Are You There, Buddha? It's Me, Phuong.

It’s 1:46am, and I am wide awake.  I am going to chalk this up to the fact that there is a growing human appendage continuously punching my lady-pouch.  Or, it could be the fact that I cannot breath because of the influenza that has dug its Jamberried claws into my nasal passages.  Combined with the calming blue night light and cascading vapors of the humidifier (man, I should Instagram this!), my mind starts to wonder about what really is going on inside my body right now.  

Buddha, you epitomize compassion and mindfulness.  So, I thought you may be able to provide some insight into this whole pregnancy experience in a non-judgey way.  Lorde knows that unsolicited advice comes as freely as bathroom treks for pregnant women (and that I’ll never be royal).  So, I am grateful for your discretion (this is my subtle way of letting those who do not want to read deep, inner-teachings of my pregnant body to opt out right now) and pregnancy truths.  Here are my realities:

Why, oh why, the nausea?  I think this is my 22^nd or 17^th week of pregnancy.  This is my third baby.  So, to be honest, I pretty much lost track since the day I had sex.  Based on previous experiences, I have nausea 24 hours a day between weeks 6-14.  You know what, I am waaaay past that timeline, and this whole living-on-a-boat feeling still exists.  What the hell?  Do you even believe in hell? (I digress).  Come to find out, my prenatal pills may be the cause of this trauma.  How can this be?  I bought them at Whole Foods, and everything from there is good for me because it costs a shit-ton. 

Breasts are Unbralievable!  As someone who essentially had concaving breasts until I had my first child, I am thankful for the small mounds that I now carry upon my chest.  And, the work they did to feed Bennet and Ruby was breasttakingly amazing.  I just wonder how much prep time they need to do their jobs, because these ladies are getting heavy.  The daily task of putting on a bra requires forklifts and shoehorns.  The nightly task of taking off a brassiere could result in getting knocked out by two heavy sacks of mammary glands.  Poor Ruby—she was standing too close, and her large, sweet head was just the right height.  It was a good lesson for Benny, though.

What Effing Glow?  I really did marry the kindest man in the world, and I know I am lucky.  On a regular basis, he will make references to my “glow”.  I really do try my hardest to acknowledge his kind words, because I know he means them with all his heart.  When in reality, I know what he really sees is a thin layer of throw-up that I likely did not clean off well.  Or, it could be the stain of tears (damn hormones and Depeche Mode songs) that has permanently made residence upon my cherubic face.

Dry panties are overrated, right?  During my first pregnancy, the principal at my school made a joke about foregoing bladder control once I had children.  I chuckled because 1) it was inappropriate and awkward and 2) I had a bladder of steel (I was raised on bok choy and fatty pork for goodness sakes).  Alas, I realized how true her words rang when I excitedly went for a run at the gym when Bennet was two months old.  As I rounded out my workout, I naturally pushed up the speed on the treadmill.  As my post-pregnancy ego burst wide pride, my legs were being warmed by the continuous flow of motherly urine.  At the time, I was appalled.  After some very intimate physical therapy, a few pregnancies under my belt and lack of all pride, I am now okay with this new normal.  And, I am just happy this bout of flu has only resulted in 1, 253 sneezes.  Pantyliners should definitely be renamed Partyfinders.

What’s the point of nipples?  Again, I know my body is preparing to feed a child—nipples darken and enlarge so the baby can find the food source.  In theory, it’s a very cool phenomenon.  In real life and real time, my nipples are stoic and crazy erect--mounted on my sovereign breasts much like the Queen’s Guards.  With this new superpower, I could land a plane flying through fog by merely lifting my shirt.  Or, if we were all trapped in a glass building, I could definitely Macgyver us out by cutting the glass with the tips of my bosoms. 

And, why do my girls confuse the word pimples for nipples?  Bennet keeps telling people she does not want pimples (nipples, really!), and people just keep telling her to wash her face. 

Memory Loss & Found You know, Buddha, each pregnancy has become more challenging.  One would think that I would choose to forego this tiresome process.   Of course, we have already discussed the months of nausea, sexy incontinence and battery of bodily changes.  This pregnancy has also included some novelty:  a rash under both armpits, early onset of skin tags and an airplane trip that resulted in me filling up many white bags in front of coworkers (bless their hearts for stealing bags from other passengers).  It’s funny how the mind empties the negative and fills it up with a plethora of reasons to have another little human. 

Buddha, I am not sure my aforementioned sufferings will yield pregnancy-enlightenment.  I do know that based on karma, the law of cause of effect, Jeremy and I are putting some good into this world because we have received so much joy from our Bennet and Ruby.  

(We love how they stand in front of very large, joyful doors.)

(Joy can be found from all angles and in Fort Worth suburbia.)

(Joy can found on the sidewalk and on the streets.)

We are tired as hell, but the wrinkles around our eyes are lined with glee, humor and abounding love.  The wisdom gained and the compassion we have learned to give over the last six years is all we have right now.  Gut tells me this will be enough for our next adventure.

If not, we will still have booby puns, ineffective strategies for escaping a building and George Michael.

All of Me

My little birds,

Mama turns 36 years old today, and I want you to see and know all parts of me.  YaYa has been gone for almost ten years, and I have so many thoughts and questions for her.  I have searched for a close-up picture of just her smiling while she was raising me, and I can't find one.  I want you to have all your serious and silly questions answered. I want you to know the  person that existed before I became a Mama, and I want you to value the parts of me that are outside of parenting, feeding your strong, energetic bodies and folding laundry.  Oodles and oodles of your laundry.

1.  I am a mediocre driver, and I only slightly enjoy it when there is a breakfast taco at the destination.  I am horrid at four-way stops.  In 80% of four-way-instances, I will see fellow drivers throw their hands at me in exasperation or mouth expletives beginning in an "f" and ending with an "-itch" (these are valuable words--remember to use them only in instances that make a big impact and please use them in their correct, grammatical form).  I knew I was a bad driver early on.  I babysat for a family in high school, and on the drive home, Mama ended up in a cornfield.  It was dark and scary, and I remember envisioning a boy named Malakai jumping out with a scythe.  I made it home okay, and I learned an important lesson--cornfields should be avoided at all costs.  FYI:  Years later Daddy and Mama were lost in a corn maze in Wisconsin for three hours.

2.  Mama talks a lot now, but I was a very quiet kid.  As the oldest of three children, I was the first to go to school.  Kindergarten was a scary place, and Mama did not know any English.  So, I did not talk all year.  Two little girls, Sarah P. and Becky C., played with Mama.  They did all the talking.  Most importantly, they made me feel valued.  Remember, I hold kindness in the highest regard, and I learned this lesson first.  So, I started as someone who only knew Vietnamese.  Bennet, this is why I am thrilled you are learning Vietnamese at school.  Your experiences are surely different than mine, but you come from an important story.  And, you are beginning to weave your own story with the thread of our family's meaningful experiences.  This is awesome.

3.  While on the forty acres of the University of Texas, Mama worked hard to keep up my GPA.  I also took the time to make lifelong friends and engage in some ninja-shenanigans.  I was able to secure/steal a child-sized ninja costume from Uncle Nils.  Once darkness settled in for the evening, I would jump out of trees or trashcans to scare friends (this fact may have changed post Mama's ninja-antics).  This was not a smart idea, but it was oh-so-entertaining.  Try to find the fun--even when you feel grumpy.


4.  Mama loved being pregnant-80%of the time.  During weeks 6-14, it was pure, absolute hell.  I would be nauseated 24 hours in the day.  With each pregnancy, horrid symptoms were added.  It was like winning at Plinko on the Price is Right--except I repeatedly  guessed the wrong amount when called up to the stage, threw-up on live television and simultaneously wet myself in my uncomfortable, (classy) whale costume.  I did love feeling your kicks and punches.  It is one of the best feelings in the world, and I was lucky to be your continuous punching bag.

5.  I love, love being your mama.  You may not hear it in my voice or see it on my face, but I love it--I love the crazy, hectic lives we have.  After deciding to tell Daddy I liked him as more than a friend in college, making the choice to have each of you has been the smartest decisions of my life.  You were wanted years before you arrived, and I will bust my rear to see you grow into compassionate, evolving, contributing and content humans.  In the meantime, I will enjoy all of our smallish and big moments.

6.  Here is Mama on her 36th birthday.  I am happy and loved and proud to be yours.

(Photo taken by grumpy, loving, fun Bennet Lien)

My Simple Soundtrack

It would always take a long time for our water to get lukewarm.  So, my childhood mornings were partially spent in our only bathroom.  It was the 80’s--water conservation was not on my radar, and Boy George was my daily soundtrack.  The frigid water ran at full-force while I methodically brushed my crooked teeth.  By the time I was done, the tepid liquid would coat my round face in some form of readiness.  As I stumbled into an awkward trot towards teenagedom, my morning-routine-thoughts would be rampant.  Will I ever fill an A-cup bra?  Will I get in trouble for leaving class and climbing a ladder to the top of the high school?  A woman nursing a hungry man--Steinbeck is a genius.   Over time, the quiet dialogue of the running water became my daily sunrise companion. 

This evening, I stood at the sink to wash the dinner dishes.  The water heated quickly, and I got to work.  My heart warms and slightly aches.   Mom, you did this every evening, and it’s how I picture you most when I think of you.  Our single-wide did have a dishwasher, and it made sense to use it as a drying rack.  Remember?  The window before me overlooked our large backyard, and Jeremy was catching the girls at the base of the slide.   

Pandora was playing my constant singer songwriter station; however, the chortles, happy screams and occasional cries of my silly children jumpstarted my ears and filled my whole body.  Our evening was simple, and we needed it. 

While most use the final notes Auld Lang Syne as the catalyst for yearly aspirations, my annual start typically begins with the advent of school days.  As an educator, this is habit.  Sailors curse, Texans say “pen” for “pin” and teachers become afresh and anew with hot August days and 10 cent folder sales.  Our 2013-2014 was hard.  Our family unit basked in big losses and daily discomfort.  Our positive temperaments (barely) persevered, and we made it okay.  We have our health, the kids are happy and we still find ourselves busting out an occasional dance.  

Tonight, Jeremy grilled some chicken.   The evening prior, I took the time to make some homemade salsa.  Not one to typically enjoy the process of making food, as of late, I exposed another version of myself.  I made Mom’s banana bread last week, and now I made some salsa with a healthy dose of cilantro.  Who am I?  The girls took their place on the window bench, and Jeremy and I salivated at our creations.  

Our tongues awesomely burned with the moderate dose of jalapeños, and our palette happily sang as the sour crème soothed the heat.  The freshly grated Irish cheese took her place atop the tender chicken, and the homespun pico-de-gallo perfectly adorned the meal.  We filled our bellies.  With each bite, my yearly battery refueled.  The meal was perfectly interrupted by the demands of an evening jaunt in the backyard.  My kind Jeremy took them outside, and I gladly stayed inside with my thoughts and cleaning hands. 

On this evening, I let the water run.  Her sundown song brought the same ease and familiarity as her morning musings of long-ago.  I am still working on the Grateful that is still to be found from our last year, and I know that’s okay.  I am looking forward to the new and wonderful that I know awaits us, and I already have what it takes to make it a good year.  They're right in front of me—still chortling, happily screaming and occasionally crying on this lovely evening.

  

Om and Sh*t

I am a minimalist—I opt for paperless car insurance bills (because that’s all they offer), only take the number of napkins needed for one anticipated drink spill per offspring and do yoga poses every other week.  (Some may argue that I am merely stretching my arms.  To those people, I say, I do not put a great deal of mental energy into office-voyeurs.)  On the Consumption Scale, I would like to think that I am hovering way below average.  Just by living in Austin and owning a Subaru, I should have a few points of consumption-cred knocked off my overall score, right?  Recently, I was sitting at our kitchen table drinking my morning coffee.  Since I am of the minimal-sort, I just let my mind be in the moment.  I am the essence of zen (or I may have had nodded off).  My children were yelling about booby cracks (cleavage), and I simply let the screech of their voices go into my ears, accepted their passionate stances, and embraced their inappropriate conversations..   My sitting-śavāsana was interrupted by the various clanking of crap being poured onto the table. 

As I was sitting on my motherly laurels, Jeremy was using the morning time to clean out Ruby’s backpack.  For a human who has only existed in this realm for less than 40 months and weighs a mere 26 pounds, she has surely acquired a heavy load of kid-shit.  Let me present Evidence A: 

Visions of my sweet future-Ruby hoarding all brands of whitening toothpaste flashed before my almond eyes.  I could not bear to see her über-white teeth existing in a small apartment with various collections of doll heads, magical crystals derived from unicorn sweat and jars of Jiffy.  With my final sip of java, my maternal instincts kicked in, and I started to organize.  Zen-no-longer, my left brain kicked in and I grouped the items.  The bloody aftermath of my consolidation skills resulted in several collections.  Now, in my dictionary, a collection is when two or more items with similar characteristics are together.  For example, the other day I locked eyes with the man I married.  Our brood was simultaneously and loudly saying, “We won’t, we won’t back down!”  (Disney channel movie quotes are the devil.)  As we existed in the same space, a collection of tired, middle-aged parents fearing the impending Lord of the Rings-esque revolt occured.  Ruby’s collection entailed the following: 

1.  Buttons:  So boring and round

2.  Wooden blocks with buttons:  So thrilling, round and with angles!

3.  Creepy, little dolls:  Remember Dollhouse Murders?

4.  Writing utensils:  Ruby appears to steal these from various places.  Quick, little hands on that one.

5.  Various coins:  Thank goodness it's real money.  I accidently gave a homeless man Chuck E. Cheese coins last weekend, and he gave me a nasty look.  Bennet looked confused, and Jeremy appeared apalled at my (accidental!) stinginess.

6.  Small rocks:  Ruby loves to collect little rocks and carry them as babies--faceless babies with no limbs who are easily misplaced.

7.  Slinkies:  How does one acquire multiple slinkies in the year 2014?

8..Clothespins:  We use these to keep chips from getting stale not for drying our clothes like good   people do.

And, of course, there were also single items mingling:

1.  Used spoon:  This is so nasty.  Her parents must be unsanitary.

2.  Band-aid remants:    Because I am a parent who cares about open wounds (but not throwing away trash).

3.  Used napkin:  This is disgusting.  Her parents must be unsanitary and need to consider going green by using cloth napkins.

4.  Watch:  Understanding time and the ability to read a watch is overrated.

5.  Bag for magical crystals:  This item is clutch for any parent and wizard.
6.  A note in her lunchbox:  This makes up for not using cloth napkins regularly.

Okay, so I admit I have some work to do.  I am all about purging and simplicity, and I appear to be a walking, yogi hypocrite.  I must do better and teach my children the importance of nothingness.  In the meantime, I will clear my mind of this shit with a good ole tree pose.  Let me present Evidence B with little Ruby Lee: 

Om and om.  

You're Here

Today is like no other day.  My thoughts eventually turn down a path that is paved with small and big moments about you, Mom.  I’m not quite sure where you end, and I start.  It’s a race with no other runners, and I don’t ever win. 

I keep our stories to myself, and my inner-voice is laced with your messages.  I hear your words when Bennet is making another righteous argument, and I keep your messages in my already-packed head.  Every time I see Ruby sleeping, I say quietly to myself, “Love, you look so much like her.”  This is what I have done for so long.  My energy has been given to the lack of your existence in the girls’ lives.  Ironic how draining it is to give much energy to something that is not present on earth.   Let’s be honest—it’s not even about the children.  It’s about me, your eldest daughter, and I know it. 

Something has changed in the last few months.   I have been seeing Julie each week, and she has given me something that I have unknowingly needed this past decade.  She gave me permission to let you be alive in our lives.  I have been selfish, and I have kept you all to myself.  I am good at talking, and yet, I rarely speak your name in their presence.  You were nameless to them up until now.  Mom, they call you Ya-Ya.  It is perfect, and each time their sweet voices say it, my breath stops.  This has brought me much joy.  It also makes my heart ache, but it’s different.  There is hope in this.  There is peace in knowing that you are now alive to them.  It is starting to change, and I am finally beginning to heal. It's time.  

You’re here.  We were eating dinner not so long ago.   “Mama?” said Ruby, “Ya-ya loves the clapping song.  Remember the song?  Miss Alyssa showed us in school.”  She then put her small hands together to clap and scrunched up her round face to recall the tune.   (You always clapped when you sang to Kim, Dan and I.)  Then, she jumped off of the window seat, ran over to our family photos, pointed to your picture, and said so matter-of-factly, “There she is!  There is Ya-Ya!  See, Mama?  See?”

You’re here.  While sitting on the couch one evening, Bennet indignantly said, “Hey!   I am making Ya-Ya a picture.  How do I get it to her?!”  This moment reached into the darkest parts of me and shined the slightest sliver of light.  She came up with a solution, and I have no words for it. 

This morning on the way to school, she asked if you received your picture.  I took it upon myself to let her absolutely know that her artwork for you arrived timely and was well-received.

You’re here.  I told Bennet our favorite story.  I told her about how great-grandma left her husband when grandma was just a little girl.  I told her about how they lived in a mud home in the forest.  Were they lonely, Mama?  Then, I told her about how thieves would try to dig tunnels into the mud house.  She was very upset about this.   The robbers are the s-word!  They are stupid and mean.  I then told her the brilliant plan.  “Bennet, there was a plan.  Great-grandma had lots of different men’s shoes in the house.  So, when they heard digging, she would put a different shoe on each foot.  She would tell grandma to do the same.  Then, they stomped around the house.  And, you know what?  The robbers would hear the shoes and think that big men lived in the house.  So, they would go away!  They left?!  Great-grandma used her brain!  Here is the picture she drew after I told the story.  Mom, do you see me in the picture?  She drew me as an angel.  Mama, that’s you.  You were not born yet.  So, you’re still in heaven, okay?

Then, she went to my bedroom, found two of Jeremy's shoes, put them on, stomped around her room and quietly muttered about silly robbers. 

Mom, you’re finally here.  I've missed you.  

My Pride (and Prejudice)

The day I found out I was having a daughter, I cried.  What the hell am I supposed to do with a girl? I prefered jeans, never owned a Barbie, flirted as well as a bucket of fried chicken and occasionally (or daily) smelled my armpits.  With every cell in my body, I could not bear the thought of having my first child be a girl.  I was my mother’s first daughter, and our relationship was passionate in the best and worst of ways.  History, I felt, was repeating itself, and I was not emotionally and physically prepared.  Then, I decided that my daughter would be resilient, smart, autonomous and ooze gumption.  Ann Richards, the badass, would be a dim light next to my kid.  On a Tuesday, at exactly 11:00 pm, the world granted my wish.  Bennet, named after the loving and self-assured Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, has rocked my world since that April day.  I am  a woman wizard--I willed my kid’s personality.

She is the most complex, passionate and prideful (other than my mother) human I know.  I do not yell, and I stumble upon some beast version of myself that is roaring words at her face.  Working with children feels natural to me, and she makes me work so damn hard.  I naturally labored for 10 hours on Pictocin (similar to being repeatedly punched by warlocks falling from the sky) with her, and every interaction since then has remained the same—honest, from-the-gut, passionate and effortful.  She can bring me my highest highs, and she has shown me the lowest of valleys as a mother.  And you know what, I cannot contain my excitement for the woman she will one day become. 

I cannot wait for the day you let go of you pride to see your full, wonderful and bountiful worth.

I cannot wait for the day you show your true dancing, loving, emotional self without abashment.  

I cannot wait for the moment you realize how much the world needs you.

Sweet dear, you are my Amazing.  Today, I want to thank you for your wisdom.  You have taught me much.

Don’t put up with people’s shit  Since day one, some may say that Bennet is fickled when it comes to letting people in.  What I have come to realize is that she is open and honest with those who approach her without an ego.  If you try too hard, it ain’t happening.  Use lies?  She’ll see through it.  Try to coax her with lack of sincerity, she’ll just walk away.  However, be truthful, be kind and give her your time, and you have sealed a friendship for all days.  She does not have time for anything less than uber-meaningful.  This, folks, is life-efficiency at its best.  Give time to those who matter most. 

Find another way  At the age of one, Bennet wanted a cookie.  So, I gave her one.  “Mama, more cookie.”  On this day, I was not willing to agree to her conditions.  “No, Bennet.”  My father then came to the table, and Bennet quickly said, “A cookie for Popeye.”  She reached for another cookie and placed it in front of him.  As he was about to grab the treat, she simply said, “Popeye share,” and looked at him straight in the eyes.  My dad was so tickled by her selfish and brilliant antics that he gave her the whole damn thing.  She got her way, and she used her brain. 

(Really) Listen to music  Bennet loves, loves, loves music.  She can differentiate between all of the singer-songwriters.  “Mama, Passenger, Ed Sheeran and Ben Howard sound a lot alike.”  When a beat is dropped, sheesh, you best get out of the way.  Her body will start to shake, convulse and move with as much force and energy as the Beastie Boys (one of her faves).  At 13 months, Bennet would start to tear up and cry if we played a ballad.  Whether it was a slow lullaby or a perfect classical piece, her whole body would respond.  She takes the time (and heart) to find beauty in one of life’s greatest pleasures.  Music is good for the soul, and she lives this daily.

Love and love and love  She has so much love to give.  She thinks about the homeless, dogs who are lost and those who love her most.  Recently, I told Bennet about my miscarriage.  She is a baby whisperer.  She wears a real Bjorn around the house and in public.  Her favorite smell is baby (and books).  She carries her babies in a real infant car seat (this makes us look like lazy parents) and puts it in the trunk of the Subaru (this makes us look like criminals).

After several days of Mama crying and  being sad, I knew it was time to bring her in.  After watching Up, Bennet knew that sometimes babies don’t live here on earth.  She has asked a lot of questions, and we have answered them all.   I took a slow breath and told her my story.

Bennet:  Mama, your baby is in heaven?

Me:  Yes.

Bennet:  How big was the baby?

Me:  She was small, love.

Bennet:  That’s why you’re sad? Because she's not here?

Me.  Yes.

Bennet:  I love you. 

She proceeded to give me a hug and subsequent hugs over the next several days.  For some reason, her hugs consoled me the most.  She could sense when I needed one, and simply gave what she could at that very moment—her awesome and honest compassion. 

Be comfortable with YOU For the last several months, Bennet has become Simon.  She cut her hair, buys clothes from the boys’ section and spends her time correcting those who call her by the wrong pronoun.  While there are moments when she wants to be Bennet, Simon is the one typically hanging out at abode la Palafox.  I know I did not find this kind of self-honesty until I was in my twenties (same time I discovered brie —another life gift).  He has already stumbled upon this self-comfort and makes no excuses for it.  This blows my mind.

And, you know what, history is repeating itself.  This relationship is my most passionate.  We will both be better for it.  I just know it.

Personal Purgatory: My Natural (Miscarriage) Birth Story

I just want to tell my sad story.  For the last week, this one act is my consistent comfort.   If not for social graces, appropriate conversational topics and my (typical) positivity, I would likely be shouting my horror for all to hear.  I don’t want to hear about your party plans.  I want to talk about how I labored over the course of two days.  I don’t want to hear about how other miscarriages were much harder.  I want to talk about the passing and birth of my third child.  I don’t want to see the sunshine.  I want to hold the darkness that has swallowed me.  

Part of me wants validation that I worked hard. 

Part of me wants to let people know that something really shitty happened to me. 

Part of me wants others to free me of life’s daily obligations.

Part of me wants to share my story without any shame and blame.

Part of me wants to help those who have walked/will walk the same path.

Part of me wants to think or talk of nothing else. 

All of me wants to have my pregnancy and my baby.

We found out on a Tuesday that there was no heartbeat.  As if my body was just waiting for me to know the truth, that very evening the spotting began.  For the next five days, I was in my own personal purgatory.  The doctor said it would just be like my two previous labors—contractions, breathing, clenched fists, the whole shebang.  Now, waiting for a baby to come is hard.  Anticipating a labor and delivery for a baby who did not make it on our earth is messed up.

On Monday morning, I woke up to go to work.  As I was drying my hair, the familiar tightening I felt during the births of my girls came.  It was starting, and I was grateful for it.   From experience, I knew there was much work ahead.  So, I went back to sleep while my body could still rest.  The contractions never came back.  Jeremy went to work, the girls went to school and I rested that day.  When it was time to pick up the girls, I went.  I picked them up, we got in the van and the contractions started again.  Maybe it was a fluke?  The next two rounds of contractions, twenty minutes apart, confirmed my reality.  I let Jeremy know.  So, with the girls by my side, we got to work.  The strange thing about contractions is that they build over time and they are intense.  You instinctively want to curl into a ball in a dark room.  Instinct, in this case, is wrong.  Grateful for my experience, I knew to keep moving and breathing.  We went on a long walk.  As the girls chatted, I would walk.  “Girls, Mama needs to stop.  Can you find me the biggest leaf?”  As they bantered about who had the largest piece of foliage, I would breath, breath, breath.  The contractions were now ten minutes apart, and I needed to get to a bathroom.  As we walked up the driveway, Jeremy came home.  I waddled as quickly as I could to the restroom.  For the next four hours, the contractions, bleeding and passing of clots continued.  I kept walking around in my bedroom, swayed my hips as I breathed through the tightening and let me body rid itself of something no longer viable.  At 9:30, as I was reading a story to Bennet, I had four contractions, one-minute apart, and then it all stopped.  Nothing.  It was over.  Or so I believed.  

I went to work the next morning, and I was sent home.  The crying did not stop.   The physical part was over; however, the emotional counterpart  was starting her crescendo.  Again, I spent the day resting.  Again, I picked up the girls.  Again, the contractions started again.  This time, Lady Contraction quickly escalated to being five minutes apart.  Again, I let Jeremy know.  He was in South Austin.  I took the girls outside to play and kept moving by watering the lemongrass plants.  After an hour, the contractions were right now top of each other.  Jeremy was still 15 minutes way.  Completely fucked.  “Girls, Mama’s tummy does not feel good.  You girls can watch a movie on the ipad on my bed.  I will be in the bathroom.”  The elation shown on their faces did give me slight comfort as I thought about what was about to happen.  The second the girls settled onto our bed, I went to the bathroom, sat down and felt something large pass.  I looked, and I saw the sack that harbored my baby.  There she was.  This time, there was no birthing music playing.  There was no husband comforting me.  There was no joy.  Much like my other births, however, I was on complete autopilot.  There was no thinking taking place.  I washed her off, walked to the kitchen, reached over my dad to retrieve the prettiest bowl I could find and placed her inside with utmost care.   I felt like this was the least I could do for bringing her into this earth in a tiled bathroom with a window that opened up to a world with those who were laughing, cutting the grass and buying purses.  

Our baby girl was buried in our garden by a jasmine, my mom's favorite plant.  Jeremy, Bennet, Ruby and I said our "see you later."  Bennet, my wonderful Bennet, said, "I hope you come back (she feels that all babies who go to heaven come back to earth somehow), and I hope you feel better."  It was perfect.  Ruby, the lover of all small, tiny things, said, "I will find you the smallest piece of dirt."  After finding the perfect speck of earth to put over the box, she said, "Thank you."  Jeremy quietly spoke his words, and I could find no words.  The same hands used to wash the blood from her quietly and gently filled the hole.  

Bennet and Ruby’s birth story is written down in beautifully decorated journals filled with sonograms and well-wishes from family and friends.  This story will only exist here.  This story does not bear less worth.  It does not make a smaller imprint on my heart and my memory.  

This story holds no optimism.

This story empowers anguish. 

This story needs prayers.

This story needs love.

This story is whole-heartedly mine.

Tips for Those Who Have Procreated

I am a mother.  It happened on a humid evening in New Orleans after a few beignets.  Little did I know that 10 months later, I would be parenting a female offspring.  And, truth be told, on days when my memory is shot, I have two little people now saying, "Mama? Mama!  MAMA!," as every third word from their language repertoire to remind me that I am, in fact, responsible for these strange and loving little people.

Lately, I have been thinking about the language used to describe parents.  I read posts and social media ooblyjunk about the state of parenting.  It's all about how to be an involved parent, how to not be a helicopter parent and how to consciously ignore your children's needs in order to listen to Coldplay.  

I get it.  It is all well-intentioned; however, at times, I feel we give too much language to this whole procreation aftermath business.  I would bet my entire collection of Laura Ingells Wilder books that my mother never thought about whether her actions were in the "bad" or "stellar" parenting groups. So, unless you intentionally hurt your children or make them drink bitter melon shakes, I will not judge your choices. 

So, since I have told you to not listen to other people's parenting advice AND all parents are hypocrites, here's my three cents on this business of little humans.  Here's all I have to give as a multiple-time procreator:

1.  Park by the cart return.  It makes the end of a grocery jaunt more bearable.  You make it back to the car before calamity ensues.  And, buckle the kid in before leaving the vehicle.  Be smart, parents.  Unless harnessed into something, they will MOVE.

2.  When going on trips, put your stuff in your children's suitcases.  Then, teach them responsibility by carrying their own stuff.  This is a win-win for everyone.  Just happens that their win is much heavier.

3.  Play with your children.  Specifically, play hide-and-seek.  This game teaches life skills, folks.  

  

• Teaches counting skills.  Is there really a reason to count past 20 in real life?
• Teaches patience.  In a world of I-need-it-now!, it's important to give them delayed gratification.         To really give them an opportunity to delve into this skill, I typically hide in a really obscure place (with pillows and blankets).  It takes them a bit o' time to find me, and I get a power nap in.  Again, we all win, and, by win, I mean well-rested.

4.  Throw efficiency and planning out the window.  The best thing I learned about post-procreation is letting go of your own agenda.  Without expectations, we are all much happier.  Case in point -- I always thought I was the kind of mother that would listen to a doctor's directives concerning my children's health.  So, Ruby had a stomach virus.  Doc said it was likely a virus.  But, just in case, she wanted me to collect 9 stool samples to make sure it was not giardia.  I thought giardia was a sexually transmitted disease (I was confusing this with gonorrhea).  So, I begrudgingly collected 5 samples (more than 50%!) because I am a mother, and striving for mediocracy is okay. What does planning and efficiency have to do with this?  I did all the work, put the shit in the fridge and was so involved in parenting that I missed the deadline for the excrement to be considered good-excrement.  It was expired shit. So, now, I have a fridge of spoiled poo.  Nasty, ineffecient and poorly planned.  And, I am okay with (sh)it.

5.  Play music.  We listen to music constantly.  The girls can differentiate between all the male singer-songwriters:  Ed Sheeran, Chris Martin, Aloe Blaac.    When we play it, we play it loud and we sing along.  The other day, as I was driving the girls home, we were blasting an awesome song with a pump-your-fist-in-the-air beat.  "All the commotion!  The kiddie (this is so good!  this song even references children!!!)  likes play.  Has people talking.  Talking.  You.  Your sex is on fire!"  So, okay.  Parents should sort-of sensor music, eh?  Don't get me wrong.  I am all about talking to children about the birds and the bees.  I was just really hungry, and it was not the time for Mama to delve into a lesson about fiery sex.  Lesson learned, people.  

That's it.

Miscarriage Mayhem

Growing up, I always felt out of place.  I was nervous when I was among a group of girls.  I did not know how to talk about make-up and boys.  Gossip made my heart ache.  And, not until I had children, did I ever really feel like my body represented the XX in my genetic makeup.  Somewhere along the way, I found other females who liked books, silliness and hip-hop.  Then, I found assertive women who made no apologies for their actions.  These are the same women who showed me that compassion, gentleness and kindness go hand-in-hand with strength and intelligence.  Alongside these women, I found comfort and solace.  I learned to speak honestly, and I learned to speak humanly (to always use words that comfort the heart and confirm daily effort). 

Today, I am thinking about a word that is only whispered by (amazing, passionate, gifted, vulnerable) women—miscarriage.  For the last several weeks, this word started as a brief thought for me.  Then, it became a reality when the sonogram showed lack of a heartbeat.  For the last week, this word has brought depths of anxiety and sadness that I have never known.  And, for the last few days, this word meant hours of labor and work. 

As I take one step forward (and three steps back), I keep thinking of the number of women who have shared their experiences with me.

I had three before I ever had my first child.

I had two.  It was awful.

Me, too.

I am so sorry.  It happened to me.  

Me, too.

Me, too.

According to my doctor, it happens 35% of the time in pregnancies.  I have been reading and reading and reading, and some say it is 50%.  Others state it’s about 20%.  None of this matters for the women and men who fall into this horrid, dark cavern.  The truth is that it happens often, and we are left to mourn by ourselves.  At dinner each night, I will ask my girls, “What made you laugh today?”  I will also ask, “Did you feel lonely today?”  If someone would ask me this question, based on what has happened in the last several days, my answer will always, always be, “Yes.”  The words used to describe this event, “I had a miscarriage," does not, in any way, convey the feelings and thoughts I have.  To me, it will always be, “I lost my baby.  She did not make it, and I am so, so sad.”  I have been through loss before, and this death feels the exact same.  However, I have nothing to show for it.  My belly looks like I ate two, too-many breakfast tacos.  My newly purchased maternity dresses are still draped across my chair.  I did not have the opportunity to make memories with my child outside of my body. My reality was completely discounted by a black-and-white photo of what looked like a black hole.

What has brought me much comfort is the stories of friends.  They shared the horrible, physical events that transpired.  More importantly, they validated the forever emotional journey that has been placed before me.  They unknowingly consoled me when I could not stop crying entire days that were sandwiched in between productive, hopeful (and healing) work days. 

It has been strange and validating. 

It has been draining and empowering.

It has been lonely and loving. 

It has been brutal and healing.

This is my personal journey.  It is a private journey that is my own, and I have opened my heart to let those who understand help me heal.  I need the support, and I am grateful for it.  Though I wish this path for no one, I want to tell other women and men, “I understand, and I am right here with you.”  To my earth angels, I want to tell you, "Thank you for sharing your pain and your love.  I am forever indebted."  To my husband, I want to say again and again, "Your love knows no end.  You are enough.  Giving and Needing will ebb and flow, and we will walk through this hand-in-hand."

Much Too Bright

It is a Wednesday morning, and I am sitting in bed.  The small lamp across the room and the morning’s subtle light is cautiously holding in the all the darkness within the space.  My maternity yoga pants are made for my bloated belly, and I feel tinges of nausea.  I ate a banana because an empty stomach surely results in queasiness.   The sweetness on my tongue a few minutes before is now starting to sour.  My eyes are poor gatekeepers for the continuous tears.

I am waiting.  I am waiting for my body to realize that there is nothing growing in my body.  Nature creates such beauty and awe, doesn’t she?  Nature also finds cruel, but significant methods to keep us safe—and sad.    “It will be about the size of a grape,” the doctor told us.  “It will feel like labor.”  Except this laboring will not bring elation, cooing and that most perfect smell of a new human.  I am good at laboring.  I have done it twice before, and, truth be told, I miss it.  It is hard work, and I relish in meaningful, hard work.  Anything worthwhile takes great effort, and I am stumbling as I work hard for the loss of a grand, wonderful love that would have been in my arms later this year.  

I am grateful, too.  My brain knows to be grateful for the two little girls sitting next to me in bed this morning.  “Mama, why you have band-aids on your arms?  Mama doesn’t feel good.”  I am grateful for the man who quickly pulled the girls off of me when he saw my sad eyes.  This is the same man who is also mourning and must set aside his needs to be my strong, my comfort and my hope.  It is a fine balance, and he does it so well.  My brain feels entitled.  How dare I ask for another healthy pregnancy when I have already been given so much?  Many have been through much, much more, and I know all of this.  Still, my breaths are short, my heart is devastated and I am broken. 

I decided to take a shower.  The water will wash away the stiffness on my face, and the warmth, I know, always brings solace.  As I walked into the bathroom, the light from the window shone much too brightly.  My eyes squinted to shield from its taunting rays and cockiness.  I stood there to take it all in.  The Ache, the Gratitude, the Expectation will only exist together like this on this May morning.  There will be more joyful days, I know.  Silly moments are eager to resurface.  I appreciate all moments of my journey.  For now, I think, I will give myself kindness and rest.   

And, for a brief moment, I smiled and cried thinking that Mom is now with our angel-dear.