Third Time's the Joy

So, I'm pregnant.

Most of my readers probably already knew that, but if not, well, now you do!

And I am finally sitting down to write the story of this baby, this baby who has brought miracles into my life--and more than that, an appreciation of miracles. His or her presence in me fills me with unspeakable joy. Though I have by no means felt great, the fact that I have been able to feel happy amidst the struggle is a whole new concept.

I don't think, however, that you can really understand the story of this baby without knowing the story of this baby's sister and brother.

During my first pregnancy, I was physically miserable. There may have been a day I didn't barf, and there may have been a day that I only barfed once, but I really don't remember those days. I survived on spaghettios, top ramen, gobstoppers, and an occasional order of Chicken McNuggets. I didn't trust my doctor; we argued at nearly every appointment. As a first time pregnant-person, there were many things I didn't understand, one of them being that I really should have made the effort to find a doctor that wasn't constantly telling me I was doing everything wrong.

You know the rest of Kevin's story: water breaking eight weeks early, three hospitals, three weeks in the NICU, several miracles and more than a little PTSD.

Then came Sly, almost before we were ready. Okay, I admit it: nothing could have prepared me for the kind of pregnancy I had with him. I was amazed when the constant vomiting never kicked in; I know now that was a tender mercy of the Lord, because I surely could not have withstood the physical anguish along with the mental and emotional trauma I experienced while pregnant with him. If the aftermath of Kevin's birth were not enough, the 60+ prenatal doctor's appointments were enough to do me in. I was starving and going through major sugar withdrawls, but my stress levels made my blood sugar uncontrollable and every nurse I talked to treated me like they were my drill sergeant. I knew what I needed to do, but despite every sacrifice I made, my body would not cooperate. I was told more than once that if I didn't get it together, I was going to harm my baby. I was determined to give my baby his best chance at life, but in that process so many of my choices stopped feeling like they were mine to make.

Now that little boy is my little spot of sunshine in every rainy day. The fact that he makes me laugh daily, multiple times, more than makes up for the depression I experienced while growing him. And his joyous little soul is a constant miracle to me.  Those nine months with him were some of the darkest of my life. I knew I could not do that again.

But would I do it again?

That was the question Scott and I wrestled with for months. We knew our family was not complete. We knew we could not wait forever. I knew what I was in for. I knew baby-growing is not my forte, I knew there would be much sacrifice involved. This time, however, we decided to make some changes and do things my way, our way.

We began on our knees and enlisted the help of the Father and the Master Healer. We were guided in our choices, and we made them together.

It started by deciding that I was never going back to the drill sergeants. I know they are helpful, I know they were doing their job, but if there ever was a set of people I would apply the term "fun-suckers" to, they were it. And don't get me started on the worthless meetings with the nutritionist.

So I started by talking with my diabetes doctor. And instead of waiting until I was pregnant to get things under control, we took control first. I went straight to insulin. I took shots for several months to bring my a1c down before I even came close to taking a pregnancy test. Instead of new, purpley stretch marks, blue and yellow bruises covered my abdomen from shots that hit veins and scar tissue instead of fat.

It hurt, but it was my choice.

The negative pregnancy tests that followed were a shock to me. For those that struggle with infertility, I know that is a terrible thing to say. I couldn't understand why our wait was prolonged. Then I got bronchitis and had to have my chest x-rayed. And I understood, and I kept working on preparing myself for this pregnancy. And I put it back in God's hands.

At the beginning of August, I took another test. I'll admit, I was surprised when this time two pink lines showed up instead of one. I was overjoyed, which was a completely different emotion from my first two pregnancies. Even as the nausea set in and my productivity lessened and I let friendships fade, Scott and I held our secret in our hearts, giggled over it, and smiled and smiled and smiled.

All was not perfect those first few weeks. A few days after I took the test, a family in our neighborhood lost their baby halfway through the pregnancy and a couple of weeks later, one of my best friends found out that her baby, due two days after mine, would be lost to an ectopic pregnancy. I had so been looking forward to having a baby the same age as theirs, and now I wondered, would my little one feel like a constant reminder of what these dear, dear friends had lost? I cried for them, for my child's lost friends. I also wondered if I would lose mine too. Why do some get to keep their treasures and others have to send theirs back to God? It seems a cruel blessing.

So we took things slow.

With our first two pregnancies, we inevitably ended up telling people before we were really ready. So we did things differently this time around. We did not keep this baby a secret, but we do hold this pregnancy sacred, so we waited patiently and gave ourselves time to adjust, telling those we wanted to tell in the order we wanted to tell them, days and weeks in between, not worrying about what people would think or what was socially acceptable. Getting those precious, private moments with loved ones let us really revel in the joy of our expectations and allowed others to strengthen us with that love. 

We told Kevin and Sly in the car on our way up to Logan. The news was a little over their heads. Kevin waited a few weeks before telling her beloved preschool teacher. Nightly she would pray for me to feel better so I didn't have to spend quiet time napping and could spend time with her. Her prayers broke my heart. Eventually she stopped praying for me to give her more time; instead she asked for my comfort and health. It takes a certain amount of maturity for a child to watch their mother be sick day in and day out, give herself shots, coax blood from her fingers before every meal. Though her child-mind may not understand, her wisened spirit has supported me in ways I never expected. And when she went to get her flu shot, she didn't even flinch, because shots are not scary to her. 

Sly ignores the topic of a little brother or sister, though he will admit that he wants a "grirl" and he does point out a baby to me every time he sees one. 

I have gone from dreading doctor's appointments to looking forward to them. My OBGYN, who is the same person that took care of my through Sly's prenatal care and birth, has been nothing but supportive since that first visit at seven weeks when I told her I wanted to avoid the perinatologist office at all costs. She was nervous about that at first, I could tell, but somehow she understood what I could not explain about the stress that those visits caused me. I worked hard with my Diabetes doctor to get my blood sugars in the right ranges. I started being more stringent about what I ate--but not because somebody told me to. Because I wanted to, because it was my choice. Knowing that I can sneak a cookie or a bowl of ice cream here or there has done wonders for my well-being. 

Still, I was anxious about explaining away those two or three high readings on my blood sugar monitor. My doctor looked at my numbers at that 11-week visit and when I started to give my excuses he just laughed and said, "those numbers tell me you are human," and praised me for what I had been able to do right. I'd never gotten a "you should be proud of yourself!" or a "keep up the good work!" during a prenatal appointment before, and all of the sudden I was hearing those very phrases from both of my doctors. I was being told that I didn't need the hellish progesterone shots, that I could do my target ultrasounds at my regular doctor, that whatever I was doing was working so just keep it up. 

With this has brought me the freedom to actually enjoy being pregnant, to anticipate adding a new soul to our family. Pregnancy is still no cake walk, and there are definitely days when I full on hate the routine and the symptoms, but those days are not every day. There are times when the heartburn hits after drinking a glass of cold water and I dread what the next 25 weeks will bring, when I wonder how on earth we are going to manage with all of the other things on our plates right now, and then I remember.

This baby is our choice. 

And we choose joy. 

Motherhood Monologues #24: Breathe in, breathe out

Sometimes I wish someone would give me permission to feel my feelings.

I realize, however, that the only person who can do that is me.

I really struggle with excuses. I don't like them. I don't like to use them. I have an innate desire to be perfect and invincible, though neither of those things is possible. I often get mad at myself because I can't keep up with the pace  at which I would like to live life. My body and my children will not let me. 

I hate not feeling productive. I hate having my husband come home to a house that is messier than he left it two days ago. I hate knowing that I could be, should be, would be more if I would stop being so lazy.

I am learning, however, that there is a fine line between lazy and sick. And although I don't like to admit it, my body is ill and will be for the rest of my life. My handful of livable diseases can create a perfect storm of fatigue.

And some days I can't tell the difference between "I don't want to function today" and "I can't function today." All I know is that in the space between those two thoughts, there is a lot of room for guilt and self-doubt. 

I need to just do the best I can, right?

What happens when I don't know what is my best? 

Sometimes, when I try to get there, I overdo it and spend the next three days paying for my confidence. 

But sometimes, I end up exceeding my expectations. 

So I guess it all boils down to this today: I need to take a breather from berating myself and know that maybe someday I'll figure it out. I give myself permission to do that.

This Day, That Day

Today I bring you an unscheduled break from our regularly scheduled Motherhood Monologue programming. 

I couldn't let this day pass without some kind of an acknowledgement. It's April 25th, you know, which makes it the perfect day: not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket.

But Miss Congeniality is not the reason I celebrate--or at least retain in remembrance--this day.

It's because I survived. 

Not this day today (I'm almost there but I still have a few hours and one awake child to go), but this day seven years ago. 

I remember every detail of that day: waking up, putting on the pink blouse my family had sent for Easter a few weeks before just because I knew my mom would like it, finishing my last minute packing, cleaning out my desk and taking down the taped-up scriptures and Ensign clippings, tracting and teaching for a few hours until it was time to haul my luggage to the Denton Institute, saying goodbye to my companions, watching as they started a lesson without me, and crying silent tears as I ate Sister Perkin's dark chocolate in the back of Brother and Sister Green's car as they drove me to the mission office. I remember the exhaustion, the stress, the loneliness, the anxiety, the guilt, the excitement, the swirling thoughts of "where do I go from here?" and "will I ever come back?"

I remember the Assistants driving me to the airport and them remarking about how well they knew their way around the airport--and thinking, but they've never had to get on that plane, so how much do they really know? I remember finding my gate--and finding my uncle standing underneath the gate sign. He'd heard I was flying home that day, but I think the fact that we ended up on the same flight was more Heavenly Father's doing than Uncle Gary's. And though it was awkward, it did feel nice to have someone familiar nearby.

I remember the plane ride home--the relief that I wasn't seated by my uncle, the nice gentleman that asked me about my tag and my health, the attempt to write in my journal. I remember searching the Utah landscape as the plane touched down just after sunset. I dragged my heels, but my Uncle waited for me anyway, and he and I walked to baggage claim together, where he made a joke to my mom about how he found me first and she said, "Get out of my way, Gary!" and ran toward me, throwing her arms around me as soon as I reached the finish line--the security sign? She held me so tight I couldn't breathe and it was oddly refreshing. 

Behind her stood my father, my little brother, my sister. They were all there to take me home and I wasn't even sure that was home anymore. There were a few awkward jokes, but mostly just an awkward silence.

How do you handle life when it doesn't turn out the way you expected?

You deal. 

I may or may not have cried myself to sleep that night--I don't remember. I do remember the relief on my mother's face, the worry on my brother's, the hug and kiss on the cheek from my father before I fell asleep in a room all by myself for the first time in eight and a half months.

I remember the shelter of being home and how that night, for the first time, I knew I would learn to deal with my disease and get feeling better because I had to--I had to go back. 

I remember all these things, but I forgot about them today, until I went to mark off our scripture reading calendar and realized today's date was April 25th. 

Today today was not a particularly rough, or funny, or memorable day. It consisted of cuddles, laundry, dishes, books, puzzles, PBS shows, a walk around the block (me pushing my baby in his stroller and my daughter pushing her baby in the doll stroller) in between rainstorms, breaking up fights, sending kids to timeout, dinner and family home evening. 

When I fell asleep that night, I was looking toward the future. On this night, I do the same thing, with a nod to the past seven years. How could I have seen then the way my "intermission" would change the course of my life, how I found love during my transfer at home and healing in an almost-forbidden kiss? 

I still bear daily the scars of my disease, the bruises and the extra pounds and the fatigue and the finger pricks and the stress and the worry about the future. I will end my evening tonight as I did seven years ago--with a shot of insulin to my stomach, made harder now because of the strech mark lacework decorating my abdomen. My body is still figuring itself out, and I'm still along for that ride. 

And after I give myself that shot that some how always pinches a little more than I expect it to, I will once again look forward to going back to Texas.

But this time I won't be alone.

 

Diabetes is Not a Death Sentence

“They told me I had to lose 50 lbs,” she said. “That’s the weight of a kindergartener!”

I wasn’t supposed to be hearing this conversation, but the media room at our church is only so big, and there were only three of us in there. I pretended not to listen as I signed the copy sheet, but out of the corner of my eye I watched her body language, impressed at how non-chalantly she talked about this obviously major life change. She was still smiling, still joking around. And then I heard the words that told me I knew more about this conversation than I’d originally thought.

“So, do you have to check your blood? Don’t you just, like, poke your finger?”

She nodded. “Twice a day,” she said with a sigh.

Then, despite any reservations I had about admitting I’d been eavesdropping, I jumped in.

“Diabetes?” I asked.

She nodded and told me she’d just been diagnosed.

I smiled. “Me too,” I admitted. “Almost six years ago now.”

“Really?” I saw her wall crumble. Her façade wasn’t hiding anything major, and she didn’t burst into tears, but what I did see through the cracks was the relief that she wasn’t the only one dealing with this particular challenge. So you know, her look seemed to say.

She made my copies and I asked if I could cut them in half with the paper cutter. “Oh! I didn’t even think about that! I’m losing my mind!”

I laughed and assured her that losing your mind is, in fact, a scientific side effect of unstable blood sugar. “I have a hard time focusing on anything when my blood sugar is out of whack. So if I seem scatter-brained to you, now you know why!”

I told her I had to get back to the children, but I’d be back and we’d talk more. After church I found her in the same place, now joined by her husband. What could I say about Diabetes in the three minutes I had before my three-year-old turned Rambo on me?

I spouted off some of my favorite products (including how to get a 30-piece chocolate chip fix in for only 9 carbohydrates), reassured her that eventually it just becomes part of the routine and you hardly even notice anymore, and added in the usual plea to not judge me by what I eat. (For some reason, people think that if you are diabetic sugar can kill you. Well, yes, it can. But it can also save my life. And my sanity. So don’t judge. Please.)

Now that I’ve had a few days to think about it, this is what I’d wished I’d told her, and it’s the same thing a kind nurse told me nearly seven years ago (I’ve had time to do the math too):

Diabetes is not a death sentence.

Yes, it feels like it at first, when they tell you all the myriad of changes you need to make and it feels like your life has gone spiraling out of control. I remember telling one of my best friends about my diagnosis and her first reaction was, “But…bread and sugar…those are your favorite things!”

But, eventually, reading nutrition labels on everything and counting carbohydrate servings in 15 gram amounts seems as natural as putting your hair in a ponytail. To someone who has never done it before, it feels messy and impossible, but with a little practice, you can whip that mane up into the perfect (or at least passable) messy bun in three seconds. The same with a meal at a restaurant, or figuring out an acceptable portion size, or adjusting to the changes that must be made, simply because your body tells you it must be done.

I remember going out to eat with my mom and a few other relatives two months after my diagnosis. Everyone was ordering pie for dessert. I declined. My mom suggested that it would be okay for me to have some, since I’d only had a salad, but in my panicked head, all I saw was the disintegration of my feet and eyesight. “If no pie now means attending my daughter’s wedding later,” I told her, “then I’ll pass on the pie.”

I didn’t even have a daughter then. Now I do, and the other day, she turned to me in front of her little brother and asked, “Can we have some P-I-E?”

She didn’t know she’d just spelled an actual dessert. She just knows what it means when her parents look at each other over her head and spell out T-R-E-A-T. And she knew she didn’t want to share with her brother, just like I rarely want to share with her.

So we have sugar. And dessert. And I bake cookies with my children, and sometimes my husband and I have brownies at midnight. But, you should also know, there are days when I wake up groggy and the feeling never goes away. Days when my blood sugar levels make me nauseated, but try explaining that to anyone and not having them immediately jump to the conclusion that you are pregnant.

And-oh!- pregnancy.

Sometimes it feels that my life as a diabetic would be completely normal if I weren’t of childbearing age. Some days (most days) I don’t even check my blood sugar. I can tell you what range I’m in based on how I’m feeling, and for the most part I know how to handle my highs and lows. But when I’m pregnant, everything I thought I knew about my disease and my body flies out the window. I can’t put into words exactly how hard diabetic pregnancy is for me, and I won’t waste your time with my complaints of poking every single finger I have in a 48-hour-period, giving myself hundreds of shots, attending more than 50 “routine” doctor appointments in a seven-month stretch…everyone has a woe story when it comes to motherhood. Mine is my diabetes.

But, as I said before, diabetes is not a death sentence.

I still have my babies. I still function and run a household. I have an understanding, thoughtful husband, friends who keep me laughing, and active children that don’t let me slow down too much. Granted, I’m not able to do every single thing I want to do, but then again, what woman has actually ever been able to manage that?

I have diabetes, but it doesn’t have me.

The Palms of His Hands

I went to the doctor yesterday. It was supposed to be for a routine checkup, but since my health has been so terrible lately, both Scott and I knew that this appointment would be a game changer. I didn't want to face it alone, and God blessed me with the kind of husband that made sure I didn't have to. He held my sweaty hand, asked all the fancy pharmaceutical and medical jargon questions, and brought up the concerns we had that I forgot to mention. Also, he saved me from having to take crushed up pig thyroid.

By the end of the appointment, we had a possibility of a new diagnosis and I sat drinking a 37-carb bottle of OJ because the nurse could tell I was looking a little pale and shaky after she drew 6-7 vials of blood (I lost track because I couldn't watch anymore).

When it became apparent that I wasn't going to be able to drive myself home, Scott took me out for a bite to eat. When I was still looking like death after 60+ more carbohydrates, he made an executive decision to work from home for the rest of the day. He went over to work to grab his supplies while I sat in a daze in the car. Then we picked up our children, drove home, and I slowly made my way upstairs and into bed.

Within ten minutes, both Sly and I were asleep. Sly woke up a little while later. I did not. I slept through several Kevin meltdowns, Sly walking and crawling all over the place, a Kevin potty break just down the hall, and all sorts of interruptions that made it impossible for Scott to work. Eventually I started to come out of my coma and I received a text that said, "Kevin is asleep on my lap. Your son is on his way up to see you."

Within seconds, Sly had pushed the door open and his head popped up at the foot of my bed. He started jabbering and cruised his way around so that I could pick him up. I was grateful to have recovered enough to be able to lift him. He gratefully came into my arms, and as I picked him up, I noticed he went quiet.

He turned his head and pointed to the painting of Jesus on my bedroom wall. He looked back at me and said, "Mama. Jesus."

Then, before I had a chance to reply, he looked at me and held out his hands. He touched the pointer finger of one hand to the middle of his other hand's palm, and then repeated the action a couple of times, switching hands.

One chubby little finger to the  exact middle of one tiny little palm.
"Mama. Jesus."
Mama, Jesus will make everything all right.

How did he know? We've certainly never covered the events of the Crucifixion in-depth with our one-year-old. We've talked to him and his sister about the Atonement in Family Home Evening, but somehow that didn't explain his reaction either.

Sometimes, I think, these little ones know so much more than they are able to tell us. But, when we need those messages from Heaven, the veil parts a little bit and with a mere gesture of his hands, I was given the comfort I so desperately needed yesterday.

You can be cured without being healed. You can be healed without being cured.

I have not forgotten thee. I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.

Look unto me in every thought, doubt not, fear not. Behold the wounds which pierced my side, and also the prints of the nails in my hands and feet; be faithful, keep my commandments, and ye shall inherit the kingdom of heaven. Amen.

There are several scriptures where Christ asks us to become like little children. I've always interpreted that to mean innocent and pure and teachable. Perhaps, however, what Christ is really asking is for us to remember what we knew as little children. 

My son knows so much more than I could have ever been able to teach him in a short 13 months. He has taught me more than I could ever fathom in his small lifetime, and I know there is a certain amount of testimony and knowledge that he brought into this world that he can only convey to us in small words and actions.

Like touching the palms of his hands.

art by Simon Dewey

A Day in the Trenches

Yesterday morning, my mom sent me an email asking me to share the day with her by emailing her and "chronicling all the things we do in a day that wouldn't happen if we didn't do them." 

I'm an Aggie, so I've been trained to meet a challenge. This is what I did yesterday.


11:11AM
Woke up and got Scott off to work
Wished a friend happy birthday on Facebook
Checked blood sugar and took medicine
Put a second coat of paint on the chalkboard wall 



Got Sly up
Got us both breakfast
Played with him for a long time
Put him back to bed
Loaded the dishwasher
Wrote a birthday card
Worked on a family project for the Fowlers
Cuddled Kevin after she woke up
Got her breakfast
Tracked down the air pump and blew up the swimming pool
Cleaned up the breakfast spills from while I was outside
Took Kevin to the bathroom
Got her ready to go swim
Got Sly up again


Changed a poopy diaper
Got Sly and I ready to swim
Sunscreen for everyone




12:37PM

Took the kids swimming


Came in
Got everyone dressed
Hung up the wet clothes
Emailed Daddy
Instagrammed the experience and sent new pictures to family frames
Got us all water to re-hydrate
Snack time


Emailed my sister-in-aw back about the family project
Finished eating Kevin's breakfast
Gave Sly more food
Opened the baby gate for Kevin 
Dance party in the kitchen with Sly


1:08PM
Took the kids downstairs
Put up the baby gate and moved the broom so Sly wouldn't eat it
Did an art project with Kevin
Read two books to the kids
Broke up a fight over a basketball
Saved Sly's life half a dozen times
Sent Kevin up to use the bathroom
Put Sly in the jumper so he wouldn't eat anything off the floor while I was upstairs with his sister
Checked on Kevin, who decided she didn't need to go after all



1:40PM
Helped Kevin change her clothes since she didn't like the ones she had picked earlier
Put in a movie for her
Put Sly down for a nap
Sorted laundry
Started laundry
Checked my blood sugar again and made a mental note to call the doctor
Took three loads of junk back downstairs where it belongs
Picked up the family room
Answered a dozen "why?" Questions from Kevin
Swept the family room
Sat down to cuddle with Kevin and watch her movie with her
Checked and responded to emails

2;27PM
Took a 20 min rest
Helped Kevin go potty
Picked up my bathroom
Started picking up the living room
Helped Kevin change into outfit #3
Turned off the movie that she had stopped watching 20 minutes ago
Got a puzzle down for her so I could unload the dishwasher
Told her she couldn't have another snack
Explained that some elephants have tusks and others don't and the fact that cows don't eat people, people eat cows
Fixed her hair clip again
Realized unloading the dishwasher wasn't going to happen and helped her with the alphabet train puzzle

3:03PM
Taught Kevin about "big" letters and "little" letters
Put away the puzzle
Read a story to Kevin
Emailed Scott
Texted two friends
Planned BBQ menu for a friend's  moving party tomorrow
Took Kevin to the potty again
Went in to see why Sly woke up screaming
Gave him cuddles and distracted him by taking selfies on my phone
Caught him before he crawled out of the room
Started playtime in Kevin's room
Moved her garbage out of his reach

3:38 PM
Broke up several fights in the process of playing in Kevin's room
Went downstairs intending to switch the wash
Got distracted pulling the painter's tape off the chalk wall
Listened to both children banshee screaming 
Washed out a bottle and made a new one for Sly
Rescued screaming children
Fed Sly a bottle
Fixed a toy for Kevin

3:55PM
Switched the wash
Folded the load in the dryer and took it upstairs
Rescued library book from Sly's clutches
Told Kevin to go in the bathroom after she told me she pooped in her underwears
Found out that she lied and had a little talk about that
Put away the clean linens and hung up the line dry laundry
Got her a new pair of underwear anyway
Cleaned up the mess of hair stuff from when I asked her to bring me a ponytail holder this morning
Talked to her about choking hazards and little brothers
Pulled Sly out of the kitchen
Fished dried waffle crumbs out of his mouth
Blocked off the kitchen with a barstool
Rescued another library book from Sly

3:57PM
Rescued Sly and discovered the barstool trick doesn't work anymore


4:36PM
Gave a poop pep talk
Saved Sly again
Took Sly "flying" then became a human trampoline
Helped Kevin get dressed again after she decided she didn't want to go potty
Played the piano to try and distract them
Cleaned up Sly's spit up
Played the piano with Sly on my lap
Practiced the piano a a few more minutes and tried to plan Primary sharing time in my head
Broke up a few fights
Worked on Scott's birthday surprises
Breathed a sigh of relief when Scott walked in the door an hour earlier than anticipated


At the end of the day, my mom sent me this email:
" Now you have reinforcements. This has been fun to share the day with you. Have to admit I had ulterior motives. I needed someone to share the day with but most importantly I wanted you to see how full and valuable your days are. I guarantee that no one can do what you do and do it as beautifully as you do it....Your trenches are so much more important than a novel or a clean bathroom. Take it from me. I have navigated the trenches and it is worth it!"

I wanted to have a record of this day and this experience. Friday was a pretty typical day for me: by 2:00 I was tired and by 3:30 I wanted to give my kids away. This record doesn't show the emotional ups and downs. It doesn't reflect how I fell asleep with tears on my face the night before, wondering what the heck I was doing with my life and if I was using my time to do anything worthwhile. Most days I don't feel like much of a mother. For someone who was once used to excelling at everything she did, feeling like I'm floundering on a daily basis is beyond difficult, especially since motherhood is my life these days. There just isn't time or energy for anything else, as much as I wish I could be writing and publishing the stories flying around in my head.

My health has been crazy for the past few weeks. I'm not sure what is going on, if this chronic fatigue can be chalked up to my faulty body or the fact that I have two extremely active children and get literally no breaks during the day (except to use the bathroom maybe once, for thirty seconds, because I fully believe that everyone is entitled to use the bathroom without an audience). In the process of trying to figure out my body and my head and my life, I've come to some realizations.

Although my diabetes is something that gets put on the backburner most days, I can't ignore the fact that it has dictated my life for the past six years, in both good and bad ways. It changed the shape and speed of my mission, it led to my marriage to Scott, changed our family planning to have a baby earlier than what we had planned, defined my motherhood career. I don't have energy for a side job, or the career I once thought I wanted. This is what I am doing with my life these days. And although it is hard to be okay with that, I am beyond grateful that my diabetes took away the option of "something on the side" and led me to making my family my main focus.

I think sometimes, it is hard to see the war--or even the battle--when you are fighting from the trenches. All you see are sandbags. All you feel is sand and grit and exhaustion. Sometimes, you risk peeking your head above the walls to see the horizon and try and place yourself in the grander scheme of things, and inevitably you fail.

That's because it's not your job to plan the battle or singlehandedly win the war. Leave that to the General.

All He asks us to do is man the trenches.

Ready or Not

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would still be pregnant on August 12th. August 1st or 2nd maybe...but certainly not the 12th.

I am counting my blessings.

And my stretch marks, medical payments, bruises, and hours of pregnancy left...

Tomorrow is the big day. When we originally found out that we were due on August 17, I thought it would be so neat if he came on August 13th because that is my "MTC birthday" as my trainer put it. Six years ago tomorrow I entered the MTC and started my Texas mission journey. Tomorrow I begin a whole new kind of mission.

Mothering a little boy.

Six years ago, my mind raced all day and time moved so slowly and yet raced past at the same time. I had dozens of things written on my to do list, but only the very most vital things got done, and most of that happened after nine pm that night. Today has passed much the same way. Tomorrow, everything changes and I have no idea what to expect.

That might sound silly, since I've been at this mothering thing for twenty-nine months now. But everything happened differently then. By the time we reached four days before my due date, I was back into normal clothes, a pro at pumping breastmilk and taking care of my girl, and planning my graduation day and her baby blessing that weekend.

This time around, everything has happened according to schedule. The only real surprise we've had is that nothing surprising has happened. The nursery is done, I actually have a hospital bag packed (I may have to blow the dust off of it, since it has been packed for two months), we have a schedule figured out for people bringing in meals, and there is an actual reality that we may be home--with a baby--by Saturday morning at the latest.

I'm sure this baby will find ways to show us he is still in charge and that childbirth (and parenting) is not something I have complete control over. Case in point, last Thursday. I had back-to-back appointments that afternoon, so I had coerced my parents into taking Kevin for a day (and keeping her another day so that I could have a childless "Day of Rinda" and a last one-on-one date night with Scotty). I began the day tired but hopeful that everything would go smoothly. I ended it by crying myself to sleep.

The appointment with the endocronologist (diabetes doctor) went well. We ran a few errands in between and then headed to the Women's Clinic. The doctor was running on time but they still decided to do the Non Stress Test (NST) before I saw my doctor. Baby boy decided not to cooperate and wouldn't give them satisfactory readings on the NST...he was moving enough to keep us all from being really concerned, but not enough for my doctor to give me the okay. Since she had two patients in labor and one waiting for a C-section, she decided to just send me up to the hospital for a biophysical profile (BPP). I'd had one of these at the perinatologist's office the week before, so I wasn't very concerned.

Somehow, between leaving the clinic and making it to the hospital (less than five minutes drive), the plan had changed without us being told anything. I wasn't given a BPP, but rather admitted and hooked up to monitors for what ended up being a three-hour long NST. And, to make things even more fun: enter extremely painful contractions.

I stayed pretty optimistic through the first hour to an hour and a half or so...and then I looked around and started reviewing the day and the PTSD kicked in. There were so many similarities between this day and the day I went into labor with Kevin: it was a Thursday, I went to the Diabetes doctor, it was supposed to be a routine checkup, the hospital room felt dirty and forgotten, I had been told what was going to happen to me rather than asked permission, Scott didn't know what to do and so he settled in a corner and started watching TV, I hadn't gotten to see my actual doctor...there were too many things the same to count them as coincidences. About the only thing that wasn't the same was the fact that this time I wasn't really in labor (that would have been nice, actually).

It is not a good idea to put an almost-overdue diabetic pregnant woman in a dark room with bad cable and non-functioning air conditioning and no water and make her suffer through both snack time and dinner without any food. It is a recipe for an emotional breakdown and that's just what happened, later on that night when the PTSD really kicked in.

"I can't do that again," I cried to Scott. I can't do childbirth the same way I did it with Kevin. I can't do it alone this time and I can't do it without getting some positive attention from medical professionals (tylenol and ambien don't cut it) and some questions answered and somebody listening to my needs and wants. I felt like the whole time we were at the hospital on Thursday I was just reliving what I'd already been through--and more than anything, I was mad at myself for not demanding things go differently. I knew all he needed was the BPP. I should have made them send me to the ultrasound department instead of letting them admit me. I should have demanded someone get some air flowing and bring me a huge glass of ice water and let me eat a snack. I should have, I should have, I should have...but I didn't. All I did was steal the remote back from Scott so that I didn't have to suffer through contractions and  Seinfeld (I like Seinfeld once in a while, but this was not the right time) and make him get me a cup of water so I didn't die of dehydration and so my contractions wouldn't be as painful.

All evening, I had conversations with God. I was mad at Him. Furious, even. "Why would you do that to me?" I asked. "Why would you make me relive all of that when I'm days away from facing it again?"

I still have no answer. Scott gave me a beautiful blessing that night, but when he didn't say exactly what I wanted to hear ("this is going to be easy"), I shut down and only half-listened (probably not the best idea). I was told that I would get exactly the help I needed--and that should have been enough for me that night, but somehow it wasn't. I was mad, upset, and more than slightly terrified of what it is to come.

In the days since, my heart has softened (even if my cervix hasn't). I have seen many of the promises given in that blessing come to pass. From the smallest things, like multiple texts and phone calls from friends and neighbors making sure I had the help I needed and my aunt being able to take Kevin last-minute during my appointment on Monday, to the biggest things--like baby boy passing his NST at the perinatologist without having to do any extra time (first time he's done that in six weeks!). I was so worried about how I was going to make it through today (because I am exhausted and I have an over-active two-year-old) and make it a happy day for us to remember (it is our last day just the two of us, after all), and Kevin has been perfect. She has played by herself just enough to give me a break, but taken lots of time to let me hold her. AT one point this morning she even suggested we go lay down in my bed and watch a show, like she knew I was going to fall asleep for half an hour and she let me do it!

I am still scared about what is going to happen tomorrow.  I know much of it is out of my control, just as that day almost two and a half years ago was not mine to direct, and just as the day I entered the MTC six years ago was unexpected and long and hard. It worked out then...and even though last Thursday I might have said something different, today I have faith that all things will work out for our good.

I've given you your best chance, baby boy.

Ready or not, the day has come!

You can be both

We sat there on the couch. The apartment was a mess, a physical display of the chaos going on in Katie's life. We were there because she hadn't been to church in who knew how long, and we just happened to find her because there was an investigator we were trying to teach who lived in the same complex.

At first, we were there because she wasn't active, and it was our job to find her, a lost sheep, and bring her back into the fold.

Within a few days, a few visits, we were there because we wanted to be her friends. And, as her friends, we were worried about what she was doing to herself.

Pretty soon, getting her to come to church was the last thing we cared about.

"I ate some soup for lunch," she told us, motioning to the Lipton packet and still half-full bowl of soup on the kitchen table. "But it was too many calories, so I had to stop."

To look at her, you wouldn't know she was so broken because she was so beautiful. She was tall, blonde, and had what seemed to me to be the perfect body. But it wasn't enough, not in her mind anyway. She was killing herself slowly, starving herself on purpose just to get to that ideal weight. Each day she could function less and less. She was two inches taller than me and a good 80 pounds lighter. Every time we went over, we worried about how we would find her. Alive? Conscious? Breathing? This wasn't her first anorexic rodeo. It was getting so bad, in fact, that her mom was demanding that she move home, just so somebody could keep a constant eye on her.

And we were relieved about that, because we had learned to love her.

A week after Katie moved, I finally got brave enough to admit that my body was broken. Something was wrong and had been for two or three months. I knew what was going on, but I didn't want to hear the words. And when the diagnosis officially came, I wasn't surprised. I was angry, hurt, terrified, yes, but not surprised.

We went grocery shopping the next day. Every item I put in the cart was taken out by my companion, who then analyzed the nutrition facts and then put most of it back on the shelf.

"I have to eat something!" I told her, putting my animal crackers back in. I was desperate for food. I craved it. She was taking it away, and it was hard not to be mad about that.

What my companion didn't know, what she couldn't understand, was that my body had been literally starving for weeks. I could eat like a Samoan football player and it didn't matter, I was still hungry. I could drink three gallons of water every day (you think I am joking) and I was still thirsty. It wasn't until a nurse drew it out on paper for me that I understood--the food I was eating was making it into my blood stream, but my dysfunctional pancreas meant that none of the food was getting to where it needed to go. The doors on my cells were locked, and I didn't have enough insulin keys to open them. So even though I had been hoarding food and eating like crazy, it made sense that I was still hungry. My body wasn't really eating at all.
\
Katie and I had more in common than I thought. "How could you hate food?" I wondered when we first met her and learned about her problems. I had been raised in a family with a love of food. Every achievement, every concert and recital and ball game and birthday was followed by a treat of some sort. Every holiday memory smelled like a certain kind of food--homemade pizza at Valentine's Day, Leprechaun cake for St. Patrick's day, and molasses cookies at Christmas. Food was just how we celebrated. How we socialized. How we comforted ourselves and others (funeral potatoes anyone?). Even as a missionary, if we wanted to do something "fun" or "different" it meant trying out a new restaurant, getting a Blizzard at the local Dairy Queen, or making cookies for our mission leaders.

Food was now my enemy.  My body had turned traitor.

The easy thing to do would have been to learn to hate food, and in turn, to hate my body.

Thanks to Katie, however, I had seen what that looked like and I had, from her, gotten a sense of what that felt like. I didn't like it. I didn't want to be in that position.

So I decided that I would take a different approach.

For my whole life up to that point, I felt that something was wrong with my body. I was too tall, too big for my age. I'd even heard my mom call me big-boned, multiple times. My brother said I had man hands and no boy would ever want to hold my hand because they were too big (hence one of the reasons why I wore gloves to my Junior prom). I had been told by numerous beauticians that I had a very round face and certain haircuts just wouldn't look good on me. The eye doctor said that my astigmatism meant that I couldn't get colored contacts, so even to make my eyes equal would take wearing glasses. My list of "what is wrong with me" was extensive, and now I had an old-person disease on top of that.

I had every reason to hate my body.

My diabetes taught me how to love it.

I started to understand that there were many miraculous things that my body could do on the inside, and that changed how I viewed my outside. Even though certain parts of me were broken, other organs picked up the slack to make up for it. A few months and the right medication (and love from my parents, dear friends, and bestest best-friend-not-boyfriend) and my body was suddenly a miracle. I was broken, but I could function normally. I should have had a host of problems, but I was okay. I could see. I could walk. My feet didn't hurt (that bad) even though I walked `10-12 miles a day. My brain still worked, and my talent for remembering names and addresses had never been sharper. And through it all, my smile never changed.

Suddenly it was easier to find the beauty in my appearance instead of focusing on my negative aspects. I started zeroing in on the things I could do instead of just the things I saw in the mirror. I was tall enough to reach anything I wanted. My big bones made me sturdy and strong instead of delicate and flimsy. My hands could write, play the piano, and give comfort (and, contrary to what my brother had always told me, I knew there was at least one boy that wanted to hold them). Even though I had lost half my hair and it was taking on a different texture because my medication was sucking the nutrients out of it, it could suddenly hold a curl for longer than an hour and I could style it much more quickly (I remember a meeting in the bathroom at a mission conference when I overheard a new missionary ask her trainer how I possibly had the time to curl my hair--if she only knew!). My eyesight, which had been constantly blurry before treatment, could suddenly make out objects more than 50 feet away.

Heavenly Father had created a miracle in my body when he gave me diabetes. He taught me to appreciate the good as well as the bad. I learned that I was beautiful to him, even if I was broken. So I no longer obsessed about my weight or my rolls or my complexion. I was a miracle, and I was healthy, and that was the important thing.

When my mission ended and my marriage began, I learned to appreciate what my body could do in new ways. I got pregnant. My body was creating a whole new human being. I  was still broken, and I had never felt sicker in my life, but there was a miracle taking place. Inside me.

And then, suddenly, something went wrong again. I started to swell. My water broke. She came too early. But I recovered, and so did she. And all of the sudden, my body was the main source of nutrients for this little person. I was still broken, but I was doing things I never truly thought I'd be capable of. And although it hurt to know that my disease hurt her, I marvelled at how quickly she healed and became her own person, a person whose body came from mine but wasn't diseased.

This month marks five years since I was diagnosed as a diabetic. The way has been rough and not at all easy. But it also hasn't been the hardest thing I've ever faced in my life. There are good things that have come along because of my diabetes, and I am a better, more peaceful person because of it. I can't say that I feel beautiful all the time or that I don't get frustrated because of the things I can't do or that food is never my enemy. There is a reality to living with this disease, you know.  But somehow that reality becomes easier to take when I focus on what I can do instead of what I can't.

And even though I am NOT one of those women who loves being pregnant (in any way, shape, or form), I can truly say that I have never felt more beautiful--because with each appointment that tells me what can go wrong, I hear that my body is still doing something right. With every prick of my finger, I am aware that if I lived 50 years ago this baby would not make it and neither would I. Every time I have to think about what I am eating, I marvel that my body can digest food at all and that I can still be full. I remember what it felt like to be starving. I might be constantly hungry right now, but I am not starving.

For me, body image isn't about being beautiful and it isn't about being ugly. It isn't about the things that are wrong with me, but focusing on the things that are right. It is about confidence and ability, about flexibility and positivity. I can be broken and I can be beautiful. Those two things don't have to be separate.

I don't know what happened to Katie. I honestly don't know if she is alive or dead. I don't know if she is still fighting with her body or if she has learned to be healed. I am grateful, however, that Heavenly Father let us be friends for three short weeks when I needed her most.

When we sat on her couch and listened to her talk, there were many times I had to hold my tongue to keep from shouting, "But God loves you! No matter what! He created you, and you are beautiful!" Over and over and over again. "God loves you! God loves you! God loves you!"

Maybe He wanted me to repeat those words to her over and over and over again so that a short time later, when I had to repeat them to myself, I would believe that they were true.

God loves you. No matter what. He created you, and you are beautiful!

You are broken, but you are beautiful!

You can be both.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Hi all! I know you are all so surprised  excited to see me blogging today. I'm not really in the mood to write, which means I need to write. So here we go. Here are a few things on my mind tonight.

My 2014 media consumption
The Good: I found a new show! Actually my mother-in-law's missionary bff found me a new show. Lark Rise to Candleford. Nobody does TV like BBC.
The Bad: I have spent wayyyyy too much time watching said show.
The Ugly: I only have once season left. What am I going to watch after it is over?
Exactly. Should probably get up off the couch and work on that.

Pregnancy
The Good: I am expecting! Yay for a baby!
The Bad: This gestational diabetes diet is killing me. I mean, really, being diabetic is torture. I'd forgotten.
The Ugly: You're probably going to hear wayyyy too much about my pregnancy (and my diabetes) between now and August (that's when the baby is supposed to arrive, and all of this extra work and extra appointments and extra co-pays are supposed to make that a reality).
I solemnly promise to not let my hormones take over this blog. They are taking over everything else.

Pinterest
The Good: Pinterest has been a great bonding tool for my little sister and me I love it when I wake up in the morning and she's sent me like 10 funny pins. It brightens my day and I feel like it is a very sisterly thing for us to do.
The Bad: There are LOTS of recipes on pinterest. Most of them have wayyyy too much sugar and wayyy too many carbs for me to try these days.
The Ugly: You know your zofran has kicked in when you can look at Pinterest again without getting nauseated.
Really, I haven't had hardly any morning sickness this time around. But it seems like whenever I do, I like to torture myself by looking at Pinterest. Why do I do that? I don't know. Blame it on Liz.

Reading in 2014
The Good: I've read three books so far...
The Bad: Okay, so I sort of read the first three chapters and the last three chapters of one of those. And I skipped about 40 pages of The Book Thief, which I had already read.
The Ugly: I can't even concentrate long enough to read "I Love You Through and Through" to Kevin.
I need some easy reads to bring my stress level down. Anyone have any suggestions?

Kevin
The Good: She's starting to talk! She says heartwarming things like "thank you" and "miss you" and "call Papa."
The Bad: She is teething and temper-tantruming me to my limit. She has also learned to turn on the light switch from her crib (we see lights flashing in the middle of the night) and has officially reached the "NOOOO! You can't wash my favorite blanket!" stage.
The Ugly: Well, there really is nothing ugly about her. I love her a lot.
I can't believe I have an almost-two year old!

Oreos
The Good: They just invented a cookie dough oreo.
The Bad: Obviously, I can't try them until I am no longer pregnant.
The Ugly: I've already made Scott promise to buy me a package, hide it, and then bring it out after I deliver and let me eat cookies to my heart's content.
Side Note: Kevin was born four days after Oreo celebrated its 100th birthday. We bought four packages on sale from the grocery store. We didn't open them until after she had arrived. I really did eat 1/3 of the package all by myself when they finally discharged me from the hospital. Nothing tasted better.

Football
The Good: An NFL team we actually like is going to the Superbowl!
The Bad: The end of football season is drawing to a close.
The Ugly: That means my mother (who is NOT ugly, didn't you read that post?) is about to hit her post-gridiron depression. Sorry, Mom. Kevin and Scott will join you. And then you'll have time to watch Lark Rise to Candleford!
Also, this just in: the Aggies have at least three players competing in the NFL Combine this year! And Scott went to high school with a player on the Denver Broncos team, so even though we will be rooting for the Seahawks, we will have fun watching out for him (he's the guy that went on Ellen a few days ago and she gave him some funny orange underwear).

Me, in general
The Good: I actually managed to post on a Thursday! And I did some domestic things today! And I've lost two pounds in the last week (I don't really need to lose said pounds, but I am trying to be positive about this whole diet thing) and am back to weighing what I did when I came home from Texas! And I am learning more about myself than I ever thought I would this year, which has been both eye-opening and hard. But still good.
The Bad: I haven't been in a great state of mind/body as of late. But I am working and fighting hard to come out of it and get back on top of things (despite the fact that my husband keeps telling me it isn't my fault that my body is out of control), so I am going to give myself some credit for that. For trying.
The Ugly: See? Pregnancy has already taken over the blog!


Happy Thursday everyone!

To Raise Awareness: It Isn't Funny

November is Diabetes Awareness Month and I'm willing to bet few of my readers knew that (unless, of course, you read my post last week when I mentioned it). Get ready. We are "celebrating" Diabetes Awareness this month at My Thursday Blog. Today I'm going to climb right up on my soapbox and right a social wrong.

Some of you may have seen this eCard floating around social media:



It is often accompanied by captions such as "hilarious. And true, don't try to blame genes for your poor choices."

Are your feelings hurt yet? Because mine sure are.

You know why? Because I have diabetes and heart disease runs in my family, and we also tend to be overweight (though certainly not obese).Some things are a matter of genetics. I have tried to become a runner and I hate running. Just because I don't run doesn't mean I'm not an active person. And this joke not only attacks me, but my family. Like somehow it is my uncle's fault that he got the "running sugars" as a toddler. Like somehow my Grandparents, who survived the Great Depression, World War II, and raising seven kids on a schoolteacher's income, could have changed the course of their family's medical future by...what? Eating differently? OUT OF THEIR GARDEN???

Oh, society. You think you know so much about this disease.

It reminds me of that one friend on facebook who posted, so long ago now I can't even find in on her timeline, about how "funny" she thought it was that a Diabetes magazine had sugar cookies on the front cover. Like, what, I'm not supposed to be able to eat cookies just because I have this incurable disease that is affected by sugar?

That's like telling a little girl with cancer that she can't wear a headband because she doesn't have any hair--oh, that struck a nerve. I know it did. Why? Because the two things you don't mess with in this society are children and cancer. For some reason, it's just not okay to joke about cancer.

But, you see, it is okay to joke about diabetes. Even on television.
Should have known that if my husband and I were going to start watching (and loving) a show from BYUtv, at some point it would make me seething mad and incredibly, emotionally wounded. 

Great, just great. Candyland becomes Diabetesland. Oh, that's funny.
NOT.

And you know what? I'm not even offended because I am a diabetic and therefore supposed to be fat, ugly, and never allowed to eat any sugar, ever. I am offended for all of those children out there who have to wear insulin pumps to school and check their blood sugar while the rest of the class heads out to recess. Those who only get candy when their blood sugar is low and they are feeling confused, nauseous, shaky, and scared. Those whose parents never get to sleep through the night because they always have to wake up at least once to check their child's ketone levels. The kids who don't really have a choice, even if they are terrified of needles. You think one shot a year for the flu is bad? You think it is hard to watch your child get immunized? Try being the one giving your child a shot four to six times daily. Just to keep him or her alive.

Please, think a little next time you go to laugh at their expense.

Some things just aren't funny.