.
I used to let my boys dump out whatever they wanted. Sometimes, OK a lot of the times, I would follow them around like I was part of the help picking up what they dumped or dropped. But my efforts were futile. They would storm through the house making mountains of mess that none of us felt like picking up at bedtime. We were tired, overwhelmed and unmotivated.
We live by storage bins at our house. We have a bin for Legos, trucks, Tinker Toys, dinosaurs, super heroes, etc.
The new routine is that they have to pick up their toys and put them in their bin when they are done with them, BEFORE moving to the next bin of toys. If they want to play super heroes then that’s fine with me. As long as all of the other bins are picked up and put away.
I have an 81-year-old neighbor who I visit on a regular basis who told me several years ago that she taught her kids to pick up and put away one thing before moving to the next.
I shrugged her master parenting skills off thinking that they were outdated and unhelpful. Boy was I wrong. I wish I would listen to people.
I haven’t exactly told my kids that we have a new pick-up-one-thing-before-starting-on-the-next rule. I’ve just been enforcing that kind of behavior and they are following naturally.
The best part is they are motivated to put stuff away because they want to get something else out. It’s amazing!
Like I said, many of you have probably already been living like this for a long time. So I want to know what other tricks you have for soliciting your children’s cleaning help. This mom could use all the help she can get!
I can’t wait for the day when I can sit down for more than one minute without feeling guilty. Because for some reason I have it stuck in my stay-at-home-mom mind that if I sit down for longer than it takes to tie my shoes, I am doing something wrong; some child or some chore is being neglected.
In fact as I am sitting typing this blog post I am feeling a little guilty that I am not playing with my boys who are setting up super hero/villain clusters throughout my living room in preparation of a giant battle.
They haven’t noticed I am not playing with them, so why should I care?
The truth is, I miss being OK with sitting and chilling. I miss things like watching hours of television just for “fun” or sitting on a blanket in my back yard soaking up the sun.
What happened to me?
Now I sit down to watch TV and can’t make it more than a half hour before I notice something in the room that I need to pick up or clean. I go outside to enjoy nature and end up sweeping up the patio or raking the flowerbeds.
Why can’t I stop?
I used to have hobbies – doing puzzles, cross stitching, playing the piano, to name a few. And heaven knows I LOVED getting lost in a good book.
But these days I don’t even dare open the cover to a new novel. I am afraid I will be hooked and therefore neglect all of my “mothering” responsibilities as I waste my time reading for pleasure. You should have seen me (and my house) a year ago when I read the Hunger Games Series. We were a mess!
It’s not healthy for me to think I can’t take time for myself. I’ve got to find a better balance in my life – A cure for my restless mom syndrome.
Most of the time I think, “I’ll sit and relax when I get everything done.” NEWSFLASH: I will NEVER be able to get everything done. The sooner I realize that the sooner I can relax.
I’ve read some great articles recently from moms who talk about “living in the moment” and “cutting yourself some slack.” I love reading other women’s advice on how to deal with being a mom. But for some reason I only remember what they say for a few days. Then I go back to guilting myself into running around like the energizer bunny never stopping, never resting.
I’m worried that some day my battery will run out.
Heaven help me realize that I don’t always need to vacuum the floors and wash all our clothes before leaving on vacation. The beds don’t always need to be made before we leave for school in the morning. And the dishes don’t need to be washed before I head to bed at night.
How do you make time for yourself and what do you do with that time? How do you let yourself relax?
Tomorrow I will embark on the second retirement of my professional career. I am quitting my job as a digital/social media specialist for MarketStar.
Why, you may ask, am I quitting a part-time job that pays me really well to work at home from my living room couch? Because despite my every effort to minimize the impact my job has had on my family, it has made a difference in our lives. Mostly mine.
If any mom tells you that starting a job — even if it is part-time from home — had no impact on them or their family, they are either lying or superwoman.
I’m not saying starting a job creates a negative impact, but it definitely changes things.
You can’t possibly toss another juggling ball up in the air without the risk of dropping one or two others you are already juggling. You may want to juggle them all, but won’t have the focus to do so.
For me tossing the work-at-home ball into the air caused me to drop two others — the sleep and personal-time balls.
I have worked hard during the past 15 months to get up long before my children to put half of my daily work hours in before they woke up. That meant they didn’t even know I was working. It also meant I had to go to bed early or fight to stay awake during the afternoon hours — especially during the past 7 months.
I would put my other two to two and a half hours of work in during the afternoon while my oldest was at school and my three-year-old napped. That also meant that they didn’t know I was working. But it left me with virtually no personal time to do anything I wanted like reading, crafting, watching TV or even cleaning.
Not to mention the fact that when you have to get a babysitter one or two times a week for work (even though I worked at home there were meetings and events I was required to attend in-person) who wants to get another sitter for girls-night-out or date night?
Sounds selfish right? It probably is.
I’m burned out so I am throwing in the towel. Summer vacation is quickly approaching and my three-year-old no longer wants to take naps. It’s an ideal time to quit.
I like my job. It is easy and rewarding. I have always enjoyed working, but finding and squeezing in an extra four hours of professional work each day so I can bring in some extra bucks has turned out not to be worth it for me.
It has caused me to focus on things I don’t want to.
Besides I am sure my life will complicate when I bring home a new little baby this summer. I want to be able to give him, and my older two boys, my best. I have always wanted to stay at home with my little kids and I don’t want to take them for granted.
I am sure there will be times when I regret my decision to leave — like the first Friday I don’t get a pay check, or the first afternoon that I am bored out of my mind wondering what to do with myself. But for now I just feel lucky I have the option to quit. Some moms don’t.
But either way, in my opinion, everyone has to decide for themselves which balls they are willing to juggle and which ones they might have to let drop.
Legos have become one of my favorite things to do with my boys. But during the three weeks that we couldn’t find the two-inch tall yellow-headed figured with the lightning-bolted forehead, messy hair and dark-rimmed glasses, I couldn’t even suggest we play with the building blocks because my 3-year-old would have a melt down.
It was horrible. But honestly, we would never have lost the little guy if my son didn’t have to take something with him every single place we go.
He took it in the van on the way to a local store and somehow he got lost on the way back into the house.
If I can’t break my children of the habit of bringing something with them everywhere we go, I think I am going to lose my mind.
Why do my children insist on taking something with them every single time we go somewhere?
Now I’m not talking about bringing a toy with us on vacation or taking something comforting to a scary place like the doctor or dentist’s office. I’m talking about bringing something with when we run to the bank or grabbing a toy to tote with us as we stroll around the block.
Seriously? We are going to be gone for less than half an hour. Do they have to take something with?
No matter where we go or what we do, my children think they need to bring a toy.
I guess it’s partially my fault. When they were little and I felt bad for leaving them at a babysitter’s house I would bribe them into wanting to go by letting them bring a favorite toy. It helped with the separation anxiety. But now I think I have ruined my children.
I’ve got to stop them.
Luckily the school sent home a paper at the first of the year saying there were no toys allowed in class. That doesn’t mean we don’t have an occasional breakdown when my 5-year-old tries to sneak toys to Kindergarten.
He threw a whopper of a fit in the elementary school parking lot the day I caught him hiding his new laser gun in his pocket. There was kicking, screaming and biting.
But thanks to the no-toy rule at school at least my oldest has learned that he can’t take something with him ALL the time. Now, time to train the youngest.
Luckily we found Lego Harry in our Tupperware full of toy guns. I don’t know how he made it in there, but I was super happy to see him.
But I am tired of getting home from running errands empty handed and having to call each of the stores we ran to, asking them to check their lost-and-found stacks for our crap.
We have a couple of rules about taking toys. Like no weapon toys at church or the hospital. But I am seriously going to add a bunch of new ones. Starting with a no-Legos-outside-of-the-house rule.
A couple of months ago my 3-year-old told me my butt was starting to look pregnant. After laughing about that for a little while, I realized he was right. I had forgotten how big my backside can balloon when I’m expecting.
Let’s just say I am going to avoid sideways glances of my profile in full body mirrors for the next several months. In fact, I took down and got rid of the long mirror in my hallway when we repainted our house. I don’t think I will get a new one until at least October.
Now I try not to ever complain about my pregnancy. I am lucky and grateful to be carrying this little boy. But there are a few other humorous, embarrassing and down right uncomfortable parts of pregnancy I had completely forgotten. (It’s probably a good thing I don’t remember these things until I am once again in the thick of things.)
Since I know a BUNCH of women who are currently expecting, I figured I would dedicate today’s blog post to the forgettable “joys” of pregnancy. Here are a few other things I had blissfully forgotten.
Feel free to add to my list in the comments below.
1. Sneeze-peeing: Whenever I feel a twitch in my nose I have to stop what I am doing, cross my legs and bend over. It may look ridiculous but if I don’t, I will lose control — literally.
2. Angled-sleeping: Hello heartburn. Hello tilted, propped-up, three-pillows-under-my-neck sleeping. No matter what side I lay on my throat fills with acid the minute I lie down and I can’t swallow my heartburn. I’m considering sleeping in a recliner.
3. Extremity-swelling: This past weekend my fingers sausaged out just enough to make me panic when I couldn’t get my wedding ring off. You would think that after having two of my boys in July I would remember my bulging extremities; remember the way my ankles resembled those of an elephant. But somehow I had forgotten how it feels to puff all up.
4. Zombie-living: I have to admit I remembered being tired while pregnant. But I didn’t remember exactly how it felt to have all of my energy zapped from my “normal” self and thrust straight to the growing child in my womb. Trying to stay awake while nodding off has to be one of the most helpless feelings.
It has been 728 days since I have held my baby boy. For me, that’s 728 days too many. Delivering him stillborn has forever changed me.
The past two years have been very long, filled with many ups and downs.
There are some things that have gotten better for me. I don’t have nearly as many nightmares as I used to and my arms don’t ache to hold him like they once did.
But no matter how far removed I get from his death I will always yearn to have him here.
I think I will always watch children his age with wonder. I will wonder what it would be like to have him. Would he be wrestling with his brothers? Would he be sleeping in a toddler bed? Would we be fighting him to give up his pacifier? Would he like to cuddle to his mom?
Sometimes I can’t help but feel bitter. Like when I see three brothers playing together at the McDonald’s play center or at the park. Why don’t my boys get to play with their little brother?
I’ve run into a strange phenomenon lately where new people have come into my life that do not know about my third son. It is so bizarre to me that there are people out there that don’t know about my most life-changing experience, my most heart-wrenching loss. And yet, how can I expect them to know?
Now that I am pregnant I get a lot of comments about having a “third” son. Most people laugh and tell me that I must be really good at “making boys.” They don’t quite know what to say when I tell them that this is actually my fourth son.
I hate that my family will never be all together – at least not in this life.
Sometimes I feel like the world is forgetting him – that his absence means nothing to anyone else. I feel like people must think I am crazy for missing someone who has been gone for two years. Especially when it’s someone I never got to know.
But that’s what people don’t understand – unless they too have buried their baby. Not getting to know Luca has been one of the hardest parts of the grieving process for me. I have no memories. No sounds. No smells. No happy moments. Only times filled with sorrow and loss.
On the other hand, sometimes I feel like I am actually defrosting. Like my sorrow is no longer crippling me and I am now only half numb.
Hopefully as time goes on I will continue to find my “normal” self again.
On Sunday, my family will celebrate Luca’s second birthday by floating wish lanterns to him in heaven – our Tangled-like tradition that I hope to continue until we find our lost prince.
In honor of Luca’s memory I am reposting his story:
My Angel’s Story
I was tired, I was huge and I was ready to have my baby boy. But not ready for the way it would all turn out. I would have happily carried him weeks beyond my due date if it meant he had a chance of being born alive.
Honestly? I wasn’t quite ready for a third child. I always wanted my kids close in age, but my two boys, ages 3 and 1, were a lot to handle. I was okay with waiting a while. But both my husband and I had strong impressions that we needed to try for another baby.
Despite those impressions, I was still extremely nervous about how I could be a good mom to three boys under the age of 3. Each day I grew, not only in circumference, but also in my confidence in being able to raise three tiny spirits.
On April 21, 2010 I had my 37-week check-up. Luca’s movement had been slowing down significantly for a while now and I was worried. I discussed my concerns with my doctor and we listened to his heartbeat, which appeared to be strong. So, my doctor and I decided that maybe little Luca was running out of room in my overcrowded womb.
The beginning of my pregnancy was a piece of cake. I felt better than I had with my other pregnancies and had virtually no morning sickness. But the end was pretty bad. I kept having sharp pains in my side and my muscles were aching.
Fearing the worst
My mother-in-law kept my other two boys while I went to my appointment so I decided to lie down and take a nap until she brought them home. That’s when I started panicking because I couldn’t remember the last time I felt Luca move.
I know what some of you are thinking? Why didn’t you rush to the hospital??? Knowing what I know now, my advice to any pregnant woman who is the least bit concerned about her baby, would be, GET TO THE HOSPITAL, NOW. Speed if you have to. What are they going to do? Tell you your baby’s fine and send you home? Hopefully. Laugh in your face about your unnecessary worries? Never. In all reality, even if I had been in labor and delivery when Luca’s heart stopped beating, they still wouldn’t have been able to save him. There wasn’t anything I could have done. I realize that now. But there are other reasons why babies stop moving. In my opinion it’s just better to get it checked out as soon as possible.
I literally worried all night about my Luca’s movement. I think the strong feelings and confirmations I had received that I was supposed to have another baby kept me waiting for his little legs to kick or his fists to punch. Luca’s pregnancy was my only pregnancy I haven’t run into problems conceiving. I thought that was a sure sign that this truly was meant to be. It was meant to be, just not in the way I hoped or expected.
I waited, and waited for him to move. Finally at about 2:30 a.m. I couldn’t take it any longer. I got up and sat in the bathtub for a long time. Travis came in and convinced me to go to the hospital. My mom came over to sit with my boys so we could run up to the hospital. When I got there, they hooked me up to a monitor and we found the baby’s heartbeat. Well, at least we thought we did — turns out the sound of my own heartbeat was reverberating back. We didn’t know that for sure until they hooked me up to a basic ultra sound machine and zoomed in on the heart. I knew immediately that my son had died. I looked at my husband and he knew it too. We had seen a number of live, beating hearts in ultrasounds. This one was still.
But the nurses said nothing. They tried to remain calm as they called my doctor and asked him to come in. He arrived at about 4 a.m. to confirm my baby’s death. We all cried — nurses included. He told me I could go home and come back later to deliver my baby or he could induce me right away.
The thought of leaving the hospital knowing that I was carrying my dead child made me cringe. I knew that having a stillborn was going to be the worst thing I had ever experienced. Delaying it wouldn’t change anything. They wheeled me into a corner room and posted a grieving sign on the door.
Shortly thereafter we started calling family members to let them know they were going to have to come in sometime that day to simultaneously tell Luca “hello” and “goodbye.”
Sharing the Heart-Breaking News
My poor mother. She was the first to hear of his death. And she had to take the news while watching over my other two little ones in my quiet, lonely home. I can’t imagine how alone she must have felt. She texted me awhile after I called to tell her he had died, asking what she should tell my other boys when they woke up. That literally broke my heart. What did I want her to tell them?
We didn’t want to tell him that their brother was “sleeping” or that he was “gone.” We decided to tell them the truth. That he had died. They were sad, but their grief was expressed differently than an adult. They didn’t cry much but they did throw more tantrums and asked to be held a lot more.
Telling people and hearing their reactions was one of the hardest things for me. I could handle the pain that I was going to have to bear, but having to inflict some of that pain on others made me so sad. It still makes me sad.
Our family members started gathering at the hospital and at our home waiting for the time when they would meet Luca. I knew we would only ever have a few short hours with him and so I prepared to face my nightmare with a smile on my face. This was the only time I was going to hold my baby. The only time I could take pictures of his beautiful face. I wasn’t going to let my grief overcome my ability to make the moments meaningful.
I don’t know if it’s all in my head, but I don’t think I had the full power of my epidural during his delivery. It was by far my most painful delivery. Not only emotionally, but physically. Maybe that’s because I didn’t have the anticipation of meeting my healthy baby to pull me through. With each painful push, I knew I was a step closer to meeting a baby I wouldn’t take home. I’ll never forget the shock in my doctor and nurses voices and faces as Luca was born. They all gasped in unison. He had suffered a cord accident that was visible the moment he was delivered. The cord was wrapped around his neck several times and it contained a true knot. Umbilical cord knots are extremely rare and knots resulting in a baby’s death are even more rare. Although I will never be grateful for what happened to my son, there is something I am extremely grateful for: The fact that we found out why he died.
He was born at 5:13 p.m. and weighed 5 pounds 13 ounces. He was beautiful with curly reddish brown hair and rosy red cheeks. We each took turns holding him and taking pictures. Utah Share came and casted molds of his hands and feet. Pat Wimpee came and took dozens of priceless photos of him and our family. I don’t know what I’d do without those photos. I think I would forget the details of his face. The wrinkles of his toes. The size of his tiny fingers. At times I stared at his little body, waiting for his chest to rise or his eyes to open. He literally was perfect.
We had Luca in our hospital room for five short hours. My legs were still numb from my epidural, so I was forced to watch everyone’s encounters with him from the comfort of my hospital bed. That was really hard for me. I wanted to hug and comfort everyone and yet I was stuck on the sidelines. I am sure that those who came to the hospital to meet him will forever be changed. There was such a special spirit in the room. It was a terribly sad, yet wonderfully peaceful experience.
The next several days were a blur. I left the hospital on a Friday morning. That afternoon I sat in the mortuary office preparing a funeral. We had a very small service on Monday, just four days after I delivered. Thank heavens for pain medications. Without those my traditional delivery pains coupled with the pain of my milk coming in, would have been unbearable. I buried my baby and part of my heart on April 26, 2010.
How am I dealing with his death?
I believe, as my religion teaches, that I will raise little Luca someday. Sometimes that thought brings great comfort, other times it is little solace for a grieving mother who longs to hold her angel infant now. Although he is in a better place, free from sorrow and sin, I wanted the challenge of raising him in this crazy world. Wanted to see him wrestle with his older brothers or hear him giggle as the three of them cooked up mischief. I hate that we don’t get to have him now.
I have experienced all of the traditional grief stages at least once. I have felt depressed, angry, honored, jealous, comforted, tired, rude, bitter, overwhelmed, out of control, anxious, stressed and unmotivated. There have been times I have sat on my couch, not wanting to do anything. Then other times that I feel an urgency to give back to others in honor of my son’s memory. I have yet to find a happy medium. I have heard people say that the first year is the hardest. I pray that’s true.
This past year has literally been the year from hell. Yet despite the darkness I have felt, there are a few things that have relieved my sorrows.
What do I do when the grief is too much to bear?
I take long soaks in the bathtub where I blast Pink on my radio and cry until my eyes are strawberry red.
I watch movies like Tangled and sob when I see Rapunzel reunited with her parents. I wish I only had to wait 18 years to meet my “lost” baby.
I take my boys fishing. Fresh air and the beauty of nature clear my head and remind me of my place in the world.
I lay by my other boys while they are sleeping. I put my hand on their chest to feel their heart beating and their lungs filling with air. That reminds me of the beautiful boys I do get to raise on Earth. I can’t let myself take them for granted.
I start finding something I can do for others. I know it sounds cheesy, but sometimes serving others has been my saving grace. I understand the need to be still and internalize my grief and emotions, but sometimes it’s overwhelming. I have to find a productive way to patch over my grief until my emotions settle and I’m able to digest them.
Finally, I write through my heartache. Writing has always been a way for me to work through life’s problems. I imagine I’ll write through this problem my entire life.
I just have to keep reminding myself that life is hard, life is good and life is necessary.
Life can change in an instant. I saw that again this week.
Saturday afternoon I went to my grandparents’ house for an Easter party. When I got there I found out that my grandpa had fallen, cut his arm really bad and was taken to the emergency room.
They stitched him up, attributed his fall to dizziness from medication he’s on, and sent him home. No big deal.
Until he kept passing out Saturday night and Sunday morning.
On Sunday we found out he needed emergency bypass surgery. His heart had some major blockage. And on top of that, it would stop beating for several seconds at a time.
Four bypasses and a pacemaker later he is finally out of ICU.
It has been a long, stressful week. One in which I’ve thought a lot about life and what keeps us here on earth. A vital organ the size of a human fist tried to control my grandpa’s fate this week.
We are lucky he is still with us.
I’m sure the fact that I will celebrate my stillborn son’s birthday in less than two weeks also has me pondering life. I drove to the hospital late Sunday night to meet my grandpa’s ambulance.
I couldn’t force away the flashbacks from two years before when my husband and I drove in the dark to the hospital in the middle of the night. Only to find that my intuition was dead on — Luca was gone.
Now my grandpa is on the cardiology floor. The same floor I was moved to after my baby died. He is healing a few rooms away from where I stayed after my loss.
Life has some crazy coincidences.
I know I have written before that I need to not take life for granted. But I can’t help think that my experiences keep reinforcing that fact. And yet I keep taking so many things in life for granted. I’ve got to change.
I am so glad my grandpa is still here.
It is a miracle. A miracle my entire family has been praying for. I am sure it will take him a while to regain his strength, but it looks like he is going to make it.
Now that my two oldest are getting too big to fit together in a shopping cart, I am going to invest in two of those leash-your-child-to-you contraptions. It’s the only way I figure I can keep them from rampaging through a store like a couple of rabies-infested wild dogs.
It’s spring break this week, which means I’ve had my 5-year-old home all week. I can’t tell you how thrilled I was that we got to play with him this week. Yet how unthrilled I was to run a few short errands with him Monday afternoon.
Running a quick errand with one child is difficult. Running one with two children is disastrous. At least for me.
Now my definition of a short errand is one where I can be in and out of a store within 15 minutes – 10 if my children cooperate. I’m not talking about an 1.5 hour trip to the grocery store. It’s not like I am torturing my little ones.
But they end up torturing me.
Our first trip Monday was to a rather large party-supply store. I needed to grab a few bags to wrap easter gifts. No big deal, right? Wrong.
Word of the wise, don’t ever take your children into a party-supply store. Their cute chubby fingers can’t resist the bins filled with favors. They’ll end up knocking half of the stuff into the aisles as you frantically try to put it back in the bin it belongs.
Not. Worth. It.
The worst part? When we got to the checkstand my 3-year-old spotted a piece of candy on the floor. He popped it into his mouth before I could yell “NO!” Then he smiled and laughed at how good it tasted. How can I tell him it’s not good for him when it tastes delicious?
After the party store we ran to a thrift department store to make a simple return. This store had carts. They were small, plastic ones but I didn’t care. I plopped both of my boys in the same cart and told them to sit down and be quiet. Big mistake.
They wrestled and climbed on top of each other and then decided to lick each other’s faces all over while I waited in line to make my return. Disgusting. No matter what I did, they wouldn’t stop.
And the check-out lady? She seemed oblivious. There’s something about my children going wild that must calm employees at the register. Because they never seem to move very quickly to ring me up even though I think I am going to lose it.
I think she said something to me like, “Your kids are having fun.” To which I replied, “Yep, but they are driving me nuts.” What I really wanted to say was, “Can you move any slower? Because I feel like smacking you right now.”
We’d been to two stores, shopping for less than 30 minutes, and I had had enough.
It wasn’t as if Monday’s behavior was a fluke. This comes on the cusp of me losing control of them at a religious store two weeks ago when we went to buy a small present for their cousin.
I had no option at this store – no carts. They zig-zagged through aisles behind me as a tried to quietly, yet sternly, whisper “get over here” in a respectful way. All heck broke loose when we entered the store’s small clothing section. While I was checking a size on something they decided to run from mannequin to mannequin rubbing their grungy cheeks on each white dress that was hung. I wanted to kill them.
Then I drug them to the cash register. While I was waiting to buy one, small thing, they snuck behind me and put plastic rings on each of their fingers. They were going to “keep” them. After I told them that was stealing, they reluctantly put them back and stood right next to me.
That’s when they knocked over an entire DVD display sending new releases flying across the floor. I helped a worker pick them up and put the display back up only to turn around and see them knock it down again. I was so mad.
I took them on one simple errand that day and I ended up exhausted.
But I’m too stubborn to run all of my errands alone. I have more time during the day when they are with me and even though it stresses me out, I feel like I need to keep taking them so they will learn to behave. Wishful thinking? Probably.
Luckily for a couple more months I’ll just have one little boy to take with me when my oldest goes back to school. Who knows what I’ll do this summer when I add a third one to the mix. I’ll definitely have to order my leash things by then.
I think sometimes I could sit on my couch all day with my hands on my middle, enjoying the kicking, wiggling movements of my unborn son.
Each jab and nudge are a miracle to me. A miracle I tragically took for granted last time I was pregnant. I still can’t believe I am going to have another baby.
I wrote last year about how spring seemed like a slap in the face. The birds chirping, the flowers blooming, were all salt in my wound — reminding me of the son I buried in the spring of 2010.
This year my attitude is somewhat softened. Today, spring is a reminder to me of the miracle of life. I have come to know how close the line between life and death can be. How easily it can be crossed.
Something as simple as a little more water would have meant life to my poor pine tree. And a simple true knot in a vital life chain meant death for my third baby boy.
It’s crazy how fragile life is.
And although I still miss my Luca like crazy — last weekend I cried until I thought my eyes would melt as I thought about his loss and the changes it has forced into my life — I have been thinking more on the miracle of life than the tragedy of death.
With Easter coming I talked to my boys about the meaning of Easter eggs — how they can be a symbol of new life. Now whenever I see a colorful egg I can’t help but think of new life. And more specifically the new life that is growing inside me.
I guess I am kind of like a giant Easter egg. (We all know I am starting to look like one.) My round, bursting belly is a symbol of new life. A life I can’t wait to meet. No matter what happens.
And although I still take far too many things in this life for granted, this year I am trying to enjoy the warming of the Earth, the rebirth after winter.
Boogers on the Wall 