My kind of strange

I'd have to admit that I'm kind of strange. I find myself appearing odd around other people. Sometimes it makes me laugh and other times I feel self-conscious. I always have a reason for what I do but I don't always have an opportunity or the interest to explain. As I have mentioned before, I'm a dumpster diver (i.e., I forage for things people have decided to discard). I don't actually get into dumpsters, although I know people do that. I just keep an eye out for what people put out for collection. When I find something, I either keep it if I can use it, donate it, sell it or freecycle it. Either way, I keep it out of the landfill at least temporarily.

The other day I was taking a walk after my husband came home from work. It was my free time so I breathed in the fresh air, shook off the constant feel of sticky, little fingers grabbing me and walked. It was a nice walk and I enjoyed feeling my blood pumping. At first enjoying the moment was enough but then I spotted something in an alley as I was passing by it. I swear I have a second sense for treasure. I decided to detour back to the alley and explore.

What I found was a crime as far as I am concerned: a children's bed frame in good condition (but it was under a lot of heavy stuff so I couldn't get to it) and a topiary (a metal frame where plants can be trained to grow around it into the shape). It was large and very rustic looking. Ok, so it was covered in fake plants - I knew I could remove that. I could see it's potential and it's value. These things aren't cheap. I estimated it would cost about $50-75 to purchase.

Now, remember, I was out walking alone in the neighborhood. How was I going to get this 5 foot tall, metal thing home? Being the goofball I am, I decided to carry it - several blocks. Here I am in our relatively nice neighborhood which is inhabited by mostly older, comfortable-living, NORMAL people and I'm digging through someone's trash and carrying a large, metal thing around like I do it everyday.

I walked and walked, shifting this large thing from hand to hand because it was getting heavier. I was obviously conscious of the fact that I looked like a goob but what was I going to do? Leave it there? Nope. So, I just tried to go faster and faster. Just as I was about to turn down our street I began to hope that no one was going to see me, or rather, I wouldn't see anyone seeing me. Hoping got me no where. A nice, normal lady was out in her yard talking with her nice, normal male neighbor and they both looked up at me. They appeared a bit puzzled. I know she said something to him with a chuckle but I couldn't quite make out what she said. It was something about "metal" and "walking". Whatever it was was not, "hey, she just saved that great piece from the landfill. Good for her!" No, it was more like, "she's weird and let's make sure we both agree that she's weird so we can reaffirm how normal we are." Ha ha ha.

I admit I'm strange and, frankly, I'm proud of it because being normal these days hasn't gotten us very far. It's normal to throw stuff away without thinking of the consequences. It's normal to buy cheap junk that costs somebody somewhere. It's normal to insulate ourselves from the world in our homes, watching bad tv so we don't have to deal with how depressing life can be when all you do is work and don't have anything to show for it. Normal isn't normal if you look at how people lived for thousands of years before all our great ideas of progress and consumerism came along to create the fake bubble we all seem to be living in these days. We've cut ourselves off from the real beauty of life and replaced it with a plastic, anaerobic, chemical-laden turd - but it sure is nice, isn't it?

So, I'm strange but I'm relatively happy. I buy fewer things than most. I try to buy local foods and products. I garden a small plot at a community garden. I try not to throw things away and reuse what I can. I'm still too normal though no matter how much I try but at least I'm trying.

Ova-achiever

As I watched my oldest coloring his first eggs for Easter, laying the finished ones on a plate, each ova with his or his brothers' name on it, I found myself having a different perspective on what eggs symbolized to me. With three eggs, one for each child, I was reminded of the many, many eggs I had produced for these guys to be here. As I'm sure I've mentioned in the past, my babies were all made possible by in vitro fertilization (IVF).

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure to find out all the sorted details related to IVF, let me quickly explain that the woman is given tons of hormones to increase egg production (rather they cause many eggs to mature since we don't actually produce new ones - we're born with them all). We normally mature one egg per cycle but in IVF you either produce a few, several or many. When they first give you hormones, they make an educated guess as to how much you need in order to make a good amount of eggs (or follicles as they call them). Until they have had a chance to observe their effects on you, you feel a bit like an infertile guinea pig.

My nickname became the ova-achiever (coined by myself, thank you very much, but used by all - husband, physicians, nurses. . . .) I was unusual. Instead of producing 8-10, for example, I produced about 60 - in each ovary. Think about that: a normal ovary matures one per cycle and I had 60. As you can imagine this did affect me a bit. My ovaries literally became the size of grapefruit.

Ouch.

Rather than bore you further with all the medical details, let's just say that I had a lot of eggs. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, we only had a limited number of embryos produced from this due to other fertility issues we had. Over the course of the next few years, we went through four rounds of IVF, producing 3 pregnancies, two of which resulted in my little dudes. It was quite an ordeal that I'm eager to forget. (Obviously, not the good pregnancies or my children.)

Back when I was going through IVF and swollen with eggs, the idea of the little buggers was so completely unappealing. I felt like a chicken who would be disgusted by the thought of eating her own eggs. Yuck! So, as I looked at the three little eggs, each with my sons names on them, I decided that eggs aren't so bad after all and I quite love the little rascals.

Multi-worries

I just realized that not only have I honed my skills at multi-tasking (example: changing one baby's diapers, discussing colors in Spanish with another, and using my foot to keep the other baby from trying to get the just-removed dirty diaper), I've also accomplished multi-worrying. I can manage to worry about a billion things at once. What an amazing skill about which I am so pleased to have accomplished.

My brain spits out worries at an amazing pace, overlapping each other in the strangest ways and splitting off into others. These days I worry about selling the house, moving to SLC, having money, being a good parent, being a good daughter, being a good wife, friend, citizen. I'm also worried about potty training my oldest after talking with his school which is pressuring me and him about it. I'm worried about the economy, politics, food safety, environmental protection, public health. It's amazing how much energy - that I don't have anyway - still manages to get focused on a variety of issues, many of which are out of my control.

So, maybe I should have been a slug. Of course, who knows, they might worry about whether they have enough goo in their bodies to slide across the sidewalk before they dry up. See what a creative worrier I am? I can make a slug's everyday existence seem stressful. Challenge me! I bet I can out worry you.

Anyway, I'm obviously making fun of myself and my tendency to worry. Ultimately, all my worries are in my head. Perhaps if I make fun of them enough they'll go away. Just in case, though, I'll drink this glass of wine.

Complete Garbage

This weekend I went on a rare visit to Bed, Bath and Beyond in order to buy a shower gift for a good friend of mine. Since outings to stores these days are rare I took a few moments to see what new products were being marketed. Being the consumer cynic I am, I found myself laughing at many of the products being sold. Even though I wouldn't buy most of the products even if I had the money, I could at least see why someone might want them. But then a product caught my attention: the Rachel Ray Garbage Bowl - a $15-18 bowl for garbage. Brilliant.

I can understand buying a garbage can or a bowl for cooking but this bowl was being sold to be used as a garbage bowl. For those of you unfamiliar with Rachel Ray's revolutionary (to those who hadn't thought of it on their own) idea of having a bowl out where "trash" such as cores of apples, seeds, etc. can be thrown in order to speed up cooking while encouraging orderliness. Not to brag, but I had already come up with the idea years ago and it never occurred to me that I could make some serious money by telling everyone else about it. Of course, I'm not Rachel Ray so no one would have listened but, seriously, who is so dull as to think they need a specific bowl for trash - much less one that costs $15-18.

As I stood there laughing out loud like a crazy woman, I couldn't help but realize how weird I must be if I think it's ridiculous to buy such a product. Somebody must buy them otherwise they wouldn't have a billion of them sitting out. What planet am I on?

Anyway, I pulled myself away from my thoughts and found a nice, practical gift for my sweet friend that she could actually use for a long time if she wanted to. Later that night, I got out a random bowl from my cabinets and used it for trash and didn't feel the least bit sad that I hadn't bought Rachel Ray's.

Neil the critic

Our three year old has many opinions as most children his age do. We enjoy getting Neil's perspective on all sorts of random things. After a few hours with Neil, we both frequently find ourselves quoting him, often while giggling. In order to share the amusing perspective of our little guy, my husband has started a blog, http://www.neilthecritic.blogspot.com/, to share his funny insights.

Although the blog is mostly about Neil, it also reflects my husband's focus on music, politics, or whatever is on his mind these days. My hubby also has a habit of editing out anything that goes against his idea of what is right (i.e., you won't see Neil discussing how awful Steely Dan is, why Bush is the best president ever or how yummy meat is). Since he can't edit my posts, he can't edit my gently tormenting him.

oh yes i can! - c.

Draw of a straw

I find it interesting how memories can be tied to the oddest things - a certain piece of cloth, a smell in the air, some trigger that takes you back in a way that merely remembering something independent of external stimuli can't emulate. In many cases, the triggers appear randomly without any suggestion that you're about to be reminded of another day and time. You open a drawer, turn a corner or merely look at something differently and synapses fire back to old, dusty memories at the recesses of your brain.

Today, I held my 3 year old and felt the stirrings of old times as I watched him sipping his milk from a cup. I don't know how many times a day I watch him drinking from his cup or, more specifically, with a straw but something about how I was holding him, how tired he looked triggered memories of a time before the twins were born and I was in the hospital.

Not unlike many moms pregnant with twins, my body wanted to go into labor before it was in our babies' best interest. At 30 weeks, I started having regular contractions, had a positive fetal fibronectin and was dilating. My doctor admitted me after a routine check up and I stayed in the hospital for 4 weeks. At the time, Neil was approaching 2 years old.

Although 4 weeks is a long time for an adult to be in the hospital, it was an even longer time for Neil to be away from his mommy (I did see him a few times while I was there) and a long time for me to be away from my son. While enduring the constant monitoring, the isolation, the discomfort and medications that were administered, I focused my energy on getting through the experience with as positive and strong an attitude as I could muster. With the exception of a few incidences where we were very concerned about the welfare of the twins, my strength only dissolved when I thought of my sweet, darling Neil who I missed so much.

While I was in the hospital, I missed our baby shower. All our friends came and had a party without me. My husband even had to leave the party early because of concerns that labor wasn't going to be averted. Thankfully, it did. Also, we were fortunate to have many caring family members and friends there to support us during such a tumultuous time. A day or so later, my mother-in-law brought pictures from the shower.

I enjoyed looking through all the photos, seeing my friends having fun in our house, seeing my family talking with my friends and seeing the children playing together. When I got to one picture, though, of Neil drinking with a straw my heartstrings were strummed. Before I left for the hospital, he wasn't using a straw. Here he was not only using a straw but he looked like he'd been doing it for a while and he looked so grown. I felt so absent from him at that moment, like a parent who has died and can't see, smell and touch their own child. He was out of my grasp and living his life without me and it made me sad. It also made me proud of him though to see him doing something new, to see him turning into a bigger boy. I just wanted to be there too and I couldn't.

Before the twins were born, it was Neil and I. Of course, Chris was part of the whole equation but I spent more time with Neil than anyone and vice verse. I won't pretend that it was always a blast and that he never drove me nuts as kids can do, but we had a solid bond and he was my buddy. It was so emotionally jarring to be removed from him so suddenly and for so long despite knowing how completely necessary it was. It helped that I had two babies moving around in my belly to remind me. As I laid in the bed, I rubbed my huge, swollen, wiggling belly and cried as I held the photo.

Tonight, so many things are different from that night. Neil is older. He's no longer a baby and I see him sip straws all the time. I'm 65 pounds lighter than I was that day (thank God!) and the twins are wiggling in the house now and not in my belly. Times are tough in different ways but not as hard as they were then. I didn't know then how my babies would do once they were born, I didn't know how I was going to parent them and I wondered how different Neil would be when I came home. I'm fortunate that everything worked out and that my babies are safe and warm in their beds. Just as Neil fell asleep with me on the couch within the first few minutes of my return home from the hospital, I feel peace in my heart.

Needy-Wants

We're seemingly over the odd stomach ick that briefly affected our oldest. As far as we can tell, it was a fluke. Now that we're past the hurl-arity, we've come down with a common disease around here - the needy-wants. I think all children get this bug at least once a day but unfortunately it can occur every few minutes.

Symptoms of the needy-wants are persistent neediness for an unknown thing, indecisiveness about what it is they want and a tendency to talk in a whiny tone that can escalate to the pitch of a pig at slaughter. However unpleasant this condition must be for the child, it is very difficult for the primary caregiver or of the individual from whom the child thinks he can get his needy-want satisfied.

Fear not, you are not alone. As sad as it is, there are no definite cures but there are a few things that can help. Ignoring their incessant demands is helpful but is maddeningly ineffective if your child is determined to give you the second hand disease which is utter, total madness. Alternatively, fulfilling each and every wish is tantamount to keeping your child needy-wanting and, again, also leads to utter and total madness. Finally, if you're desperate enough to try this, you may find it helpful to sing the "Needy-Wants" song to the tune of polly wolly doodle all day. Here is how it goes. It will likely be received with giggles and may at least temporarily interrupt the, "I want. . . " and "I need. . ." cycle.

I have the needy-wants
the needy wants
the needy, needy, needy, needy wants.
I want some thing and I need it now.
Needy, needy, needy, needy want.

I don't know what I need and
neither do you but I need it, need it now.
Give it to me really, really soon
or I'm going to have a cow.

The needy wants.
The needy wants.
The needy, needy, needy, needy wants.
I need something and I need it now.
Needy needy needy needy wants.

Of course, if you make the song too funny you can find that you've altered your child's latest want to having the song sung over and over again. So, one should be careful how much of the song you administer to your child since the effects of the song vary per child.

Stomach virus 101

How can one possibly be prepared for a stomach bug? You can't. Not really. There are things that can be helpful though. Here are some things I've learned after previous experiences of 3 puking children and 2 puking parents. We learned these things the hard way and continue to add to our repertoire of barf-flinching strategies. If you have any to suggest, we'd love to hear them!

(By the way, if you're faint of heart, you may need your own barf bag to read this.)

1) You can't ever have enough: clean towels, sheets, and mattress covers. After our last round of barfing babes, my mom came to our rescue when we ran out of clean mattress covers. Like a Red Cross helicopter dropping in emergency supplies, my mom flung 3 brand new covers on our porch as she ran, fleeing, the virus that had knocked all 5 of us down. Thanks to her help then we're better prepared for future rounds of vomit.

2) Trash bag ready for chunky, vomit clothes. Ok, this is gross but I find this helpful. When juggling several kids while at least one is throwing up last night's dinner, you can't always get to the laundry fast. Thankfully, we have a utility room where I can isolate the ick. As experienced moms know, there are various degrees of vomit-soiled linens and clothes - liquid and solid. In order to prevent the chunks from littering the floor and everything it touches, I throw the chunky stuff in a trash bag so that I can then carry it to the trash when I don't have babies dancing around my feet. Of course, I don't throw it away - I just shake it out before I throw it in the wash. The stuff only stained with liquid junk can be thrown in the wash sooner.

3) Finally, it helps to have on reserve those items that send you running to the store such as Pedialyte (or equivalent), crackers, and a bottle of wine for you at the end of the night.

4) Hand sanitizer for cleaning and lotion for all the many cracks your hand will develop from all the ridiculous hand washing you'll be doing.

5) A healthy dose of acceptance of the situation, patience and pats on your back as well as theirs is incredibly helpful too.

Perhaps after this recent round of ralphing I'll have new ideas. Until then, I'm trying to take it one barf at a time.

Signs of a stomach bug

My son asked for water this morning instead of milk. I thought it was odd but then. . . .

After cleaning up vomit and having put the first batch of laundry in the wash, I believe an evil stomach bug has struck.

This is a time for praying, cursing, and ducking. Let's just hope the other boys don't get it.

May not be posting until this storm is over.

Confessions of a Quitter

I'm a quitter. I get inspired by things, I jump in then the newness wears off and I quit. It's a rather undesirable trait, one about which I am not proud. Funny thing is my children are teaching me something - there are some things you can't quit, namely them.

When I think back to my childhood at the first sign that I was a quitter, I remember scenes in a Principal's office where I begrudgingly listened as the dark haired, older man explained in a seemingly condescending manner that quiting cheerleading would only make me a quitter. Since he didn't want to encourage that, he wouldn't let me quit. I showed him. I still showed up for practice and games but I didn't have to cheer because I had a doctor's note. Although I won that battle, I didn't really win because, since then, I have continued to quit things rather than tough them out but, for once, I really have been trumped. I can't quit my kids and I'm supremely thankful for that even though there are times I would love to go running - at least for a few hours of quiet.



When I ponder how I became a quitter, or rather, what flaw in my character predisposed me to quit, I can't pin point the true cause. Perhaps I was spoiled by my good parents? Although I think I was fortunate to have been raised by thoughtful, caring parents, I can't blame them for my predicament because my brother was raised the same way and he is anything but a quitter. As a published writer of short stories and a professor of English, he has done nothing but tirelessly fight for his dream. I wouldn't have the patience to write and attempt to get published just one story or article much less the many, many things that my brother has written and gotten published. So, how I was raised was not the cause of my quitter-ness.



Perhaps a reason for my tendency toward quitting is that I have too many interests and I find it difficult to determine which interests are my soul's calling and which ones are mere curiosities. That in itself isn't enough though. I think that the underlying cause is likely to be laziness, yet another pleasant quality that I find I'm guilty of. Basically, I like things to go smoothly and to be nice. When things get tough, it exhausts my mental faculties and I need to rest which is a nice way of saying be lazy. I can't do too much.



Three babies later, I'm not lazy anymore. Now, although I may throw my hands in the air with the appearance of giving up, I still face struggles head on because my babies are my ultimate responsibility. Of course, I still find myself walking upstream against my tendency toward resisting difficulties when faced with the many challenges a parent faces but my children don't let me quit. I absolutely can't.



Perhaps if I had listened to the principal back in the days when he tried to keep me from quitting, I would never have gone down the quitter's path. The fact is I didn't listen to him. His authority was not strong enough for me to push back my lazy tendencies. Thankfully, the maternal instincts that flow through my blood coupled with the soft cuteness of my boys has trumped my lazy nature and pushed me beyond quitting to embracing life's difficulties as I learn to drink in the beauty of life as a mother even when it's hard as hell.

Play by Play

Neil steals toy from Evan.
Evan cries.
Neil asks me what he did.
Dylan cries for some reason.
Evan comes to find me. Wants held.
Neil tries to hand me a ball.
Evan whines.
Neil wants me to watch him.
Dylan climbs in chair.
Evan whines.
I take a brief break to hold Evan.
Evan wants a tortilla.
"Caterpillar" toy making noise.
Neil throws football.
Evan is in play room now.
Neil is in living room now.
Dylan is in chair playing with caterpillar.
Nothing changes for one minute.
Evan now in living room.
Dylan has Neil's foot ball.
Neil is working on filling his diaper.
Evan wants another tortilla.
Dylan tries to play with Neil.
Neil pushes Dylan.
I intervene.
Dylan wants tortilla.
Neil is playing with new toy.
Neil stole Dylan's tortilla.
Gave Dylan a new tortilla.
Evan wants another one.
and so on.
All this happened in about 4-5 minutes at the most - a fraction of my day made up of an average of 13 working hours (i.e., when they're awake) or 780 minutes.

Clarification

I have to admit that I'm concerned about the ramifications of my writing about my parents on my blog. I don't want to embarrass them in anyway so, in the hopes of alleviating any bad feelings, I decided that it was not only fair but my duty to clarify that I have awesome parents and that I only want a good relationship with them. I'm not trying to be right, to have the upper hand, or to prove how awful they are because they aren't. I'm just struggling with balancing my independence and our need for staying connected. Although I'm unhappy with how things are, they have every right to be feeling what they are. I love them no matter what.

Transitions are often painful but, with being kind and compassionate as a constant goal, we can overcome.

I am truly grateful for my parents and the strong bond that we have. I know we can get through this.

My peace

Our house is clean. The twins are down for their morning nap and Neil is playing a game on the computer. I hear birds chirping in the backyard and spring is drifting in from the newly washed windows. It's peaceful all around and I'm doing my best to be peaceful as well.

I don't like to be unhappy or fearful or angry and I've felt all of these emotions pretty regularly lately. When I find myself feelings such feelings, I eventually reach a point where I've had enough. When in dispute with others, I evaluate and re-evaluate my role in the conflict until I reach the usual conclusion that I can't change how others feel, I have to respect their right to feel what they feel but that I don't have to accept their misunderstandings of me as truth and I have the right to be happy. Ultimately, focusing on compassion toward others and for myself leads me to the peace of mind I need in a time of turmoil. I have reached that point with my parents thanks to some good advice from a friend of mine who said, "forgive your parents for not having the strength to support you right now."

It's amazing how a few words can change one's perspective. It's usually the simplest statement that drives home such a deep understanding. I'm grateful to my friend for, in one sentence, reminding me to be compassionate and understanding toward my parents while accepting the situation as it is.

So, I'm focusing on being forgiving and accepting and it helps me when the angry, fearful and sad emotions drift up to the surface. As was evident this morning after awakening from a dream where I gave birth to a still born, my feelings of loss are too deep for my conscious thoughts to penetrate. Perhaps if I do it long enough, though, these feelings will soothe my soul enough for my dreams to become peaceful as well.

Boundless

The troubled waters are flowing in my family these days. I'm not sure how adept I will be at skirting these rapids and arriving safely at our destination, wherever that may be. I admit that I'm feeling a bit unstable and, honestly, angry at my current situation that, although they were initiated by me, have grown well beyond a mere stream to the grand freaking rapids.

We're planning on moving to Salt Lake City, UT, which sounds simple enough but it involves my leaving my home state, and mostly, my parents. My parents aren't happy about it. Out of respect for my family, I won't delve into the details of their feelings or our many conversations. I do feel that I can express my feelings which are that I wish they could adapt to the idea better than they have. The tenderness I feel for my parents is unwavering yet I sense they don't believe it since I'm leaving, as if our moving is evidence of my loving them less. This is where I have to remind myself that there are things which I can't control and I have to rely on the hope that they'll be able to set aside whatever bitterness is in their hearts and acknowledge that their daughter still loves them deeply and soulfully. Just because we're moving does not mean we can't be close: physical proximity is only a small portion of intimacy - our souls are boundless.

Recently at their request, lines have been drawn in the sand behind which we may lick our wounds. Limitations have been defined and emotions inventoried. Distribution of time and affection are being rerouted in order to preserve . . . something, sanity perhaps? I don't know but I'm concerned. I'm concerned that unnecessarily bad realities are being created and prophecies fulfilled that are driven out of fear, weakness and sadness. Rather than shrinking from a difficult situation, I want to challenge them to be strong and focus on what is truly important. My heart is open and vulnerable and I know I'm not the weaker for it. Strength is not gained by hiding behind walls and barriers - it's gained by facing life straight in the face and not flinching.

So, I sit behind the line in the sand and I turn to my husband and my sons and know that they are my family. I'd like to share them with my parents on the other side but they'll have to realize for themselves that we're worth it. I can only hope that they do.