Boogers on the Wall

You know you’re having a crappy day when you walk outside and find two twenties shredded up in a pile of your dog’s pooh.

Ugh.

April 22 is normally a hard day for me. It’s the day our stillborn baby was born. Sure it’s the day I got to meet my third son, but it’s the only day I got to see him. Ever. Unless you count the day of his funeral, and I don’t like to count that day. He was so different then.

Anyway, I walked outside the afternoon of the 22 and found the money that had been missing from my purse in a pile of brown on my lawn. I was rejected.

Seriously? $40?

Little did I know the day would end with a couple of fire fighters coming at me saying I was breaking the law.

My family and I ran around on the 22 doing random acts of service. We wandered through Wal-Mart buying a few things to donate. We paid for someone’s food behind us in the drive through at Wendy’s. And did a couple other things. Then we went home and I took a quick nap. I’m always emotionally exhausted on Luca’s birthday.

We went to the cemetery after I woke up and decorated Luca’s grave. Then we headed out to an Italian restaurant for some comfort food and went to a local park to light wish lanterns to send to heaven. Just like we do every year.

But this year was drastically different.

Things were going well. We had lit about a dozen lanterns and they were soaring nicely.

Then we saw sirens.

A bright red fire truck was coming down the street trailed by a police car with lights flashing.

They pulled up next to the park’s open field and some men started running toward us. I was sitting on the ground and wanted to hide.

But I took a deep breath and made my way to the officers. Two firemen and a police officer were running toward our group of family and friends shouting at us to stop because we were breaking the law.

When my husband and I approached the group they told us that the wish lanterns were illegal. That they were unattended aerial fireworks.

I wasn’t going to stand down. I argued with them about the law. Luckily I had done my homework. In 2013 the Utah State Legislature was considering banning the sky lanterns. I wrote an open letter to the Utah State Fire Marshall on my blog at the time talking about how much they mean to my family.

The legislature was considering amending the Utah State Fire Code to classify the lanterns as unattended fires. If they did that, they would be deemed illegal. But they modified the law.

As it stands today, lanterns are legal as long as there are no hazardous environmental conditions. Hazardous environmental conditions are determined by local municipalities. So it’s recommended that people check with local authorities for current conditions before lighting lanterns. If there are hazardous environmental conditions, the local authorities may prohibit the lanterns as well as any use of any other ignition sources. Below you can read the official excerpt from the code.

We’ve skipped out on doing lanterns in years past when the wind was strong and it was raining. It was a bummer, but we didn’t want to risk causing a fire. Our family knows what it feels like to lose everything to flames.

So I stood and argued with two fireman and a police officer. They were certain we were committing a crime. I was certain we weren’t.

I’m not going to lie, I felt kind of guilty. Something about lights flashing in the background and a police officer standing there with handcuffs makes you second guess if you are doing something right or not.

Amidst the arguing, one of the firemen stepped away and called the city’s fire chief. Who reassured him that the lanterns are legal.

He came back with a changed demeanor, and stated that he stood corrected. We were right. The lanterns are fine.

I have had people drive by and question us in the past about the lanterns. A couple of bystanders have even joined in and done some with our family before. But never have I been questioned by the authorities.

It was crazy.

I’m just glad I knew the law better than our local firemen did. Otherwise we may have walked away without ever thinking we could do them again.

We are going to make sure to call the fire department in the future when we do the lanterns. That way we can make certain that there are no hazardous environmental conditions and the authorities will be prepared to see the lanterns in the sky and won’t rush to stop us. We can have the conversation about the lantern’s legality over the phone before tensions get high in front of a large group at a city park.

Ironically we had taken candy to the police department earlier that morning as one of our service acts. We brought them a treat for helping us with our tree house drama last spring. I had to bite my tongue as the firemen and police officer walked away. I wanted to ask them two things 1. How did the candy taste? 2. Would they like to try lighting a lantern?

The fire code states:

310.8 Hazardous environmental conditions. When the fire code official determines that hazardous environmental conditions necessitate controlled use of any ignition source, including fireworks, lighters, matches, sky lanterns, and smoking materials, any of the following may occur:

1. If the hazardous environmental conditions exist in a municipality, the Legislative body of the municipality may prohibit the ignition or use of an ignition source in mountainous, brush-covered, or forest-covered areas or the wildland urban interface area, which means the line, area, or zone where structures or other human development meet or intermingle with undeveloped wildland or land being used for an agricultural purpose.

2. Except as provided in paragraph 3, if the hazardous environmental conditions exist in an unincorporated area, the state forester may prohibit the ignition or use of an ignition source in all or part of the areas described in paragraph 1 that are within the unincorporated area, after consulting with the county fire code official who has jurisdiction over that area.

3. If the hazardous environmental conditions exist in a metro township created under Title 10, Chapter 2a, Part 4, Incorporation of Metro Townships and Unincorporated Islands in a County of the First Class, on and after May 12, 2015, the metro township legislative body may prohibit the ignition or use of an ignition source in all or part of the areas described in paragraph 1 that are within the township.

Let’s talk mammograms for a minute. All of my life I have been terrified of the evil boob pinching x-ray machine. I’ve heard horror stories from female friends who relate the experience to running your bosom over with a semi truck.

So last month when I found a tiny lump in my chest I was terrified. (The lump turned out to be harmless, thank heavens.)

But when I found it, my doctor thought a diagnostic mammogram would give us both peace of mind. She ordered me one and sent me to the imaging department a week later.

I was so scared. So scared that I considered asking for pain meds or muscle relaxers before the procedure.

But it wasn’t that bad.

The technologist prepped me on what she was going to do and put me at ease. I’m not big chested, so there’s not a lot to grab and pull into the picture-taking area, but somehow she managed to do it. She pulled my skin until she was satisfied and then the machine squeezed down tight.

Now, I’m not going to lie, it was tight. My chest was flatter than a pancake. But I didn’t feel like it had been run over. Just squished.

I was squished several times before it was all over.

And I survived.

My point? All women should get mammograms. If you are worried that it will hurt too much or that you don’t have time, trust me. It’s not that bad. And I was in and out of there in an hour. Tops.

They even did an ultrasound and read me my results right then.

I don’t know if technology is getting better and making it less invasive and less painful or if I psyched myself out because of all of the bad jokes and stories I have heard about the procedure so when I finally did it I was happily surprised by its mildness. Either way, I will take it.

And you should too. Early detection saves lives.

I’d take a mammogram over a Pap smear any day.

Author’s note: Saturday would have been my son’s seventh birthday. Seven?! Part of me has a hard time remembering those foggy, surreal moments after I found out he had died in my womb. Much of that times feels like a blur. 

But another part of me will never forget it. The horror. The sorrow. The love. 

I loved him more than my heart could stand. I wanted him more than I realized. 

I’ll never be able to forget how it felt to go home from the hospital empty-handed after giving birth to a full-term baby. I couldn’t take him with me because he didn’t make it. 

It broke my heart.

Seven years later and my heart still feels broken at times. 

I think it always will.

I’ll always long for what I did not get to have. 

Once again I dedicate this week’s blog post to Luca and 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 four 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.

What do I do when the grief is too much to bear?

I take long soaks in the bathtub where I blast Pandora 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 kids 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 children 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.

I have finally come to grips with the fact that I need to chill the heck out. As a mother, as a wife, as a person.

I’ve lived my 33 years worrying about being good enough; striving for perfection. And I can’t keep it up anymore.

Sometimes, most times, perfection isn’t best. Most times it isn’t possible. So why do I keep killing myself and beating myself up for something that isn’t natural or even practical?

A couple of weeks ago I was running around helping my kids do several things in the hour window of time that we have together on the days when I have night-time photography school. It was third grade business day the next day and my son informed me that he needed a sign to go with the dozens of crafts we made for him to sale.

I didn’t have a lot of time to make him a sign but I whipped out the computer and started designing. I couldn’t find the Harry Potter font to go with his Wonderful Wizard Shop name and I was running out of time.

I was stressed.

I finally found it right before I needed to leave for school. I hurried and typed up a sign and printed it off for him to glue onto a poster. He took one glance at it and I could tell it wasn’t what he wanted.

Ugh. I had just wasted the little time that I had.

I took a deep breath and we talked about what he really wanted. He wanted to draw a sign. He wanted to do it himself. He didn’t need me. He didn’t need my fancy font and printed page. A hand-drawn, third-grade written poster was what he wanted. And it was perfect.

Sometimes I get into the habit of thinking things need to be fancy. They need to be typed up and packaged precisely. They need to be crisp and clean and professional.

But looking at that hand-drawn sign made me realize I am wrong. It was far better than the one I made. Sure it wasn’t perfect, but it was perfect for what it was for.

I need to stop searching for the perfect font and the printed sign. I need to stop stressing that my house isn’t clean and my flowerbeds have weeds. I can’t control half of the stuff that worries me or stresses me so I need to chill the heck out.

I wish I could wrap my arms around myself and somehow reassure me that I’m good enough. That I can sit and breathe life in without worrying that I’m not accomplishing enough or that I’m not meeting everyone’s expectations. I need to learn to sit still. I need to learn to let others in my family sit still.

But my mind and heart keep having a disconnect.

So I’m going to work on me for a little while. I’m going to work on feeling like I am enough. I’m going to  get professional help talking to a counselor about why I feel like I’m not.

And I’m hoping and praying that I can learn to let go. Let go of the stress, worry and fear. Let go and love my imperfections.

I’m going to let go until I can realize that I am just like my son’s third-grade sign, I may not be perfect, but I’m perfect for what I am for.

Author’s Note: I’ve posted on here about going to photography school. This week I finished my photography website. I’m stealing this post from my website’s About Me page. If you want, you can check out the site here: www.neverland.photography

Several years ago I was raising a miniature Captain Hook. My three-year-old son was obsessed with the movie Hook and each morning he begged to dress as his favorite character – the villain.

Not only did he want to wear a red overcoat and black loafers, he wanted a wig, hat, knickers, gold buckles and a drawn-on mustache. Every. Single. Day.

I took Hook to the doctor’s office. I held his hand as we walked through the grocery store. He played at the park in costume. He wielded a gold-handled plastic sword everywhere – except maybe church. I had to draw a line somewhere.

I remember being frustrated. I wanted to ditch the costume. After him wearing it for a couple months straight, I was done.

Now I want to go back.

Time flies faster than we could ever imagine. Six years later and I long for that little boy who thought he was a pirate king.

But he has grown up, even though he promised me he wouldn’t. Even though I have begged him not to.

I haven’t found enough pixie dust to get me to a place like Neverland. A place where kids never grow up. But I have been able to find a way to freeze time.

The photos that I take capture the memories, the moments I don’t want to forget. Like those I have of my bright-eyed Hook son.

I have pictures of my oldest playing with his toy sharks when he was a young marine biologist. I have pictures of my youngest son running around growling and thrashing as a Tyrannosaurs Rex. I have pictures of my baby girl’s newborn double chin and her sweet, simple smile.

These are things my children have far outgrown. But I can always remember.

Because despite my best efforts to hold on to my memories, they have faded.

That’s why photos have always been so important to me. They bring back the images, the feelings, the moments.

Like the moment I had to say goodbye to one of my sweet little babies. Words cannot express how much I cherish the pictures I have of my angel baby who died before he was born. Those images help me vividly remember the amber curl of his long newborn hair and the slight sag in his chubby baby cheeks. When I look at those pictures I can almost breathe him in again.

Because photos take me back.

Back to times when my babies were young enough to cradle in my arms. Back to times when they cried while visiting Santa Claus. Times when they blew out birthday candles and cuddled to me during nap time. Times when they held my hand while walking down the stairs and asked me to catch them at the end of the slide.

Good times. Times we have out grown.

Sometimes I wish I could fly my family to Neverland. We could live in a magical place where no one ever grows up.

But the second star on the right is too far away. That’s why I’m going to keep snapping photos.

Photos that will take me back. Photos for moments I don’t want to grow up.

I dream about going on vacation. There’s no laundry, no toilets to scrub and no cooking. I get to go out to eat! I imagine relaxing while my waiter brings me another root beer and I calmly look over the dessert menu.

Then I wake up.

Going out to eat with our family is crazy. There’s no relaxing. I feel like my kids are fairly well behaved, but something about stepping into a sit-down establishment brings out the circus clown in all of them.

My oldest two begin arguing immediately over where to sit and who can watch the touch-screen monitor that can call our waiter. My four-year-old has to go to the bathroom the second the waiter arrives and the 2-year-old won’t stop using her high chair as a gymnastics apparatus.

No one can decide between apple slices or French fries, let alone nuggets or mini cheeseburgers. Then the four-year-old throws a half-eaten apple down the aisle.

I feel like half the restaurant is staring as I issue sit-down and be-quiet orders – repeatedly.

Sigh.

So much for dessert. We’ll be lucky if I can finish my entree.

I love going out to eat. But it’s totally different now that I have kids. It’s all a high-paced, let’s-keep-them-quiet session. I get so nervous that they are going to spill their drinks or fall off their chairs that I can’t even chill.

I usually end up sharing my seat and half of my food with one of my kids who didn’t “like” the $6 kids meal I bought for them.

I spend an arm and a leg on a meal none of us really enjoyed.

You would think I would learn. I should realize that it’s going to be hard. They are going to be noisy. They are going to be wiggly. And they are going to barely eat anything.

I’ve got to save the sit-down establishments for when they are older. For now maybe we’ll head somewhere like McDonald’s. With a clown mascot, my kids will fit right in.

Here I am in my headshot. It’s not the one I’m planning on using for my website (I picked the one where I’m using my camera). But it is the one that I was picking apart when my sweet baby girl helped me see that none of the stuff I was worried about really matters.

Confession time: I hate looking at pictures of myself. I know what you are thinking. That’s pretty hypocritical for someone who is training to be a professional photographer.

But it’s true.

I look at pictures of myself – especially close up pictures – and I cringe. Inevitably something bugs me. My hair looks dumb, my smile is weird, my wrinkles are too deep. I could pick each picture apart and hate it.

And yet last week I was reminded that I need to stop worrying about all of those things.

I needed to get a head shot done for my business website. So I asked my photography school teacher to snap a few pictures for me to use. (If anyone could make me look better than I feel I really look then it’s him.)

So he snapped a couple of pictures at the end of our class on Saturday and I went on my way uploading them for my website.

As I sat on my couch sifting through the images and wondering how I could try to make my hair look better in them – my bangs were windblown off my forehead and I was seriously considering photo shopping them to look better – my daughter woke up from her nap and walked out to where I was sitting.

Immediately she saw what I was working on and exclaimed, “That’s my mama!”

She was so proud and excited all at once it made me smile.

Did she see the crazy bangs? Did she see all those deep smile lines?

No.

She saw her mama. A person she loves and trust.

I need to stop seeing all of those other non-important things too.

I need to stop picking my pictures apart.

I need to remember that I am who I am. My hair is seldom perfect. My smile may look silly sometimes and my wrinkles aren’t going anywhere. But none of that should matter.

I don’t want my daughter to think that she has to photoshop her hair for her images to look all right. I don’t want her to look at a picture of herself and pick it apart.

I want her to look at it and be proud and excited. “That’s me!,” I want her to exclaim.

So I better start practicing what I preach. I better start accepting myself for who I am and loving me like my own child does. I better start getting in front of the camera instead of behind it all the time or I’ll regret not having captured some of the most important parts of my life – which is one of the reasons I love pictures.

They help me to relive a memory, a feeling, a moment when things were different. They help me freeze time. I’m going to try to freeze time more often – even if I’m frozen with crazy, wind-blown bangs.

Dear Daylight Savings,

You win! Once again you have completely kicked my butt.

I’m on day five of this new time and I am so tired I can’t think straight.

I had high hopes for the change this spring. I was looking forward to longer evening light when I could practice my photography skills. I even had hopes that my early-bird kids would sleep in for a week or so while they adjusted to the change.

HAHAHAHA. My kids must be working with you. They are out to get me too.

They slept in for half a day. Then they adjusted. I think they are robots.

Yesterday my youngest got up at 5:30 a.m. which was 4:30 a.m. for her just a week ago.

She cried in the corner for 10 minutes because she didn’t want me to cook her a sausage for breakfast, she wanted her dad too. She finally calmed down and ate one bite of the sausage I cooked before she cried and shouted again because she didn’t want regular cheese with it she wanted string cheese. A half-hour later she cried because she didn’t want to wear the shoes that I picked out for her. This was the pattern all…morning…long…she was just too tired to be awake. But she can’t help it. She’s thrown off. I’m thrown off.

Again, I am so tired that I can’t think straight!

You would think that because I’m so tired it would be easy to get to sleep at night.

Not so. You got me on that one too. By the time I’m ready to go to bed I’m not sleepy. I lay there for more than an hour because I’m not used to going to sleep at that time. I stress about not being able to sleep and so I lay there longer – wide-eyed.

By the time I doze off it’s after midnight and in just a few hours my baby girl gets up.

It’s a cycle of sleep deprivation that I can’t bust out of. AGHHH.

I hate you and I love you. And I just can’t get rid of you. So I’m going to take it easy this week and let the dishes pile up in my sink. I’m not going to vacuum and I’m skipping the toilet cleaning. I may even sneak a cat nap in this afternoon. I can’t do anything extra. Like enjoy that extra light in the evenings that I was looking forward to. Not when I’m this tired.

Maybe next week will be better.

Catch you in November,

Zombie Mom

I’m half way there – half way done with my professional photography certification from the FotoFly Academy in Salt Lake City.

It’s been crazy. It’s been busy. It’s been amazing.

I am officially half way ready to launch my own photography business. Half way to fulfilling one of my lifelong dreams.

Things have settled down on the home front. We’ve managed to escape any more rat-chasing episodes and my kids have stopped complaining about me taking their pictures. (That could be because I’ve been studying bridal, maternity and newborn photography the past few weeks and they weren’t eligible models for my homework, but I’ll take it!)

Things have also settled down with my camera. I am confident with my settings and how to change them up to get the best photos. Things that were like a foreign language to me at the first of the year are now becoming second nature. Thank heavens.

But my brain is still constantly cycling through the concepts we are studying.

I can’t stop thinking about light. How is it flowing? Is it too harsh? Where is the sun? I keep asking my family to look toward me so I can see the shadows on their faces and catch lights in their eyes.

I can’t stop thinking about locations. Would that bridge be a good spot? How about that arbor? Would it frame my subject? Will the snow ever melt so I can take more pictures outside?

And then there is the topic of interaction. How can I get genuine reactions out of people? How can I make them feel at ease? How can I get them to be themselves?

Those things and more are circling through my mind ALL OF THE TIME.

And I’m testing and trying them out in real-life situations.

Not only has my school given me a solid photography base, FotoFly Academy has given me the hands-on practice I have been searching for. I’ve been able to take these concepts that I can’t stop thinking about and perfect them.

For the past couple of months we have taken field trips to test everything out.

At first I was incredibly intimidated. The first time we took pictures of someone who wasn’t one of my classmates I nearly threw up. How was I going to pull all of this off? I was so anxious and nervous and excited. I nearly forgot my flash.

But it’s getting easier.

We’ve been through several field-trip photo shoots now and although I still feel anxious and excited every time, I think it’s mostly anticipation. I can’t wait for class to try things out. I have earned more confidence and ease with every photo shoot. Confidence and ease that will help me in my own business.

Confidence and ease that helps me with my homework assignments. Which right now include conducting two of my own photo shoots each week.

Through it all, I feel like a part of me is coming alive. A part that I never new existed.

I feel like one of my favorite Disney princesses – Rapunzel.

She cooks, she cleans, she sews, paints and sings. She’s happy. But she can’t shake the feeling that she’s still waiting for a part of her life to begin.

A new part of my life has officially begun.

I have trudged through snowy hills to snap bridal pictures in the wintery mountains. I have sloshed through cold, gooey sand to capture gorgeous shots of expecting mothers near the Great Salt Lake. I have swaddled tiny babies and shushed them to sleep so I could document their newness.

It has been invigorating. It has been intense.

I’ve been averaging four different photo shoots from Thursday through Saturday each week on top of my other Rapunzel-style responsibilities like grocery shopping, check-book balancing, PTA activities, church meetings, laundry, cooking, cleaning, Lego building and My Little Pony playing.

If you run into me on a Sunday afternoon I may resemble a zombie. But I couldn’t feel more alive.

The next few weeks will be a challenge. We dive into babies, toddlers and then kids next.

I can’t wait. Bring it on.

I’m ready to jump from half way to completely there.

Seven years ago I was getting ready to bring home my third son. I was 37 weeks pregnant. My second little boy was born before my 36 week mark so I expected to hold this new little one in my arms any day.

I was tired. I was huge. I didn’t feel good. But that couldn’t stifle the excitement I had to meet my baby.

My husband and I hauled out the crib and set it up. We moved our oldest two boys to bunk beds to make room. We hung up the new clothes we received as gifts from a small baby shower.

I was getting ready to swaddle him up and cuddle him close.

Then I stopped feeling him move.

The next day he came to us stillborn.

We spend just about five hours with him. That’s it. Nurses didn’t get to bring him to me in the night when he wanted to feed. I didn’t get to hear him grunt or cry while changing his first diaper.

I moved to a different hospital floor where I wouldn’t have to hear other little babies cry. I spent one terrible night tossing and turning in a rigid hospital bed while having nightmares about my deceased child. I had to coach the nurse who assisted me on what type of postpartum treatments I needed because that wasn’t her specialty. I had to ask for my own ice pack.

It is the most tragic experience I’ve had yet. My heart was ripped outside of my body.

Instead of tucking my child tightly inside his new carseat and driving him carefully home in a day or so, we left the hospital as soon as possible. I had given birth to a full-term baby boy but didn’t have time to rest or heal.

I left the hospital the next day and drove to the cemetery we might bury him in to scope out the grounds – I wanted to make sure we somehow could feel right about putting our little angel there.

But there really is no place you feel right about burying your child.

My husband and I made it home empty-handed less than 24 hours after our baby’s birth.

That afternoon I drug my tired, sore body to the funeral home to make arrangements. It was a Friday and we needed to meet with a director before the weekend. We picked out a casket and outlined the program.

The next day I remember clearly standing in a back room at the floral shop picking out tiny blue forget-me-not-type flowers to place on our little one’s grave. My body was exhausted and my milk had started to come in. I was terribly sore – physically and emotionally.

Losing a child was horrible. Terrible. Tragic. It’s the hardest thing I’ve had to do. I have so many hard memories. Carrying a small white tuxedo into the funeral home to dress our little guy for his funeral. Closing the casket – never to see him again. Sitting at home with just my husband and older two boys after the funeral wondering what to do next.

I would not wish the death of a baby on my worst enemy. And yet there are dozens of women – many of them my closest friends – who have also gone through stories of loss. Stories of heartache. They too have lost a piece of themselves when they found out their child had died.

It’s a life-changing experience that no one would understand unless they too have experienced it. And even then, everyone’s experiences are so different. It’s hard to know exactly how someone else feels.

But recently I have discovered that there are people in this world who like to pretend they understand. I have been made aware of some who have lied about losing a child. I can’t even begin to describe how deeply this offends me. I am disgusted to think that there are people out there professing to know what it is like to be swallowed up in grief like I was when I lost my sweet Luca.

What are they thinking? I just can’t understand.

Why would someone want to pretend to go through something so horrible? Are they looking for attention? My mind is blown. I’m completely baffled. And quite frankly it makes me angry.

I have spent the past 6 and a half years dealing with and internalizing my loss. I will spend the rest of my life missing the child I didn’t get to raise with my other four kids. My arms have physically ached for my boy.

So when I find out that other people have said they have miscarried or delivered stillborn babies and I know that they haven’t I am upset. Majorly upset.

No need for attention, no excuse of trying to empathize could ever excuse the act of lying about something so heartbreaking.

Like I said, losing a child has been the biggest tragedy I have faced. But it is my reality. It is not something I asked for nor something I can ever walk away from. I can’t ever change the fact that I buried my boy. This is not a game of make believe. This is my real-life horror story. My heart and my life has forever been changed because of my loss. It is not something to ever joke about or pretend. Ever.

I hope that I don’t hear of any more made up losses. I hope that these people will stop pretending. I hope they realize they are crossing a line.

But what I hope even more than all of that is that someday there will be no real losses. My dream is that all babies get to go home to their cribs. And that they live long after. No one should ever have to experience what it really feels like to lose a baby. No one.