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Sometimes shit happens. And sometimes the kind of shit happens that flips your whole world upside down. And because of said shit you realize you have been living in a depressed daydream formerly known as life for years with no other explanation than you had no freaking clue what you were doing, what you were missing and what it was all doing to those around you. No clue that in your blindness you’d become bits and pieces of the thing you hate. The one thing you swore you’d never be.

DAMN if feels great to wake up and be alive, but it also kills. It sucks, it’s sad, and it’s a knife turn in the heart to see the destruction, the pain, the brokenness you’ve left behind. Every bit of those shattered pieces are all I am, all I have. So far gone and so important. It needs to be fixed, mended, and nursed back to health and it will. I have faith it will be fixed, I have to.

Through I’ll I’ve endured, I’ve never been so low, so powerless. Yet to be in that place and not feel hopeless, not feel like the victim is a strange thing for me. And while I am embarrassed and enraged that a portion of that is because I was on the other side, it is also my solid proof that I’ve let go of the cause. That I am finally laying the hurt to rest and unearthing me. I wish I could grab so much and take it back, stuff it all away, rewind the hands of time and replay it all through the lens I see now. With clarity and love and life rather the clouds, the hurt. It would all be so different. Sure there would be pock marks and bumpy roads, maybe even a few landslides, but it would be ideal, it would be us.

I know now that I can’t promise perfection, that if I strive for that I’ll go the other way but I can promise to be present and I’m learning now that’s more important than anything. My hope of all hopes is that it really isn’t too little too late.

Would you believe me if I told you I forgot I had a blog? Good, because it’s not true.

But I have been busy and drudging along and working through some things not fit for posting on these pages. And because I’m not comfortable pouring my heart out about what I’ve found myself in the midst of, it’s been easier to not post at all. To keep it in. To stay away. Because I feel like anything I could think of to write would be fake. Maybe not lies… but putting on a happy front where one did not belong. Not that there aren’t momentary rays of glorious sunshine but when those quick moments grab me, you better believe I’m basking in them rather than running here to write.

I realize this is all of this is mite cryptic and possibly worrisome, and it is, because, well… it is. It feels weird to be posting yet remaining private. I wonder how anonymous bloggers do it. How they allow themselves to be real with their cutesy names and pseudonyms. Maybe that in and of itself makes it easier. Maybe.

And so where do I go? I picture myself being in and out of here, sharing and withholding. Shaking things up and tearing them down.

I often seek my solace in this keyboard and this screen and I know I will need that now more than ever but I’m learning that part of growing up and growing out is knowing when to refrain to uttering the first thought on the tip of your tongue or even, occasionally, thoughts ones stewed and sulked upon, therapeutic or otherwise. To process before I speak (or type).

This ride is beautiful and disastrous, full of bumpy, pock marked roads but it’s being traveled, with white knuckles and withheld breath, but traveled just the same.

And for what it’s worth, one of my favorite songs seems oh so fitting all over again.

Crazy. Busy. Week.

I want to crawl in a hole and hibernate and wake up about a year ago, but we’re drudging forward. We rounded out the craziness with a day at the 2nd International Babywearing Conference and some shopping with these fine ladies.

And then off to see David tattooing at Navy Pier. Not only is he in marathon tattoo mode, he’s practicing life as a jet setter as he hops on a plane this afternoon to fly to OH to see Tom Waits, only to come back on the first flight back after the show. Ahhh, the good life.

And now we’re off to have some fun and raise some money for these warriors (in pink). Xav wishes you all a very, um, contemplative day.

Girl and X photo’s by the amazing Crooked Eyebrow.

There are few things in life that leave me speechless. And I’ll have to admit, when I come across something that does it usually isn’t long before the words come and the furious spewage begins. Today I received an email from my Itsy Bitsy Yoga mentor and had a serious “FOR REAL?!?!” moment. Apparently, premiering tonight on NBC is a show called “Baby Borrowers” (I’m not linking to it, because I don’t want to send them traffic but believe me, it’s real) Anybody want to guess what it’s about?

I wholeheartedly agree with the statement released by Zero to Three and so I’ll spare you my fireball and let you read their words below-

“It’s not TV, it’s birth control” is how NBC promotes its new reality series “Baby Borrowers.” On June 25th, the show will be launched on national television as an “intriguing new social experiment that asks five diverse teenage couples to fast-track to adulthood by setting up a home, getting a job and becoming caring parents.” Unfortunately, the NBC series exploits very young children in the pursuit of entertainment.

The babies and toddlers participating in this series will be separated from their parents and caregivers for three days. Unfamiliar teenagers will take care of them during this time. This setup can be very harmful for the babies and toddlers involved. For the past 80 years, many studies have shown unequivocally that babies and toddlers suffer when they are exposed to this kind of prolonged separation from family and left with people that they do not know or love. As all parents know, babies and toddlers are very distressed by separation. They cry, cling, and search for their parents. The longer the separation, the more upset they become. Some children are unable to sleep and refuse to eat. The responses routinely last long past the child’s reunion with the parent. Prolonged separations heighten young children’s separation anxiety and damage their trust that their parents will be available to protect and care for them. Children can become angry and rejecting of their parents after being reunited with them, damaging the fabric of the child-parent relationship.

These findings have become the basis for a new science of early childhood. A robust body of early childhood development and brain research clearly confirms the critical nature of early development. It is a time when young children form attachments with parents and caregivers, develop security and a sense of self, and learn what to expect from the world around them. Studies show that babies and toddlers need to feel safe and secure in order to form a positive sense of self, to form healthy relationships, and to feel confident to explore their world. This sense of security is dependent on the availability and stability of their trusted primary caregivers. Being separated for a
three-day period from a parent or trusted, familiar adult, and being thrust into the care of a total stranger who has no experience with the child—how he or she is comforted, likes to be fed, held, etc.—and who has no experience caring for young children at all, can be very stressful for the child.

As a “safeguard,” NBC has hired a nanny to be nearby in case there are concerns. However the nanny is no more familiar to that child than the two strangers who will be caring for him for three days. The nanny does not know him or what his signals
mean—such as what he needs when he cries out in the middle of the night, or how he shows he is hungry, tired, or is overwhelmed and needs a break from play. Moreover, even though the parents of these young children are watching via closed-circuit television, the babies are not aware of that and have no way of knowing how long the parents will be gone.

Legitimate social experiments are not conducted on national television or on reality shows. “Baby Borrowers” may have a catchy theme, but it exploits young children with potential harmful consequences. This is no social experiment. It is an extremely misguided endeavor that puts at risk our most vulnerable citizens, young children who need our love and protection.”

I can not imagine what would motivate parents to put their babies through this… oh, wait, it’s America- anyone wanna guess how much money they made? ::end rant::

PS- This opened a flood of topic in my mind, I’m interested to hear you opinions on this, more thoughts coming from me soon.

When David and I were dating we used to go to this park and talk. It’s nestled alongside a busy highway, but somehow once you step out of the car you’re swept into nature. Into a beautiful expanse of fields and trees and pathways and so much life. We’d sit there on the the rocks with our feet dangling in the cold rushing creek and talk for hours. We’d talk about life and theology, our dreams and our fears. Sometimes we’d talk about nothing at all. I remember the butterflies, the racing heart, the peacefulness. It was there I knew I was in love with him. There I knew that he was the one.

I’ve passed by it often but haven’t stopped in years. Until yesterday. I took Xav to this park and I was drawn to that very spot which drew me in before. We sat on the same rocks, unchanged though so much time has passed, and dangled our feet in the cold water. Mine nearly touched the bottom of the creek bed as his splashed about the surface. We talked about the water and the turtles and the imaginary dino’s we saw. We talked about life and death and being two and we talked about nothing at all.

It was one of those full circle moments. Those days with my other half before he was are so vivid, so fresh, so amazing. And to be there with our little man we created, our half of each of us, seemed like a dream not yet realized. Refreshing in a time where I don’t feel very much alive. A burst of life and love right when I needed it.

It’s amazing how those moments speak to us louder than anything. Not the ones full of giggles or shouting or important chatter but the ones where we can just be and talk about nothing at all.

I’m a shy gal. Reserved, a wee bit wallflower; until I know you of course, and then be prepared for some crazy silliness that does. not. stop. I let go of some of my reservation when I became am mom, for him, for me. Some of it stems from insecurity but so much of it is just personality. It is me. And that’s ok.

It amazes me though, how much blogging and twitter and social media in general just erases this all. How easy it is just to talk to people, to share, to extend yourself, to be you, to engage. It levels the playing field so much. Whether it’s a mom across the country who shares my parenting philosophy or the CEO of a super cool corporation, I have access to them. Through comments or emails or tweets, we can talk, we can share. Generally without even so much as a “Hello, I’m (insert name and life story here).” It’s all sorts of fancy. It’s awesome. I have learned much and connected to many.

But with everything there is a flip side. There is rejection, people ignore you, and some folks are down right mean. And unlike face to face, one on one interaction, all of this is public. Very public. And aside from being embarrassing, it can make or break you.

Then there’s that whole thing of people making nice with people they can’t stand and would never speak with in flesh to get in or get ahead themselves that I just don’t get. I mean, I GET it, it’s quite savvy really, but does no one feel like a sell-out anymore?

And then there’s the side of me that forgets that in the “real world” we are not the norm. Through my groovy little blog I am able to befriend and bond with so many like minded people. I feel part of something. Part of a community that gets me. That is me. And as I walk up to chat with the group of local mainstream mama’s I forget that I am the strange one. And I wonder where I would be without this community. Without the support. Without knowing I am not alone.

This is my mind people. Back and forth. The partial reason for my hiatus. I go ’round and ’round and ’round again. Love it, hate it, need it, need to leave it all behind. But I always come back. I always need it. Always want it again. Because I realize I do this for me. My sanity, my selfishness, my community, my something.

Thank you.

I’m taking a bit of break around here to conduct this little experiment called life. It will be brief, but is much, much needed.

If you’re looking for something to read or do, feel free to click on over here, you might just be able to make a world of difference.

Don’t worry I’ll get to the point in a minute…

I transfered all my photos from my laptop to my new computer recently and everything is a big mess. Instead of labeling a folder “Transfered from Laptop” and importing everything there, I managed to rename all of my files that. So now rather than having a folder with organized, categorized pics, every image on my PC is numbered 001 through 187340098, or something. And so what should have been a quick and painless search for the Mama Speaks logo ended up a painful search through the great abyss. The logo has been located, I am happy to report, but in the meantime I stumbled upon a photo that made my stomach churn.

The picture is not great and you might not see anything other than a teeny-tiny hairy leg, but this my friends is a vaccine reaction. At 4 months old X had his first and only round of standard shots and immediately we regretted our mistake. I should probably back track a little for those who don’t know the story and let you know that after much research throughout my pregnancy we had decided not to vaccinate. At least not to vax according to schedule. And then he was born 3 months premature and I don’t know what else to say other than after realizing our boy was going to make it, we took a breather and allowed ourselves to be swayed.

Upon X’s discharge from the NICU we were given the horrifying “facts” about preemies and RSV and decided to go ahead and “protect him” with Synagis (to be honest at that point we were so excited that he was COMING HOME they probably could have told us anything and we would have signed on), and so the slippery slope began… When we took Xav in for his 4 month well check, after his weighing in and assessment, they came out with the tray stocked not only with his Synagis but the witches brew of vaccines. And like good little parents we held him down while they stuck needle after needle into his tiny little legs.

And he screamed. And screamed. And screamed. I couldn’t even get my little barracuda to nurse (this kid never denies the boob!). He turned purple, then red, then broke out in hives. We called the nurse in and were told “Oh, that’s normal”. And so we left. And he screamed. It’s been long enough I’ve blocked out the complete duration of the screaming but it was hours. Hours from the Buddha baby who did not cry. And for days our boy was not the same. Not the same at all. Eventually, gradually, his personality tamed and returned but as it did the swelling began.

Our 4 month old who was “technically” a one month old (and about the size of a “normal” newborn) began to have this swelling in his leg. The same leg, same site in which he received his DTaP vaccine. It continued to swell until it was about the size of a golf ball (a golf ball on this twig leg was quite worrisome!) at which point it stopped and remained a rock hard lump for months and months and months.

Unfortunately, it took that to get us back on track. To just say no to the poisons our pediatrician regularly asks to inject into our child. Thankfully, he politely respects our stance. At the same time it saddens me that so many children are subjected to this. I know this is a heated issue, I know that study after study shows that vaccines are “safe” and “effective” and “needed”, but study after study and more importantly, story after story, will tell you just the opposite. I urge you to PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE do the research for yourself. Dig deep and question.

This is our story and I am so grateful that our boy, as far as we know, is now ok, but so often that is not the case. In the scheme of things his reaction wasn’t that bad, it could have been worse, but still he was injured. From a vaccine. And that makes me sick. Several of my closest friends also have vaccine injured children and whether people want to hear it or not, THIS is a devastating epidemic. One that needs to be stopped.

I welcome your thoughts and comments, I just ask you to be respectful with those who may not agree. And if you are looking for a place to start digging, below is the package insert for the vaccine that injured our son. An insert pediatricians are supposed to show every parent but rarely, if ever, do. Once you see it I’m sure you’ll understand why…

Diphtheria, Tetanus, acellular Pertussis (DTaP), Diphtheria, Tetanus, acellular Pertussis (DTaP), genetically-engineered Hepatitis B, Poliovirus (IPV) vaccine

Summary: Pediarix vaccine package insert summary, GlaxoSmithKline (Manufacturing by Chiron Behring GmbH & Co, Marburg, Germany and GlaxoSmithKline Biologicals, Rixensart, Belgium.) August 2003

Ingredients

-diphtheria toxin: Coynebacterium diphtheriae in Fenton medium containing a bovine extract;

-tetanus toxin: Clostridium tetani in Lathum medium from bovine casein;

-3 acellular pertussis antigens (PT, FHA, pertactin): Bordetella pertussis culture in modified Stainer-Scholte liquid medium;

-hepatitis B: cultured genetically-engineered Saccharomyces cerevisiae cells;

-poliovirus: 3 strains grow in monkey kidney cells (Vero) cultivated on microcarriers;

-aluminum hydroxide

-aluminum phosphate;

-calf serum;

-cysteine to remove residual thimerosal;

-formaldehyde;

-glutaraldehyde;

-lactalbumin hydrolysate

-neomycin sulfate

-2-phenoxyethanol

-polymixin B;

-polysorbate 80 (Tween 80);

-sodium chloride;

-thimerosal (49.6% mercury/12.5 ng mercury per dose);

-yeast.

Contraindications

-coma, decreased level of consciousness, prolonged seizures within 7 days of previous dose of pertussis-containing vaccine not attributable to identifiable cause.

-severe allergic or hypersensitivity reaction to ingredients;

Warnings

-previous adverse reactions from whole cell diphtheria-pertussis-tetanus (DPT) or acellular pertussis vaccines: 105 F

-temperature within 48 hours not due to identifiable cause

-collapse within 48 hours, persistent, more than 3 hours of inconsolable crying within 48 hours;

- seizures with or without fever within 3 days;

-Guillain-Barre syndrome within 6 weeks of prior dose of tetanus-containing vaccine;

-dry latex rubber in tip cap and rubber plunger of needleless prefilled syringes;

-vaccination deferred during moderate or severe illness with and without fever;

-Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) mentioned in specific studies;

Precautions

-Infanrix not evaluated for carcinogenicity, mutagenicity or fertility impairment;

-no animal reproduction studies; -

-unknown if Infanrix can cause fetal harm when given to a pregnant woman or if Infanrix can affect reproduction capacity

-no safety and effectiveness of Infantrix studied and/or evaluated in children previously vaccinated with one or more doses of: hepatitis B vaccine, Infanrix, IPV, and interchangeablity of Pediarix and licensed DTaP, IPV and genetically-engineered hepatitis B vaccine;

-Pediarix given with caution for children with bleeding disorders;

-epinephrine available for allergic reactions;

Adverse Reactions: anorexia, appetite loss, crying, diarrhea, drowsiness, ear pain, fever, fussiness, irritability, liver function tests abnormal, pain, rash, seizures, site redness & swelling, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS), vomiting. Twenty or more worldwide reports are listed for above reactions. More adverse reactions are listed.

For complete information, ask your doctor for Pediarix vaccine package insert.

The above summary provided is Illinois Vaccine Awareness Coalition. For the complete insert (too lengthy to reproduce here) feel free to get it from directly form the source.

And if you’d like to hear more from those close to me, Steph and Arianne have lots to say on this topic too.

I have a running list of countries I’d like to move to if ours continues to go down the tubes. If so and so gets elected, if our economy continues to fail, if things don’t change… Yes, I realize that nowhere is perfect, but lately I just feel like so much this place is billed on is a farce. An illusion. (This is where I want to get all Orwellian but don’t worry, I’ll try to keep it on the surface…)

I just realize more and more and more that we aren’t “free” and we sure as hell aren’t brave. Am I privileged to have been born here? Possibly. Was I, from birth, afforded opportunities that many people on this planet aren’t? Of course. Am I grateful for that? You bet. But that doesn’t mean that I just have to then, except this place. To put it on pedestal and proclaim to the masses that I love the good ol’ US of A and all it is.

As I examine what values and opportunities and environments we hope to raise our son with, it becomes crystal clear that this isn’t it. It isn’t shopping malls and distance. Politics and lies. Undercurrents of subversion, judgment and hate. And there it is, the clincher… HATE.

I think since 9-11, then this war, then this election, our “all inclusive, come-as-you-are” nation has revealed it’s true colors. And yet I feel gullible saying that. Perhaps it was always there and this is just the point in my life I opened my eyes to it. I guess it was always something I assumed people wised up to, grew out of. Silly me didn’t realize that little boy bullies grow up to have their toy guns turn real. That playground power morphs to the real thing that fuels hatred like wild fire. And there are so many ways… To hate on the basis of skin color or religion. To hate because of someone’s ability or disadvantage. To hate because of someone’s sexual orientation. To hate because of rumor. To hate because someone, somewhere, that looks like you hurt someone that is my 25th cousin and I. Will. Never. Let. You. Live. That. Down.

For Real?

And I as type this it seems so obvious. And I see that this isn’t where I meant this post to go. I digress, but I’m sobbing because this is one area that just doesn’t make sense to me. How is that rationalized?! To hear the profiles of just who “looks” like a terrorist, to hear the comments now that we have both a woman and black man contending to be our leader. My jaw drops often. Too often.

And it boiled to the surface on Memorial Day. I was outside on the deck with Xavier, “playing sand”, David was inside on my computer fuming over this clip; we had no sooner finished watching it, reacted (enraged!) and stepped back outside when some idiot drove past blaring “WHITE P*WER” on his radio. This, is our country, people.

I hope that this facet is the minority, but this undercurrent, this pulse, is throbbing. It’s dangerous. And there is a part of me that doesn’t see much hope for it changing here. We can pass more laws that preserve rights and dignities, but it will still remain. At the same time I see things like this and know that we aren’t alone. That this isn’t the only place this happens - IS happening. But I want nothing to do with it. In fact, I want to change it. And for whatever reason I see more hope in changing it elsewhere than here. Yet at this moment, here I am.

I don’t know how else to do that at this moment than with my vote. And if things don’t work out, then with our bodies.

I called my dad yesterday. It was one of those moments. A moment of unthinking in which I had the fleeting thought, of “Man, it’s been awhile…”

And of course it has, but not because we’ve been busy but because he’s gone.

I didn’t realize until someone answered. A man that wasn’t him.

Just a number reassigned on the other end of nothingness.

Speaking is not my thing. Well, to clarify, I can happily talk an ear off, but ask me to share my two cents in front of a group of people, grown people, grown important people and I’ll be in the corner shivering (I could totally rock it if my audience were say field mice or small children, just so you, you know, know) And so when I was invited to be a panel member for the Mommy Blogger Monologues my initial reaction was thanks, but no thanks. Not my thing.

Thankfully I thought about it a bit before sending in my gut response and realized that this IS EXACTLY my thing. I deal with PR folks and blogging relations daily with Mama Speaks, and with so much controversy in the blogosphere lately, regarding these relations, I realized that my not so humble opinions and I were being offered an opportunity to talk about something I am passionate about. I won’t say that I suddenly decided said opportunity was any less terrifying but I did decide to jump in. And I’m so glad I did.

I was honored to be one of nine amazing Mama’s who spent the morning talking about what we know best. Ourselves. Why we blog (and tweet!) and how this passion of ours has morphed into somewhat of an accidental career. Most importantly we were able to tell some amazing companies and PR folks the best ways to approach us (and you!). The best way to use us, to work together.

The morning was amazing. Successful. Thanks to Maria for the opportunity and all the other amazing Mamas; Arianne from To Think is To Create, Steph from Adventures in Babywearing, Jaymi from Flip Flop Mamma, Amy from The Ladybug and her Blogging Mama & Mums the Wurd, Kim from Traveling Mom, Emily from The Motherhood, Jory from Blogher and Pause and Julie (and little Oliver!) from Parents Blogger Network and Mothergoosemouse.

Digging in the dirt makes me feel alive. There’s something about moving earth that is cleansing in a completely metaphorical corny way. But it’s true. Under the surface there is so much going on that we don’t think about as we walk atop it day in and out. The bugs and the roots and the layers.

Since Xavier was born I have been anticipating the days outside, digging and planting and being. He was still too unsteady on his feet last year for me to tackle anything major, so we stuck to a container garden on the deck, but I have been excited to finally do something about our miserable excuse for a yard this year. And for him to be right there by my side digging along.

Yesterday we were graced with warm air and sunshine, a true gift after the winter that just keeps on giving; and so we set out to seize the day. As I said, our yard is miserable: our teeny, tiny, town house yard, I’ll save you the sob story, but it’s bad and we’ve been waiting around for the appropriate folks to fix it but two years later- it’s all mine, baby. Being this summery day was a surprise, we had to work with what we had on hand which meant digging up some bunchy bushes and splitting them to fill in the great expanse of nothingness along our front walk.

I was bursting at the seams and as I gave X the pep talk of our day out, full of shovels and critters and sun, he was ecstatic too. Or so I thought…

We dove right in with his gardening set up in miniature right beside mine, but as I grabbed shovel and handful of dirt he stood there shaking, “Ewww, Dirty! Hands! Mama!” What?! This coming from the boy that in our at home hours walks around with yogurt on his head, paint from head to toe, and would rather wait for the crud to flake off than let me near him with a wash cloth?

And so it continued. My advance at Insectology 101 was met with some interest until I had the nerve to suggest that this boy of mine hold a worm, or come closer to see the Roley-Poley guy do his shtick. I have never seen my little darling run faster in his short little life.

I don’t mean to poke fun, he was a good sport, after a jaunt away from his dirt covered Mama, he would tip-toe approach to see what I was up to. Maybe, just maybe, this dirt ain’t so bad afterall…. um, nope, it is. definitely is. outta here.

And so I toiled on for hours and kept a watchful eye over my little one as he kicked up his feet and read his pile o’ books in the shade. What can I say, he’s his Papa’s boy. At least next time I’ll know to be prepared with grapes and paper umbrellas.

Yesterday, I started therapy. I probably shouldn’t say “started” because I’ve been in some sort of talk therapy since the dawn of man. It’s important to me, sorting out the mental things. Just as, if not more important than the physical if you ask me (why doesn’t everyone get this?!) but anyway… So yesterday I started a new TYPE of therapy. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to be exact. It’s like therapy on steroids. Therapy with HOMEWORK. It’s super intense, but also short lived. Unlike every other form of therapy I’ve encountered the goal here is to eventually not need it. 8-12 weeks-ish depending on how many cobwebs you have and you (well I) am out of there.

I’m excited. Really, very excited. Aside from truly enjoying this sort of thing (yes, I’m just that strange) I think this is finally the “ah-ha” that I need. The thing that will finally make the difference. Talk therapy is great, I’m all for it, but for me at least it helps for maybe 48 hours and then my brain takes over. The inate things that have been so ingrained in me rear their ugly little head and I (the me I want to be, know I am underneath it all) gets ran over by the past. I need to retrain my brain.

There are things that I mention in passing around here, things that those super close to me may know a bit about, but mostly I just don’t wanna talk about it. I don’t want my past to define me but it’s inevitable that it does. It has. Growing up for years at the hands of a diagnosed sociopath, a step-”father” who was anything but, enduring his abuse, his crafty, crazy, ingenious methods of mind control. The phsyical. Your brain starts to do all sorts of fun stuff. You become animalistic. On gaurd, ready to pounce, to protect. Which is amazing really. It gets you through.

Unfortunately it’s near impossible to just turn off. When removed from such a situation, when learning to live life in it’s true form, healthy, normal-ish life. This amazing set of abilities just get in the way. They ruin. When soft mushy old me turns on the tough it’s not pretty and these days it’s just plain unnecessary. And oh, am I excited to let that go.

But I’m also scared because it does protect. Because an unplanned pseudo-experiment with friends showed that letting my guard down means I can get hurt. I will. Walked all over and thrown under the bus. But that’s ok. That will happen. My current level of defense is way over the top for any level of mean girl action and in the mean time it’s tearing down the one relationship I value most. Turning me slowly into the one person in this world I loathe and in there’s the unfortunate passing on of baggage to a boy so innocent, that is simply not ok.

And so, yep, I’m committed. Committed to getting down and dirty and rewiring what needs to be, to shedding the tough guy, to shelving the anger, calming anxieties, to being real, for real, the me that I know but keep under wraps. I’m prepared for a bumpy road, for a road hiccuped with the grief that’s so fresh and the guilt of old. I’m looking forward to preparing the me that my husband feels but has been patiently, agonizingly standing by to see launch. I’m feeling the need to leave a trail of apologies but I also feel part of this is shedding that shame and stepping forward.

It’s exhilarating, to say the least.

I never though much about it really. It was just another silly word game. Much beloved by children and bored adults, and possibly those who fantasize over stick men (does such a sect exist?). But then, this December, my dad died. Oddly enough, once I spat out a string of profanity, my first thought was, I will NEVER play hangman again.

My Dad hung himself, in case you didn’t know. I’ll save that story for some other time, not quiet ready to dive right in there yet, but he did, and so he’s gone. As is the case with suicide we’re left here aching, missing, longing.

Last week we went on a family date night. Was supposed to just be a date night, but no child minder means child comes with and so we went to the theater to see This American Life’s first ever simulcast (because we’re geeks like that). We arrived early, eager to see the pre-flick trivia to settle in and enjoy the show. Trivia starts and what do you know, hang man.

Caught off guard, stomach drops, lurches, have. to. leave. air. tears. I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m ok. Bathroom please. So I leave, and return. It stops, and then comes on again. I leave again, David takes X out (he doesn’t need to see this). And I realize that yes, I am ultra-sensitive, but is this really just ok?! If you take a minute to think about it isn’t it just bizarre that this is entertainment? Barbaric even? And let me just add that these weren’t your average stick people, still a bit crude in illustration, but realistic enough to be troublesome. And people were cracking up. This. Was hilarious.

I recall hearing a story, or reading an article some time ago about families of victims of gun violence being appalled by the state of television. Up in arms that shows depict shooting as they do, maybe not glamorized, but normalized. And at each occurrence they are shocked back to the moment of their tragedy, they suffer. At the time, I empathized a bit, but I’ll admit I was a bit “suck it up, or change the channel”. Now, I understand.

And so what do I do? I don’t know much, but I can tell you, I’ll never play hang man again.

It’s no secret that every other person in the blogiverse just happens to pregnant at the moment. And if this is a true reflection of life in the *real world* then it’s pretty obvious there is a serious baby boom going on. I’ve stopped counting but if I took a realistic poll, I think well over half of the women folk in my life are currently with child or have recently given birth. And it’s lovely and beautiful and exciting- it is! I love it! New mamas, mamas adding to their fold, new life, it just makes me all sorts of warm and fuzzy.

Except that I was having these moments where it wasn’t. Moment’s not of wanting to minimize that joy, but of aching, longing, selfishly hungering for it myself. Feeling empty because I wasn’t. I had the fever, but knew that the time wasn’t right. Thinking over and over that I’m ready, so ready, but also that I’m not! That we’re not. And as I thought about it more and more I tried to work through what I was wanting and why…

I truly believe that I am a born mother. It is the one thing I’ve always wanted. The one thing I get. The one thing in this world that makes me feel so me. And I am, and I love it. But still, I was wanting more.

I’ve always dreamed of a large family, and maybe someday we’ll have that, but what’s the rush? I’ve had this epiphany of sorts that I just need to put on the breaks, take a deep breath and slow. down. Because what’s so much more important than having the family of my dreams in numbers now, is having my family now being what I dream it to be. And I’ll be the first to tell you, it’s not. And it’s not because of me.

This light has gone on that has illuminated this darkness I’ve been living, it’s shone the distance that I’ve placed. I’ve been going though the motions, but not present in so much. The relationships most integral to our survival have been neglected. Taken for granted, disrespected. I’ve got lost in past trauma, and eaten alive by those present. But oh. my. goodness. How did I go about my days not seeing it for so long?! It’s not awful, it’s fixable. In fact, recent days have been amazing! Not perfect, but real and it’s so. freaking. awesome. I feel like I’m back, we’re back. And it’s wonderful.

And so, as I fix this, fix myself, and these things most important. Everything else will fall into place. I step back and reevaluate my wanting, my hungering in my womb and I see that what I was wishing for is not even what I truly want right now. I want things here to be as imperfectly perfect as possible first. I am loving this time with my little family, the ease with which our days go by. I like us right now. And as X gets older, more independent, I am looking forward to and enjoying the time reconnecting with my husband. Because, I really. Really. REALLY like him.

In fact, on the child front I have realized that this child I am longing for isn’t even from my womb. He’s out there or maybe he’s not even born yet, but he’s ours, and we are his, we just happen to be continents away. And when that time is right, when things here are right, we will know and we will find him.

I don’t even know if my words here are capable of conveying my heart, painting my thoughts in any semblance of cohesiveness or if this more me, for me, pouring and sifting and wadding…

Regardless, until then, until that day, until that journey is in front of us, I’m rebuilding here. Just me, the love of my life, and our one and only…

I’m taking a sick day. For real, this is misery, people. (in interest of full disclosure, I am the biggest baby when I’m sick) Thankfully, I don’t get sick often, which I think makes the ratio of wimpy-ness to time infirmed correlate perfectly, but maybe I’m just justifying.

If you’d like Dr. Google’s official diagnosis it’s either flu or Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. Dr. X weighed in on RMSF but due to the absence of tick infestation I’m sticking by the flu. While I’m tempted to spare you the details, I won’t. My toenails and eyelids are achy (in addition to every other square-millimeter of my body inside and out), I am exhausted, with migraine, and to put the icing on the fresh baked cake of woe, let’s just say my digestive system isn’t quite doing it’s job.

So a day off it is. While I am fanticizing about my darling husband running me a hot bath, delivering cool wash cloths, installing a bidet, and massaging my aching bod, someone has to bring home the bacon and tattoo the universe. Instead, it looks like I’m in for lots of nursing, endless rounds of match-game with my boy and maybe, just maybe, an afternoon nap. Let’s just hope this is the quick and painful bout of flu-ness because as you all know Mama is NOT allowed to be sick.

I leave you with some random cuteness. Because you all know you want to don some “Max shoes”, a dragon cape and rock out every once and a while.

Finally home from the salon. Over 3 hours of oh, so painful cutting and combing of the dreads. But I have a new cut that I loooooove. I’m going back tomorrow for a chunk of color in the front. But her she is, the new me.

Today at 3:15 my dreads come off. It’s only been a few months with them and I won’t say I’m not in love, but the novelty and practicality have been battling and well, in life vs. hair, life wins. I don’t have hours a day to spend on my mop and I’m not ok with the messy, ratty-ness that ensues if I just leave my dreadlings alone. That combined with my loathing for shower caps, the horror of hearing myself tell my little one not to splash my head in the tub and the upcoming promise of lake water and sand…

I’m not sure how short my hair will be after the chop but I am expecting some serious short. I’ve picked out a few different styles to play with and so we’ll see. I am nervous. Really nervous. More nervous than I thought I’d be, but I am so ready to rock short hair again. The last time I had tiny hair was circa 2002, me 19 and oh, so emo…

I am excited though. In fact, I’ve sort of been on excitement overload lately. Life is good and I am SO ready for a change. Of course, pictures of the new me when I return…

I should probably retitle this Worst Shot Monday because this baby is scary. Fortunately for you, this picture does the atrocity little justice. This my friends is my laptop. My one and only computer that I run two, soon to be three businesses from. Lets just say productivity is at an all time low. Some quick details for you: take a quick look at the keyboard, notice the missing keys? Yep half on them are gone, which is ok because the keyboard actually stopped working before the keys decided to jump ship. And so you’ll notice my lovely new keyboard and mouse, which work great but take up more space than the computer itself. Issue number two is my battery. Doesn’t work. Laptop must remain plugged in at all times to remain functional. Put ‘em together and let me reintroduce you to what is essential a deceptive little desktop. And um, not sure if you’ve timed yours lately but it takes me 129 seconds to open a .pdf. That’s over 2 minutes people!!!

Ok, so yes I am totally being a whiner, but I’ve had requests to share this scary beast with the masses so here she is. I’m hoping she isn’t around much longer, for real, I’m not to proud to beg!

From the time I fell asleep last night until 1:00pm today…

It snowed! (I am assuming that Mama Nature didn’t get the memo that it’s mid-APRIL!)

At lunch today I managed to burn macaroni noodles and edamame. Most likely the two easiest things in the universe to cook, and I do fancy myself as pretty competent in the kitchen. Even more, I don’t just mean overcook, I mean burnt. Charred. Emergency exhaust fan turned itself on and smoke detector beeping burn.

And then there is little Xavier the sailor. Out of nowhere this afternoon Xavier burst out in a chorus of “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!” Unfortunately, I can’t say this is his first curse word as he has dropped the f-bomb exactly once, but believe me it was entirely appropriate. I am breathing a sigh of relief that he wasn’t mimicking me. True to two year old form, he happily added that “(giggle, giggle) Papa said that!” But still, the kid can not walk around damning everything in sight. I mean, come on, because I really care so much what his collection of stuffed animals and the cashiers at Target think of my parenting abilities.

Never-the-less, after realizing that attempting to hid my giggles and ignoring it was making it worse. I had a quick pow-wow with the Papa bear and scripted some rhyming alternatives to use when he decided to unleash his holy fury. Not surprisingly, he turned up his nose at my suggestions and decided that he will “just say Dali-do instead”. Ooookay.

The most surprising thing is that I feel like I’ve been on the verge of total meltdown lately, yet today’s events, rather than pushing me over the edge are actually causing me a little bit of joy. Making me slow down and just laugh at the absurdity of it all.

This is my life.

Completely random, unrelated photograph. Aren’t we cute?

I’ve never been big on politics. I understand the importance of course, and think we all have to not only celebrate the fact we have the right to vote but get off our butts to do it. It’s just that all the campaigning and subsequent brow beating gets old fast. The thought of people committing their lives to that makes me stressed out. It’s always been a bit personal to me, my own little “don’t ask, don’t tell”, if you will. I am not affiliated with a specific party because unfortunately, there has never been one who’s ideals I completely support. I don’t want to be stuck behind any one person just because they are supposed to be in a certain camp. I do follow what’s going on, I’ve just never wanted to have much part in it.

And then the last 4 years happened. Unfortunately, the guy I voted for (I know, just click my contact link to send hate mail) and his comrades have made some really poor decisions that have put our country in a very scary place. I’ve found myself slowly getting more upset at the state of things, to say the least. Rather than feeling love for this country of ours, I’ve been having serious chats with my husband about leaving it if things don’t turn around. Soon.

All of that is making me all sorts of excited about this election. And a bit scared. The issues at stake are dire at best and the way I see it there are only two ways things can go- more of the same or some serious change. There was a candidate in contention that, for the first time ever, I felt I could support on just about every issue. Unfortunately, as the big day nears, it’s becoming clear that no matter how hard he fights, the chances are slim he will even be on the ticket. And so I’m in a bit of a pickle- do I stand behind my man or take a serious look at my alternatives?

Of the three remaining, McCain scares me, Clinton is far from ideal (which is sad because I have been waiting so long for the chance to vote in a woman president!) and then there’s Obama. I think I was pushing it down, but every “Pick Your Candidate” website has pointed me in his direction and I’ve found myself leaning. Yesterday we went to hear him speak a Town Hall at a somewhat local high school. And I will have to say that I’m feeling a little bit wooed.

Of course being in such an arena, 2,000 other people coming together for any cause is a little bit striking but as talked through ideas, proposed new concepts and laid out his plan, I began to see so many of my issues spoken aloud. Answered even. He addressed education, health care, green technology, the safety of imports, keeping our jobs and economy stable and most importantly this war. A war that has now gone on longer than the Civil War and both World War’s. A war that is costing us so much money that we NEED to be spent here. Not to mention the lives. Our lives, their lives, taken away.

I will admit that I teared up a time or two, that I cheered, that I am now excited. There are the silly controversies of course, the Che flags flown at campaign headquarters and such. And there are things that are even scarier. The other day I was making cold calls to voters, getting out the news that we can vote early in our area, taking down data on which candidate they are leaning towards, and I came across at least one man who blew up about Obama. “He’s not even American!”, he said, “Just look at his name, and he’s a ….” Well, I just even go there. I guess in my heart I know that there an unfortunate many people in our country filled with hate and prejudice. People willing to let color or sex cloud their judgment on such an important issue. It scares me.

Our primary is May 6th, and I’ve made the descision that I’ll be there. That even if my final decision is still up in the air that this is the guy that I would eventually like the chance to vote for. That he’s who I’d like on our ballots. I’m not sure that I’m ready to add a Mama for Obama button to my blog, but I can’t promise that I never will.

I’m just realizing that it’s almost been a week since Xav’s surgery. Everything went well and honestly I think it is one of those things that is harder on us than him.

He wasn’t too happy to come out of the anesthesia and was in a lot of pain the first two days, but little by little, rather than him bumming around we were having to find crafty ways to make him rest and heal. Unfortunately for us, our no-screen time rule went by the way side and we now have a little guy with a serious Cars habit. He knows once he’s better it’ll be back to normal and I’m waiting to see if he’s clever enough to find a way to prolong his agony so he can spend more time with with his new favorite friends. He’s already imitating “Nightning McQueen” and “Tater Mater Tow Truck” and an unfortunate jaunt to Target gave me my first real glimpse at Xavier the brand/character knowing consumer.

All said, he was doing great. Until we realized that his almost hourly potty runs weren’t producing anything other than frustration. It had been how many days since he’d pooped? He isn’t the most regular guy, so we tried all of our tricks and then as day 4 and 5 turned into, “if I’m not nursing, I’m screaming” and going to the potty and straining until blood vessels break and blood comes out of a place it definitely should not and I’m bearing down as if giving birth and telling my poor helpless Mommy “This is SO hard to do, Mama!”" I decided to call the surgeon and the ped., on a Saturday of course. We tried suppositories, an enema, milk of magnesia and nothing would make this kid of ours poop. He stopped eating and drinking, his belly was tight as can be, his incisions were hurting and so we finally had to take him to the ER.

This is where I’m thinking I might need to break this up into multiple posts to preserve my sanity, but just stick with me here. We don’t live in a big city, but our closest ER seems to think they are located somewhere of great importance and busy-ness. I was hopeful as they called us right back to get him checked in and then said it would be just a couple of minutes before they had a room for him. “Really?! Thanks!”, I said. And then happily sat and ate my words for the next 120-some minutes.

Finally we have a room and nurses, phlebotomists, the doctor and x-ray, oh, so slowly trickle in and out as the hours tick by. Not once do they attempt to address the problem or help make him more comfortable, just order tests and collect samples and leave without saying anything useful. And then, somewhere within hour four on our third attempt to get Xav to pee so they can test that, he breaks out into spontaneous Lamaze breathing, strains, screams and pushes for a few minutes finally delivering 6 days worth of poo. As much as we would have liked to run out the door at that very moment it made sense to wait and see what all those tests said, just in case.

Hour 5. The doc comes in and it goes down something like this:

Doc: “So, um, I was just looking over his X-rays and did he happen to have any clothing on?”

Me (David ran to the bathroom): Well, he had this shirt on, but it was unbuttoned and his diaper. Why?

Doc: “Well, um, there a appears to be something that looks like a needle, a sewing needle in his abdomen”

Me (holding in my disire to curse and scream): “Yeah, um, well, that’s… really… scary….”

Doc: “I’m going to order another x-ray to be sure and then we’ll talk” (as he flys out the door)

David comes back and I fill him in as we try not to freak-the-eff out. It honestly may have been semi-comical if it weren’t for the fact that he just had a surgery that required them to SEW his abdomen shut. Our hearts and minds are racing, vacillating between pissed and practical, thinking of every odd occurrence during and after his surgery (such as them telling us it took an extra 20 minutes because their sponge count was off), googling how often this actually happens (way too often), and waiting for them to come and take another x-ray so we can officially loose it already.

They call us out and wonder of wonders as we’re waiting for the X-ray to be available in walks our surgeon. He’s all “what are you doing here?!” (he knew we were going there) 20 questions, of course I’m on edge but it was all just really freaking odd. Another X-ray. More waiting. Lots of waiting. Lots of trying not to loose it already. Doc comes in and tells us (after looking things over WITH our surgeon) that the x-ray is clear. No needle. Ok, WTF so you saw a needle and now you don’t? And we don’t mean to seem like conspiracy theorists, but I’m less than trusting of our medical system and all the variables just seemed a bit much (this was the hospital he had his surgery at as well) And we officially begin to freak the eff out. We demand to see the x-rays, which is greeted with, “um, yeah, sure of course”, and 20 minutes later we are reluctantly shown his x-rays. To cut to the chase they tell us they mixed up the x-rays and there is actually someone else in the ER at that moment that has a needle in her abdomen. A grown woman. They mixed up the x-rays of a 2 year old boy and a grown woman? Yeah. And then, without ever telling us how any of his labs or tests looked a nurse walks in with discharge papers. 6+ hours later.

We head home and try to quickly figure out what to do. Obviously not ok with all that happened. We decided that for us to be ok, we need to get another x-ray, just to be sure… To make a really long story as short as possible, friends and family and connections are great. We go to another ER, explain what happened and are treated AMAZINGLY! They took more x-rays (yes, Xavier is now officially radioactive), requested his labs and reports from the first hospital (not surprisingly no x-rays or x-ray reports were included) and thankfully, praise God there is no needle in Xavier’s belly.

At 1:00 am, almost 12 hours since it all began we head home. Relieved, exhausted, wary.

It comes in waves still. The tears, the rushes of emotion, the anger, that pain. Some days are better, some weeks even. But my thoughts continue to be consumed. My dreams, once peaceful are laden with nightmares more often than not. I’ve found fear in things previously routine. I guess unexpected finality does that. Loss, and the like.

I hear it gets better, that it doesn’t go away, but that it will, eventually, get better. I hope… I know in fact, that there is truth in that, simply because there has to be.

Because, this is impossible.

I’ve been trying to simplify my life in many ways and well, blogger just wasn’t cutting it anymore. I figured while I was in the midst of a redesign I may as well just really shake things up.

And so- new url (ThisMamasNest.com), new blog service (ala wordpress), new look (yes, that is the blackbird from my tattoo), new fun. I can’t promise there won’t be hiccups as I’m still streamlining and making some major tweaks but I just couldn’t wait any longer.

Also, my blogroll/bloglines need some major updating so if you don’t find yourself in my links please feel free to shoot me a comment or email.

You like?

I wrote a post some time ago about “this thing”. This thing that makes me feel unlike any other. I promised more and someday I will bring it, when the time is right. Also, I never took the time to thank all of my readers for your respectful comments and dialog, so thank you.

Today I write because there is something brewing that desperately needs your attention and if your heart is in line with mine your signature may help to make a world of difference.

The Prenatally and Postnatally Diagnosed Conditions Act has been bouncing around since 2005 or so and has finally been backed by a Senate Committee and introduced. Studies are now showing that babies being diagnosed in utero with Down’s, Cerebral Palsy, Dwarfism and many other conditions are being aborted 90% of the time!

“The bipartisan bill would provide $5 million “to increase the provision of scientifically sound information and support services to patients receiving a positive test diagnosis for Down syndrome or other prenatally and postnally diagnosed conditions.”

The bill would also “(1) increase patient referrals to providers of key support services for women who have received a positive test diagnosis for Down syndrome, or other prenatally or postnatally diagnosed conditions, as well as to provide up-to-date,comprehensive information about life expectancy, development potential, and quality of life for a child born with Down syndrome or other prenatally diagnosed condition; (2) strengthen existing networks of support through a Centers for Disease Control and Prevention patient and provider outreach program; (3) improve available data by incorporating information directly revealed by prenatal or postnatal testing into existing State-based surveillance programs for birth defects and prenatally or postnally diagnosed conditions; and (4) ensure that patients receive up-to-date, scientific information about the accuracy of the test.””*

There is currently ZERO training within ACOG in regards to follow-up counseling if a prenatal test comes back positive for Down’s, meaning that in many cases the ONLY recommendation or option given by a woman’s medical professional is to abort the baby. Which, regardless of where you stand, I think we can all agree is wrong. Parents of People with Down’s Syndrome have created a petition to urge change and education in this realm. Their goal is 5,000 signatures and they currently have 1,750, so please head on over and sign away.

* excerpt from Townhall.com

Related Links:
National Association for Down’s Syndrome
World Down’s Syndrome Day
Gigi’s Playhouse

I have been hesitant to discuss the details of my father’s death. Hesitant because everyone has an opinion. Because people judge. Because my sister’s father in law thought the day after my dad died would be the perfect time to trash him to our pastor. The pastor of the church we attend. David works. The pastor we chose to speak at my father’s funeral.

And I don’t know at this point what anyone knows. What my best friends know. What I know. But it’s been a month (already? finally?) and I need to talk, I need answers, I need to do something. I can’t find words. It’s hard to speak. But here I can. I can get things out. Little, by little, by little.

My father took his own life. He hanged himself. At his home. Upstairs. I know why. And I don’t know why. My father would NEVER do that. The man who raised me, who loved me, who was prouder of me and my family and my son and my being than should have been possible, never could have, never would have. He spoke out about such things. Spoke out because his father took his own life.

Which leads us to the man that really killed my father. The man, or the side of the man or piece of the man. The man with a disease. An illness. An illness that carries such stigma that despite cries and cries and cries for help, his life ended, was stolen. Gone.

He was an addict. Alcohol, pot, was what I knew. Was what I witnessed growing up. But at some point dabbling with other things, stronger things, took over. There were secrets. Bits and pieces. Some people knew the truth, new in reality what he was doing. That he was doing things he was always disgusted by. That he was changing and losing himself to these things. And yet, rather than help, they contributed. They kept secrets. Secrets of things that I still am not completely aware of. The tox report still isn’t back and when it is I will know for sure, but best I can judge my father was in his final days.

Addicted to crack.

And even in my struggle to put an end to the stigma I shutter as I say that.

He was depressed. Who wouldn’t be? Who seeing something so awful take control of their life would not fight and falter? And he did. At 50 he put himself in rehab for the first time. He detoxed and stepped out into the world with a clearer mind. We saw and had more of him those days than we had had in months, years. It was lovely. And at the same time he was set up for failure. I can only imagine the amount of courage, humility, humbling it took to say “I need help” and yet after a few days in hospital he was sent on his way with a half-assed plan for counseling and more drugs to help him not want to do the drugs his body, mind, wanted him to do. He was released into tainted situations. Released into the arms of people who were content to continue keeping secrets.

And you might want to feed me all the lines we hear so much. “He was a grown man”, “You can’t help people who don’t want to help themselves”, “He should have just got it together”. But that’s where the problem lies. The stigma. He was sick. Had a disease, a disease that I myself have struggled with and know the power of all too well. So was he a grown man? In years yes, but those years had been stunted and clouded by addiction. Did he want help? HELL YES. Why didn’t he get it together? It’s just not that easy. And I am content to say, I’m certain he’d tried.

He’d asked for help, seen doctor, after doctor, after doctor. And doctor, after doctor, after doctor wrote him a prescription and sent him on his way. After detox he got worse. He got worse because he had a clean slate and had to hide things all at the same time. His dabbling and overwrought moderation turned to more secrecy and binging. He hit bottom again and again. He drug his butt back to the hospital and told them HE WAS THINKING OF KILLING HIMSELF. And then they let him go.

I’ve read about these cases in my studies. Watched the stories on TV. But this was my Daddy. My son’s dearly beloved Grandpa and I’ll be damned if I’m content for it to happen again. To anyone.

And so I feel compelled to tell you about my Dad. The man he really was. The man who’s life, should not be overshadowed by his passing. Clifford Eugene Wells, was a good man. A great man. The most loving, caring, giving man I have yet to meet. Perfect? No. But he’d be the first to tell you.

My father was an artist. I remember sitting at the kitchen table with him as I child in awe of the perfection with which he could sketch my favorite cartoon characters. His paintings sit in my house as memoirs of his youth. Bob Dylan, Joe Cocker. The greats.

My Dad was a musician. His voice would never have sold records, this half yell, part melody, part chuckle, but he sang still as free as a bird. His guitar was his baby, self taught and beloved. When I close my eyes I am immersed in backyard memories. Coming home too late at night I could usually find him out back by the pond. My silence, his notes plucked and strummed and sung away.

And while those are things he loved, things he found his identity in, the best thing about my Daddy was his heart. Despite the dark side, the things my father must have seen in his days, he held a child like innocence. He loved like a child. Cared unabashedly for everyone. He’d strike up a conversation in the check out line and gush to strangers about his kids. His grandkids. His fish. Anything. He’d walk into my house with a holler and a knock and make a bee line for my boy. In seconds they’d be rolling around on the floor together bursting with laughter. His enthusiasm was infectious.

And as with any father there were times when we fought. Times he annoyed and embarrassed me to no end. In high school my friends would come over to hang out with him. And when poor David asked him for permission to marry me, I never wanted to show my face again. And now as an adult those moments just add to the endless list of reasons I am enamored. Honored to be his daughter. What I would give to have just one more argument with him! To have an opportunity to thank him for my crooked nose. For proclaiming me a tree.

I am bruised and beat up and broken. I am trying my best to keep it together and am all together not okay. But it’s not about me. It’s about him. About disappointment and failure. I want to place blame and I could. We all could. At the secret keepers. At the lack of communication. At professionals who didn’t take the time. At the fact that my brother and I are getting more information through hearsay and from the police than from family. We don’t need protecting. We need truth.

My father needed truth.

I still have moments I forget. I am still practicing speaking and thinking in past tense. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve picked up the phone to call him to tell him something trivial. And then I remember. I remember and I still let the phone ring, because that’s still his voice on his voice mail and for a moment, he’s alive.

Steph tagged me. I’m it. Read up. 7 things you’ll sleep better knowing about me….

1. Despite being veg for more than half my life I really love Bac-os. Your textured soy protein, artificially flavored, Red dye havin’, crunchy little bacon flavored pieces of goodness are welcome in my taters anytime.

2. I can turn my elbow to the wrong side of my arm. Pure genius, you HAVE to see it!

3. I heart Elton John. (and Crass)

4. I have texture based aversion to firm yet squishy foods. (tomatoes top the list)

5. I have a lucky freckle.

6. I have a new blog. (Because I need something else to do)

7. I really love this man.

A month ago I would have told you I’d had a pretty good year. Weirdness and rough patches for sure but all and all I didn’t have much to gripe about. Until December 11.

Tragedy, loss, finality. One day changed the tone of my entire year past and this year to come. My life, our lives, will never be the same. I’m still sorting through details, still reeling from the shock and torrents of emotion, in a cloud without any end in sight. I am grateful for a new year, for the idea of clean slates and starting over, and maybe it’s age or new experience, but I’ve come to realize that as much as we like to say it, we don’t just get to close the door and begin again. There is always residue- scabs and scars and areas that open and heal becoming tougher, stronger, less vulnerable and because of that, these things just don’t go away. Nor would I want them to.

Last year I was resolved in stillness, I don’t know that I’ve succeeded, but strides were made and I hope to continue.

On a lighter note, in keeping with tradition, here’s my Year in Review…

January- Last New Year’s was a joy
February- So what’s that I’ve been up too?
March- Not my most eloquent post but you get the idea…
April- We’re flying down to Nashville for a few days to visit our dear friends Scott and Carol and baby Liam.
May- Head on over to Mama C-ta to get the answers to all those questions that have been burning your soul.
June- This week I have nursed:
July- So once again I’m up to something… I got the idea to launch a Mama focused review site, full of great products, green tips and worthwhile causes and managed to get some of my favorite Mama’s to jump on board.
August-Drink up…
September-Cook-out Schmook-out. We’re all about the Dino’s today.
October- Once upon a time, Mama and Papa were cool.
November- Doing nothing because I should be doing everything and I don’t want to do it all.
December- What do you think about me changing my name to Grimgrump Rottenshorts?

70 degrees on Tuesday, snow on Thursday is not out of the question in Chicago-land.

Trust those mommy instincts when it gets a little too quiet. In the 5 minutes you have your back turned at the sink, a 15 month old can pick up that brand new bottle of laundry detergent, unscrew the lid, dump the entire thing on the laundry room floor and do a little splashing.

When you remove the pee guard on a potty seat expect to get peed on.

It is possible for hermit crabs to literally drop dead. RIP Crabby and Slow-Mo.

I really like my husband.

I never understood why people found it amusing when kids put their hands above their heads and say “So big” Until Xavier started doing it. It’s the cutest thing in the world.

Watching my two favorite boys splash together in the bathtub is one of the finest things in life.

Thanks to all who responded to my “Where is Your Mind?” post! You all put way more thought into your amazing answers than I had anticipated…

I was most recently asked this question in my Itsy Bitsy Yoga training. Our class consisted of Helen, our wonderful instructor, seven American’s and three beautiful souls from Korea who were visiting the US to study children’s yoga programs for a project back home. Helen told us to close our eyes and point to our mind. When we opened our eyes all of us Americans had pointed to our heads, all of the Koreans their hearts. It was a powerful moment. They were baffled that we would say our heads (they had never heard such a thing!) and while we could understand your ‘mind’ being in your heart it definitely wasn’t our first impulse.

Last night David and I were enjoying the cry fest that was Oprah Winfrey’s Leadership Academy special and I was incredibly moved. Not just at the generosity and opportunity, but the strength and wisdom of the girls. These South African girls who by our standards “have” next to nothing, many of whom have experienced tragedies beyond our grasp, exude a strength- an almost literal sturdiness- that I have never seen. They speak with a wisdom not only beyond their years but beyond a place I think most of us will reach in our lifetimes. They are content in the life that God has granted them, but not complacent in their circumstance. They have a faith I envy and spirits that words can not describe. They are beauty.

And in their presence, even if only through the television, I was, I am incredibly humbled. We live in a country that ‘has’ everything. I have so much. Yet I discover more and more that in the scheme of things we have so little. We horribly miss the point. Life- living- is not about our possessions or status. It is about spirit. And wealth. Not financial wealth but wealth of heart, and drive and the motivation to leave a mark on this world.

I was reminded of that question- “Where is Your Mind” - and am certain that this is at the heart of our folly. We need to stop thinking and start feeling. Because when we leave this earth it will most likely not be computations of our brains we are remembered for but the impact our hearts had on the hearts, the minds, of others.

Not my most eloquent post but you get the idea…

Stephanie has blogged several times about the whole Mom vs Mom issue. Stay at home mom’s griping about the working mom and working Mom’s demeaning those staying at home. It’s silly that whole thing. Different things work for different people, why can’t we all just get along!
That being said…

I belong to Mamasource, it’s a great idea really- you sign up by location, mom’s post their questions and other mama’s respond with suggestions and ideas. The only problem is that on an almost daily basis I am disturbed either by questions posted and/or the responses given. It ranges from “Are these people really that clueless?” (well at least they’re asking) to “Are you sure that’s legal?” (seriously!) Again different things work for different people I am just amazed at, and disturbed by, the prevalence of detachment parenting among some of the mom’s (and there are hundreds) that post.

Today I was forwarded a posting by a mom. She said she was about to become a stay at home mom for the first time (yay! right?) and wanted some advice on what to do- you know other than watching TV and cleaning. She really wrote that! Because all that stay at home mom’s do of course is watch TV…and clean. (can someone help me out here because I have serious trouble finding TIME to clean, let alone park it in front of the TV!) And it gets better. My initial reaction is that maybe this is a new mom, still getting used to her ‘mommy’ role, had to return to work right away and is just nervous about the transition to full time parenting. But then I read further and find that the woman in question has not one new baby but three kids- aged 16, 6 and 1! I am speechless, is she that clueless about how to interact with her children? Isn’t the whole point of being a stay at home mom to mother? To spend time with your children - teaching, playing, nurturing?

I’ll leave it at that.

I had every intention of cloth diapering Xavier from the start. I didn’t know anyone who didn’t use disposables so I’d begun the daunting task of researching the “how to’s” and “what’s best’s” online. David wasn’t exactly excited about it but after I pointed out that I’d be the one changing most of the diapers and doing all the laundry he let the grumbles subside a bit. Then, as you know, our little bundle of joy made his grand entrance a few months ahead of schedule and well, diapers were the last thing on my mind. They use Pampers in the NICU so he lived in their preemies for a while and when it was time to go home I compromised and decided if I was going to use paper diapers I’d at least use Seventh Generation’s chlorine and fragrance free nappies.

It always still bothered me though- all that waste. I read somewhere that it can take a ‘disposable’ diaper up to 500 years to decompose. And while I know you’re supposed to flush the poo anyone who’s nursed a baby know that until they are well established on solids their daily deposits aren’t going anywhere but the diaper- add that to the landfill… But I’d gotten used to the simply changing and throwing away… and the initial investment of going cloth… and the daunting options… and the laundry… and that study I read saying cloth really weren’t any better environmentally when you took into account all the water and energy used washing… and well, I just kept making excuses.

Xavier’s in the midst of potty training so I figured now would be a good time (ha!) to look into other options and I’m happy to report I’ve finally made a change! We’re alternating between Under the Nile’s fitted diaper (because I only have two!) and the amazingly flushable gDiapers. The Under the Nile’s are glorious, so soft I want a pair and if I could afford to buy a truckload I probably would. And the gDiaper, those gDiapers…

Before buying the ’starter kit’ I read reviews on several different sites ranging from “These are the best thing ever” to “These are the worst things ever” to “Ugh, I have to change my baby EVERY time he pee’s or poops” … Um, aren’t you supposed to do that anyway? Call me crazy but I do change Xavier after EVERY time he goes, save the long car trip or overnight where he might pee a couple times, but multiple poops in one diaper? GROSS! ok, back on task…

So there definitely is a learning curve with the g’s at least for someone who’s never done the whole cover, liner, insert bit before. But after a couple of days and one leak (more to do with his boy-ness pointing in an odd direction that the diaper I do believe) we’ve gotten the hang of it. They are fit great (bikini style- great for huge bellies!) and velcro on the back side which is is really nice when babe is trying to crawl away from you. No leaks other than that mentioned and for the stage we’re in at least I like that they don’t hold a lot. In the event he does go in his diaper rather than on the potty he knows right away and asks to be changed or go to the bathroom. After two weeks he has yet to poo in one, so I can’t report on that but I promise to keep you posted! They are the perfect middle ground I do believe. My only complaints would be that the insert could be a bit softer and that they come in such happy colors. I know they’re cute! but I’d love a more natural option. But best of all, when a diaper needs a changing you remove the insert and flush it all away where it belongs. No waste!

I got a phone call from someone at our local newspaper yesterday. She said in honor of the most premature baby heading home they were doing a story on preemies and she wanted to talk to me about Xavier’s story and Project X. Naturally I was really excited to talk and couldn’t wait to see the story in print today. So… I read the story, everything sounds good until I reach my portion. I’m quoted as saying, “It’s terrifying,” Allen said. “You have in your mind the dream of your pregnancy and having the labor and having this chubby little baby.”, nothing wrong with it except the fact that I simply did not say it, at least not in those words. And her summation of the rest or our conversation has such a negative slant and not only doesn’t depict our situation but again is not what I said:

When Xavier was finally chubby enough to go home, Allen had another set of worries. At the hospital, she had to disregard her parental instinct and let the doctors take care of her newborn. When Xavier was ready to go home, Allen knew she’d have to relearn her instinct, and remember how to nurture him.

Xavier is 14 months old now and Allen said her motherly instincts came rushing back when he came home. He’s big for his age now, but he has doctor visits every few months to make sure his growth is progressing normally.

We talked for maybe 15 minutes, and while I didn’t expect her to print everything we talked about, in that time I said so much about the miracle these babies are, how yes it was hard, but that we wouldn’t change a thing, so many positive, hopeful words. At the end of our call she asked me if I had any words of advice for other preemie parents or parents bringing their preemies home. I told her that while it wasn&#