Letters to My Girls

Why You Want Toys (and I Won't Buy Them)

Darling Daughters:

You girls have already become addicts to advertising.  Yes, I let you watch TV a little bit each day and I know you'll be in years of therapy because of it.  For the most part, I let you watch what you want unless or until I see gratuitous violence or content that I think is beyond your years.  Lately, I'm more inclined to put on a video rather than let you watch the tube, but there are those days when you want to see some new Scooby Doo or Dora, and therefore, you are exposed to the wonderful world of TV Advertising. 

To make matters worse, I get a few catalogs in the mail just about every day, and you girls love to hang out on the black couch in the living room, poring over the glossy pages and commenting on the toys, books, and pretty things you'd like to have for yourselves.  Sophie- as young as you are, you've figured out how to justify any purchase, a skill that, while annoying at the moment, will come in handy someday!  Izz - you're more particular, but you want things that are well beyond your years.

The thing I find so interesting is that the ad exec's have figured out how to draw you in already.  You girls love to see commercials and ads because they make you believe your life is incomplete without the thing being hawked in the ad.  I get that.  Me too, sometimes. 

A few months ago, I finally broke down and bought you guys these ridiculous waxed strings  that were advertised to be the next best thing to crayons.  You're supposed to sculpture the strings by coiling and bending them into literally unlimited small creatures, food items, pasties, vacation homes, and alternative fuel vehicles.  OK - I didn't buy those claims, knowing that you girls were unlikely to build anything particularly useful, but I admit to believing they might just be "hours of fun!" 

The thing that really annoys me is that, as an adult, I should know better than to believe that anything that sticks to itself well enough to sculpture and hold it's shape is not likely to be "mess free."  I'm irked that I read and re-read the package about ten times, looking at that phrase "mess free" over and over again, and still bought the item after you begged me incessantly for months and I was out of ideas for keeping you occupied. 

We brought them home, unsealed the package, and I started to separate the waxed strings from the cellophane.  Low and behold...the wax not only left an icky, slimy mess on my hands, but by the end of the play session, you not only failed to build the Taj Mahal, but there was icky, slimy stuff all over my kitchen counter tops, your hands, faces, and clothing.  Furthermore, the smell was awful. 

Now, being the normal children you are, you didn't care about the mess or the smell.  You were, however, disappointed that your artistic efforts resulted in tangled masses of odd-colored spaghetti and meatballs instead of perfectly executed, color-appropriate couture fashion.  (Yo - Project Runway - I feel a challenge coming on!) 

It was me who, packing up the remainder of waxed string to "donate" to an unsuspecting charity, was chagrined at the fact that the company claimed it to be a no-mess toy that turned out to be, well, messy.  They didn't completely disappoint me, though, since I thought the "mess" would be crumbled wax all over my floor, and that did not happen.  No - it was the sticky ick that turned out to be the messy stuff. 

OK- changing gears for a minute.  The government went after the makers of Pom pomegranite juice this week, for claiming health benefits from their product that have no scientific proof.  There will always be the "it" items that may or may not work, depending upon your chemistry and the company's desire to sell it's product.  Many of them don't do what they are advertised to do.  Some will.  But, why is the government spending thousands of our tax dollars going after a product that won't likely ruin our lives, rather than investment companies, tobacco manufacturers, drug companies, and their own failed programs?  Really - isn't that sort of a waste?

Yes, I have a point.  Let me get to it now. 

Your desires can sometimes supersede your common sense.  But, common sense is not only instinct, but also intelligence based upon history and knowledge.  The "knowledge" I'd like you to start with is this:

-  All ads are meant to get you to buy something.  I don't care how sincere the pitch, or what the product claims to do.  Just because something is shiny and new doesn't mean it works. 

-  Claims are just that, claims. 

-  The people in ads or infomercials are always, always paid.  Those folks may, in fact, benefit from the product, but you have no way of knowing, so ignore that advice and look for other types of evidence.

-  When you choose to purchase something, do it because you have the disposable cash, and because the product may enrich your life.  Know what your budget is.  Take advice from friends and family.  Do the research. 

-  Keep mental track of what you buy that doesn't work, and stop supporting those companies with your dollars.  There are certain mascara manufacturers that I won't buy from anymore because they re-package their products every year and make new claims about how luscious your lashes will be, while showing you computer-enhanced images of false lashes that grow magically before your eyes instead of showing you real lashes with real results. 

-  If an ad claim seems so good you can't resist it, try to resist it. 

-  Know that you are fallible.  Ads are meant to appeal to your innermost desires, and ad companies do a stellar job at it.  Even with the best education and  brain smarts, you will make purchasing mistakes.  Just try not to repeat yourselves.  

So, I'm sorry I won't be buying the sand that never gets wet, or the clay that stays fresh for decades.  I might purchase a doll or two, but not the really expensive one that talks in a cute voice, sings, poops, and really does love you.   I won't lay money down for any ride-on toy that has an accelerator.  I won't buy the deluxe makeup set and hair salon so you can start your own business and be an entreprenuer by the time you're 8.  I will not buy any moresets guaranteed to teach you how to read by the time you're out of diapers, or to have you speaking Mandarin before you can say "Mommy."   I will not believe any ad that says a battery operated machine can make an authentic French croissant, cotton candy, or real snow cones that don't taste like stale freezer air.   I will turn a blind eye to anything that is both a pet, a pillow, a sleep sack, and also doubles as an easy-fold, multi-room tent.  And, I'm cancelling the movie club right after I fulfill the purchase requirement. 

By the way, Izz - I think it's very clever that you told the high-pressure hermit-crab seller that you wanted to purchase a few to take home and eat.  That's really the only good reason to bring a live crab into the house. 

Your loving, over-protective, and really mean Mommy

Naomi's Story: Infertility, Loss & Love

When I asked my friend, Naomi, to be my first guest blogger, and knowing what a devoted mother she is, I knew she would have stories to tell.  I've read this one now a half-dozen times, and I still feel a little piece of me fall away each time the message hits me.  This story poses those "why?" questions we so often never find answers to, and end up carrying with us throughout our lives, the possible answers (if there are answers) changing as we grow and become wiser. 

Sit down with a box of tissues, and read about what this brave mommy had to endure. 

My admiration and thanks to you, Naomi, for sharing your story.     

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As a child, I always envisioned myself as a mother.  I would get married and have 2 or 3 kids.  They would be little stair steps like my sisters and I.  They would grow up fighting over crazy little things and be there to comfort each other when the little kid down the block was being mean.  Never once in my childhood fantasy world did I see struggling with infertility.  Growing up I never heard about anyone not being able to have a baby or having a baby that was stillborn.  I never considered the possibility.

My husband and I got married in June of 1993.  In October of that same year we bought our first  house.  In November I was pregnant with our first child.  Everything was going according to plan.  I worked full time during the pregnancy and never had an issue.  Jordan was born August 12, 1994.  He was 8 pounds 5 ounces and completely perfect.  I was 23 when he was born.  I enjoyed every stage and every accomplishment.  Jordan started walking around 10 months old.  He would hold onto furniture and eventually started racing around on his own little feet.  When he was 17 months old he stopped being able to walk.  His balance was gone.  He would stand up and just fall over.  We took him to our pediatrician and he thought it was something viral but wanted to do an MRI of Jordan's brain to make sure.  We went to Children's hospital and had an MRI.  Our worst fears came true as the doctor told us Jordan had a brain tumor.  It was on his cerebellum and that was causing his balance issues.  Jordan immediately had brain surgery and the tumor was completely removed with two surgeries.  His recovery and stay in the hospital is enough for a whole different story that I will tell another day.  He made an amazing recovery and we feel blessed every day for that!

 Once Jordan was home and healthy John and I decided to have another baby.  It truly was like that….hey let's have another baby.  It came so easily the first time, we assumed it would be the same.  Jordan was two years old when we started trying.  Every month was another disappointment.  When Jordan turned three we figured it was about time to see a specialist.  I went and saw a fertility doctor the fall of 1997.  He assured me that my body just needed a little push to get pregnant again.  I went on Clomid for a few cycles, the pill for a few cycles after the Clomid to regulate my system.  Next thing I knew, it is December of 1998 and still no pregnancy.  That month John was transferred and we moved to Indiana.  After unpacking the house and getting us settled, it was time to find a new fertility doctor.  This doctor said I needed surgery.  In the spring of 1999 I had scope surgery to determine if I had endometriosis.  During the procedure it was determined that I did in fact have endometriosis and the doctor removed a bunch of "stuff.”  I'm not sure what the official term is, but I knew this stuff was supposed to be keeping me from getting pregnant.  After recovering from the surgery the doctor suggested we try insemination.  This was the next step, the next push my body would need to get pregnant.  We did two rounds of insemination….no luck.  Now it is December of 1999 and guess what?  John got transferred again.  We packed up the house and moved again.  We arrived in our new town, I unpacked the house, John went to work, and Jordan started preschool.  Preschool?  I couldn't believe my little boy was old enough for preschool and still had no siblings!  Next on the to-do list was find another new fertility doctor. 

 In the spring of 2000 I found a wonderful fertility doctor.  He patiently listened to all my stories, what we had already tried, what surgeries I had, what I felt.  He suggested a dye test, injecting dye into my tubes to make sure all was open and well.  Of course they were and he wanted to try in-vitro fertilization.  John and I agreed and this started the year from hell!  As anyone who goes through the in-vitro process knows, it is a mind twisting, body tangling, confusion inducing process.  The first obstacle for me was giving myself shots.  They were daily and required a self pep talk every time I looked at that needle.  Then there were the egg retrievals where they use a drug called Versed which puts you in la -la land but you are still awake.  I once woke up to a room of laughing nurses who told me I said I was "dreaming of the Backstreet Boys."  Next up is putting the fertilized eggs back in.  Once that happens, you stay in bed for a few days hoping they will implant.  Then the real fun begins with every other day blood draws and ultrasounds.  The doctor monitors all sorts of levels in your blood and changes on the ultrasound.  After two weeks of this when you are very cranky and almost annoyed with the process, the doctor calls and says the words you have waited to hear forever…..YOU'RE PREGNANT!

I heard those wonderful words in December of 2000!  John and I were so excited but with reservations.  We knew it was so early and we could lose the pregnancy but I just felt like it was all going to be okay.  In no time we made it through the first trimester.  I was ecstatic!  Now nothing could go wrong!  That honestly was my thought!  I am good as gold!  In April we went to Disneyworld.  John's parents came with us.  It was our last big hurrah with Jordan as an only child and we wanted him to have a blast.  Three days into the trip we were standing in line for a show.  I felt like I was peeing my pants and realized I was leaking amniotic fluid.  I ran to the bathroom and John's mom followed.  We both knew this was not good and someone called an ambulance.  I made John's parents take Jordan back to the hotel because I didn't want him to see me loaded into the ambulance.  John and I went in the ambulance to the hospital.  They did an ultrasound and put a heart rate monitor on me.  The baby seemed fine.  There was still enough fluid and they couldn't tell what was causing the leak.  I stayed in the hospital for the next 4 days.  The fluid stopped and they released me on the last day in a wheelchair to catch the flight home.

We arrived back in Ft. Wayne and my first trip was to the OBGYN.  He for the first time used the word that I came to hate….fluke!  He saw no signs or issues from the previous week.  He put me on modified bed rest at this point.  No lifting, no exercising, etc.  I felt relieved and again felt like we had made it through what would be the worst and the baby would be here in a few months.  May and June were uneventful in a good way.  The baby continued to grow and all was well. 

I woke up the morning of July 24, 2001.  I was getting my haircut that day.  I showered, got ready and Jordan and I went to the salon.  John came and got Jordan and they went and had lunch while I got my hair cut.  That afternoon Jordan and I went home.  I felt something was off and I wasn't feeling the baby move.  I took out my trusty What to Expect When Expecting book and read about less movement later in pregnancy.  The book suggested drinking some fruit juice and see if the baby moved.  I had some apple juice and nothing happened.  I called my friend and asked if I could drop Jordan off.  I called the doctor and he was out playing golf, but suggested I go to the hospital where they could monitor me since his office was closed.  I arrived at the hospital feeling sort of silly.  I thought the nurses would all think I was overreacting.  I got checked in and the nurse tried to find a heartbeat.  She couldn't.  Then she brought in an ultrasound machine.  I had so many ultrasounds during the pregnancy that I knew what to look for.  The nurse also assumed everything   was fine because the screen was facing me.  As the ultrasound started, the screen became clear and the nurse quickly turned it away.  She was not quick enough as I had already seen enough to know that baby was gone.  The baby was lying across the top of my belly, arms hanging down.  I was 35 weeks and 4 days.

At this point I was still at the hospital alone.  I hadn't called John because I figured all would be okay.  I had to call him and tell him over the phone that the baby was dead.  I honestly don't remember making the call.  I do remember him asking if I was sure.  He came to the hospital and we just cried.  Neither one of us could speak.  Then the reality of it started to hit.  I had to have a C-section.  John had to go get Jordan.   Someone had to tell our families.  The next couple hours were truly a blur.  I don't remember all the details.  I remember being wheeled in for the C-section, the epidural, again being given Versed so I wouldn't remember.  Soon I was in recovery and the nurses were bringing me my little baby boy, wrapped in a blanket, a little cap on his head.  He was perfect.  The chaplain came in and prayed with us, baptized him.  We named him Austin John, as we had always planned to do.  We both held him.  We cried.  We said goodbye. 

 The only explanation I have is that word…..fluke.  There was no explanation.  There was no separation of the placenta.  The cord was not around his neck.  Maybe the cord wasn't strong enough.  Maybe the blood supply wasn't enough.  Maybe if I had gone to the hospital earlier.  All these maybe's that are still there as I type this 9 years later.  I will never know why Austin was stillborn.  I will never know why my body decided to betray me.  All I know is that this long and winding road has made me appreciate my son Jordan all the more.  If it weren't for Jordan, I don't know that most days I could've gotten out of bed.  He was my light in a very, very dark tunnel.   This road also led me to Jillian.  Without Austin I wouldn't have Jillian.  That is what I always tell myself.  It is the only explanation that I have.  He was my light that led me to her.  I don't understand it!  I don't think I ever will, but I have two amazing children that I get to look at every day and one that I talk to every night in my prayers and my dreams!

I knew the day would come when we would be at a store in front of the "Ugly Doll" display, and I would utter those fateful words (slow mo), " I can make one of those!". I call this "The Even Uglier Doll."

Grocery Cart Rage: The Newest SAHM Affliction Affecting Millions of Mommies

I've been working really hard lately on my issues with grocery shoppers.  I used to love grocery shopping and for awhile I even went with my best girlfriend who lived in the same apartment complex I did.  She would show me foods that I had never tried or give me cooking tips (she's a chef) and I would teach her how to dip vinegar potato chips into carmel sauce.  (OK - I"m clearly not a chef, but don't scoff until you try it!)  My girlfriend moved away, we both got married and had kids.  She's now a brilliant shopper and cook; I'm just a frustrated blogger. 

Anyway, now that grocery shopping is a utilitarian pursuit and not an artistic one, I want to get in, get out, and have a relatively painless experience.  I want to glide down the aisles and have the items I want just pop into my cart, pay for themselves, and well - while I'm at it, let's have them delivered and put away.  Then I won't have to go at all! 

It isn't that I don't like shopping, it's that I have to deal with all the shoppers.  Let's face it - we all get a little bit goofy at the grocery store.  You too?  Or, should I say, you too!  We all get focused on what it is we want, what we have to remember, and we get sidelined a great deal with holiday displays, new items, things that aren't where they're supposed to be, and small children.  In our get-it-over-with approach, we sometimes forget to be courteous and considerate in the aisles. 

To deal with my shopper frustration, I've come up with a game!  I have my own little type-list for grocery store shoppers that I use to de-stress and amuse myself.  I spot a shopper down an aisle, and try to predict just what type she (or he) falls into before I have to face her.  Here's my list:

The Snacker:  You can peg this one because he doesn't have a cart; he's just there for a snack.  He mills around the sample displays, and if he's got the kids that day while mom is off doing something else, where better to get lunch?   This is also the guy who has to get a taste of every ice cream in the case before he makes his choice. 

Frazzled Mommy:  This gal comes in hoping there isn't one of those ridiculous red plastic car carts you have to stuff the kids into so they can bite, pinch, and yell at each other the whole trip.  The carts have no turning radius and are double-wide, causing everyone in the aisles to run for their lives when they see you coming, lest they get smashed into the soup cans by some well-intentioned preschool driver.  (Yes, I know the kids don't control the cart, but if I do run into a little old lady, she doesn't know that, and will always forgive my pre-schooler, whereas she might sue me for putting a dent in her walker.)  Mom has circles under her eyes and really doesn't care what you think, so running is really the only solution. 

The Family Affair:  I'm not talking mom, dad, and kids, here. I'm talking aunts, uncles, grandparents, and second cousins.  The whole family gathers around a product and debates the price, packaging, potential date of use, and who will get the biggest share.  Don't even try to get past these people - they've rented the space and you just have to wait. 

The Stalker:  This is the woman who goes down every aisle you do, only the opposite direction, and manages to stop her cart in front of all the same products you want to buy.  Strange, but true. 

The Cart Dragger:  The one who pulls the cart from the front, trailing the back behind her.  When she stops to look at something, the back of her cart always lands in the middle of the aisle.   Why?  Because you can't control a shopping cart from the front!

The Bender:  No -not alcohol.  This is the one who bends at the waist to look at something down low, taking a step back as he does so.  His butt is too far into the middle of the aisle to pass him.  These folks travel in twos and create butt obstacle courses in the aisles. 

The Selective Hearer:  You know the one--she can't hear you say "excuse me" even if she's looking straight at you and her cart is 90 degrees to the aisle. 

The Mis-Counter:  This is the person who counts 25 separate bottles of Gatorade as one item so he can go through the 15-item express lane. 

The Crazy Couponer:  This is an addiction.  She clips coupons, has 40 of them at the register, most of which she technically can't use because she didn't bring her reading glasses to see the fine print, shakes uncontrollably as she watches the savings add up, and then argues the price of any in-store items that don't scan properly. 

The Noodler:  I live in a college town.  We have lots of noodle bowls here.  Chinese noodles.  Mac 'n Cheese.  Spaghetti-os.  Glazed, sleepless look.  Three friends trailing behind talking about booze and football.  Need I say more? 

The Performer:  Bluetooth in her ear, phone always on, and for whatever reason, she only gets as many groceries as she can hold in her two hands.  She talks on her phone the whole time, loudly, and makes sure you know she's in charge.   Just when the juicy part of the conversation starts, she starts to whisper so you can't even get a little thrill out of her oh-so-exciting life. 

The PMS'er:  I can spot this one from two aisles away.  She's shopping through a fog of bloat, bitchiness, and cravings.  She gets to the checkout counter and realizes she only has cheese balls, Coke, Twinkies, and a copy of Martha Stewart Living in her cart.  In her embarrassment, she gets even bitchier, so don't confront this woman in the parking lot. 

The "I Can't Walk Another Step...":  He either leaves his cart in the middle of the lot or gets 20 feet away from the cart-return, pushes it, and walks away,  thinking it will roll right in.  In both cases, the cart rolls, gains speed, turns, and crashes into the front side-panel of whatever car is in the way. 

I guess what's interesting about all of these categories is that I've fallen into one or the other myself pretty much every time I shop.  I've found myself mesmerized by vast selections of toothpaste, suddenly hear "excuse me" from behind, and realize my cart is in the way, my butt is pointed right into the aisle, my children have disappeared in the plastic sports-car, and I don't like the price on any of the tubes.  And, Pre-Menstrual Shopper?  If you re-arrange the letters, it's spells "Peri-Menopausal Shopper" and might just describe.....me. 

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Tell me your shopping stories!  I want to hear your shopping pet-peeves. Leave me a comment! 

 

Naomi's Story: Adoption and Sisterhood

I strongly believe that certain souls are placed into your life to teach you something you need to know that is spiritually significant.  My friend, Naomi, is one such person in my life.  We worked together in the 80's in banking, where I was lucky enough to learn some very useful lessons in management from her.  She helped me to be a kinder, gentler person.  We lost touch, found each other last year on Facebook, and she now is teaching me even more about life and motherhood.  I knew she had stories to tell, so I asked her to be my first guest blogger. 

Naomi (39) lives in Illinois with her husband, John, son Jordan (16 and just started driving), and daughter Jillian (5).  She is the consummate stay-at-home-mom, with family, photography, and fitness her chief interests.  And, she has some beautiful, touching stories to tell us.  Today's story is about how adoption became a part of her life through her sisters and her children.  Check back next week to read her story of living with infertility and the loss of a child.  

Thank you, Naomi, for being my first guest blogger!  

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From as early as I was old enough to understand, I was told my oldest sister, Lainie, was adopted.  Lainie was the firstborn.  Jess and I soon followed, biological daughters of my dad and my mom.  I always knew we were different because people were always very quick to point it out….how come Lainie doesn’t have blond hair?  How come Lainie is so quiet?  Lainie must look like your dad (always the assumption made when the three of us girls were with my mom).  Jess and I were the spitting image of my mom, blond hair blue-eyed Norwegians.  Lainie had dark hair and different facial features.  As the three of us girls got older the differences became more obvious.  Lainie was a straight A student.  She was very quiet in the classroom and obedient.  Teachers loved Lainie.  Next in line was Jess.  Jess was also a straight A student and the teachers love her too,  but she was much LESS quiet in the classroom.  Back in our high school days, teachers gave a letter grade for assignments and a number grade for “respects the rights of others” and such.  Lainie always had A1’s, which meant quiet and a good listener.  Jess always got A3’s, meaning not so quiet and not a good listener unless that meant listening to gossip.  When I entered high school it was inevitable that I would get the same teachers as my sisters.  I remember one teacher saying, “So which sister are you like, Lainie or Jess?”  She said it with such hope….hoping my answer would be Lainie.  I guess my behavior modeled more closely to Lainie's and teachers were happy about that.  As I recall I had a lot of A's on my report card too, but not straight A's.   The comparisons and the questions never sat very well with me.  I always took it as some sort of dig….like the difference wasn’t good. 

As the three of us entered college and went our separate ways in the world, we followed our own paths.   As we were all in different cities and rarely got together, we weren’t compared to one another as often.  Jess and I each got married.  We both got pregnant at the same time.  We delivered our boys within 3 days of each other.  Lainie soon followed with marriage and a baby girl.  Now we were all mothers.

 After I had my son, my husband and I started trying to have another baby.   The second time it wasn’t so easy.  We found ourselves unable to have another baby and started thinking about adopting.  My first thought was, what if our child is treated differently like Lainie?  You see, growing up I always cringed when the questions would come.  It made me uncomfortable and it made me sad for Lainie.  When John and I started seriously considering adoption my first phone call was to Lainie.  As John and I were looking at  all ethnicity options of babies we might receive I couldn’t help but think of how different they might be from us.  When I called Lainie I simply asked her, “How did it make you feel when people would ask why you looked different?”  In typical Lainie fashion she said, “Well I always knew I was adopted, so to me  it was such a stupid question.  Duh.”  It truly amazed me.  What I had always seen as a jab or a dig, Lainie saw as a stupid question.   She always knew she was wanted.  She was loved.  She was part of a family.  She had parents who loved her the second she was put into their arms.  She had sisters that would be with her for life.  Suddenly having a different “birthparent” seemed so irrelevant.

Shortly thereafter John and I dove headfirst into the adoption process.  We filled out all the paperwork, usually me filling out the papers while reading aloud to John.  I recall his only hesitation.  We were filling out our preferences for a child.  I checked off ethnicities I didn’t even know existed.  John nodded or voiced a yes as I went.  We got to type of birth….I read single, check.  Twins, check.  Triplets, check!  John yelled “WHOA.”  That seemed to be his only concern.  We did the FBI background check, home study, and fingerprints.  We made a book of pictures and descriptions of our family, why we thought we would make a good adoptive family.  The first week of July we received a letter from the adoption agency saying all our paperwork was done and we were ready to be “shown” to birthmothers.  The last week of July we got a call from the agency….a birthmother had chosen us.  I remember being overjoyed and just knew this was meant to be!

Jillian Faith was born November 17^th.  John, Jordan and I flew to Florida the day she was born.  When we arrived at the hospital, we went straight to our birthmother’s room.  We all took turns holding Jillian, staring at her, crying with joy.  When our adoption coordinator told us it was time to leave, my heart sank and I cried.  The birthmother had until the next day to change her mind.  We went back to the hotel and waited.  The next afternoon, we got the call to come pick up our daughter at the hospital.  We couldn’t get there fast enough.  The nurses took us through everything that I remembered going through when I left the hospital 10 years before with Jordan.  It still didn’t seem real.  Did we really get to leave the hospital and bring this perfect little life with us? 

We did!  As I write this I am trying to think when Jillian became ours.  Was it always written this way?  From the first phone call from the agency, she seemed like my daughter.  Was it our first meeting with her birthmother when she said she would trust us to raise her birth child?  Was it during the last couple months of her pregnancy when I dreamt about when this baby would come, what she would look like, what our first moments together would be like?  Was it the first time I held her in the hospital?  Was it when we left the hospital as a family of four?  I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I do know that Jillian was meant to be my daughter and I was meant to be her mom, the same as Jordan was meant to be my son and I was meant to be his mom.  I see no difference between them, no distinction of biological and adopted.  Maybe that is why Lainie never saw the questions as an issue….she was raised not thinking there was any difference between adopted and biological and that everyone looks different.  That is what makes us each unique and wonderful in our own way.

We talk about Jillian being adopted.  She knows we brought her home from the hospital when she was one day old.  Jillian understands as much as she can at 5 years old that she was in another woman’s belly. She knows that her birthmother gave her to us because she thought we would be the perfect family for her.  We certainly don’t talk about it everyday.  But I want Jillian to be aware of it, to know it is part of her story, to understand that being adopted is a great thing.  That way when the questions come, the differences are pointed out, she can embrace it and tell her story just like Lainie always has.  No big deal.  I’m different because I am me.  Adopted or not, isn’t that the best lesson we can all learn?  Embrace the fact that what makes you different, what sets you apart, what some people criticize and fault,  are the same amazing things that make you you!  Nobody else in the world is just like you?  That is a wonderful thing!

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Have a question or comment for Naomi?  Write us in the comments section below and Naomi will answer! 

Super-Glue and the Urge to Extricate

My darling girls:

I was thinking about Super-Glue this weekend.  When you get Super-Glue on your fingers and then press them together, they stick, right?  What's the next thing you do?

I don't know what you do - maybe you are calm, cool, and collected in the face of fingers stuck together.  What do I do?  I pull them apart.  I don't just try to pull them apart - my fingers panic and they pull apart all by themselves, no matter how hard I try to stop them.  In fact, because my fingers are so intent on being apart, they don't really care if they have to tear themselves up to do it.  A little bit 'o thumb on my forefinger; a little smidge of forefinger on my thumb. 

This has me thinking about human nature and what happens to us when faced with uncomfortable changes.  And, it has me thinking about how I personally react to that feeling. 

As I've grown, educated myself, experienced more, and take more calculated risks with my life, my first response to being trapped isn't panic anymore.  More often, I shake my head a little, roll my eyes, and think, "Fuck me!"  (Yes, Virginia, I do use the "F" word occasionally.) Then I figure out how much danger I'm in, what my options are, and extricate myself.  (Lately, I'm also thinking about what the experience will look like in blog-form.  Go figure!)

I suppose you might think, then, that you grow older and wiser, and therefore handle things better, but I don't really think that's always true.  I also think that handling things well is situation-dependent.  Anything you haven't thought through or experienced before can tend to bring on that same sense of panic.  And of course, there's the Super-Glue factor - the idea that a permanent change to something you've taken for granted all your life is worthy of the most volatile reaction.

So, then I wonder whether I am now too restrained when it comes to extricating myself from difficult situations.  Have I evolved so much as a human being that I no longer have that natural adrenaline, that response to get away when a threat appears?  And why, in the face of something so benign as Super-Glued fingers, wouldn't I choose to just go upstairs, get the acetone, and calmly correct the situation?  Why do glued fingers inspire such drastic human response?

I think in my mid-forties, I've come to trust myself well enough to know I can handle just about any situation.  There isn't really much in life that remains mysterious to me if I'm interested in it, and I'm not afraid to explore things to which I once would have fearfully shut my eyes.  And, having seen the circle of life play itself out so many times around me, I know that the worst possible result of any difficult situation is death, and that the chances of it are unlikely under most circumstances. 

So, going back to the start of this dicussion - why do glued fingers still make me automatically want to pull them apart, in spite of the damage it causes?  Is it because I know the pain and potential blood involved is survivable?  Is it because the feeling of losing control over a lifelong relationship with my fingers is so uncomfortable that I have to get them back to normal, even if it means a painful process to get there? 

I don't  know the answers (yet), but I hope you'll take this away: 

Educate yourselves on everything you can.  Knowledge and experience help you evaluate difficult situations and react more appropriately.  And, know that it isn't necessary to hurt yourself to get out of a sticky mess, but it helps to know that if you do, you'll survive. 

With love,

Mommy 

 

Your Health, Your Doctor, and Self-Advocacy

My Dear Daughters:

We will spend lots of time talking about your health.  We'll talk about how to care for your body, how to feed it, exercise it, nourish it, respect it.  I'll tell you the mistakes I made and why.  We won't focus on what we look like, how much we weigh, cellulite, or emotional eating - I promise.  I won't tell you "it's all in your head" and I will listen compassionately to your thoughts about your bodies.  If there's a question about whether you need a doctor, I will always take you to the doctor.  If we have to go to three doctors, we will go. 

I was faced today with one of the most baffling mysteries of medicine.  No, it wasn't the fact that I'm now ten days into an allergic reaction to a mystery substance, though that certainly is one for the books.  It's the fact that I'm standing here ten days and three doctors into the situation, and I still feel odd about stating the facts of my own case. 

Doctor One put me on anti-histamines for a massive allergic reaction, in part because he never looked at the hives on my body and consequently underestimated the condition.  Doctor Two told me two days later upon seeing the head-to-toe hives and swelling that I was "so far gone" by the time she saw me, she had no choice but to hit me with massive steroids to control the condition.  Doctor Three came into the ER room saying, "I don't know what else I can offer you..." before even looking at me (he was about to send me home), and then once he saw my ballooning head and realized I was having massive chest pain and shooting pain down my arms that maybe I needed a little epinephrine and some additional anti-histamines. 

I'm not so arrogant that I can argue with any of the three doctors.  I think they all did the best they could under the circumstances and evaluated the situation as accurately as possible.  The thing that has me absolutely bamboozled is that, once I finally had a clear enough head to think through the situation and do a little research, I still felt odd stating my thoughts to the doctor this afternoon. 

First, suppose I take responsibility for the Doctor One not getting the whole picture because I wasn't assertive enough about making him look at my hive-covered ass and melon-like kankles.  Had I insisted he stay in the room while I dropped my pants, perhaps he would have understood why I was there at the Urgent Care at 8:00 a.m. on Monday morning. 

Second, I have sympathy for Doctor Three walking into the room with a conclusion before even looking at me or talking to me.  Had I come in crying, exclaiming in pain, breathless, irrational - perhaps I would have made a more impressive patient.  I shouldn't have been so stoic, I guess. 

Doctor Two, who clearly got the message and put me on the right drugs at the right time, got it just right except for the fact that we didn't anticipate the chest pain thing on a day she wasn't in the office. 

But, here's the thing.  I spent some time researching what happened to me today, before going in for follow-up treatment this afternoon.  I had several possible conclusions about what my body did, but I'm not a doctor.  I know that, so I went in and patiently explained that I had lots of information and needed help putting it all together. 

Since I had failed so miserably stating my case to the doctors to begin with, I wanted to be sure at this visit to explore what was going on in my head - make sure I didn't leave anything out that was potentially important.  I wanted to take an active role - not just sit there and hope the doctor would somehow see everything there was to see.  I also wanted an education - I knew some of my theories were wrong, but I didn't know why.  And, I need to know. 

So, why did I feel so lame giving the information I had and asking questions?  Why, after not getting what I needed from Doctor One and almost missing the boat with Doctor Three, did I have the impression the information I had to offer was not appropriate for discussion?  Why have I felt like I was over-dramatizing my condition to friends and family asking after my welfare? Why did I feel like I needed to dumb it down? 

I remember so distinctly hearing my sister's voice become more and more thready as she went through weeks of mis-diagnosis before someone finally, finally did a chest x-ray and found she had lung cancer.  I remember hearing how beaten she was after someone at an ER told her "this place is for life and death illnesses" and was sent home with "the flu."  I remember that from her sickened state, she had few words to describe the symptoms she had and how serious she could feel they were to her mortality.  I remember the doctor who hospitalized her one day, not because of the description my sister gave, but because when she got up from a chair to get on the exam table, she was unable to lift herself and walk without assistance.   

She didn't cry or wail, either. 

I remember with you, Izz, that you were breach in my tummy and that I didn't want the doctors to try to turn you.  You had been lying hammock-style in my belly for the last three months of the pregnancy and it seemed clear to me there was some reason for that.  The fact is, it could've gone either way, but in the end, when they delivered you via c-section, the doctor immediately saw that you were stuck in that position, and she told me there was no way they could've turned you - meaning, without hurting you. 

My girls, I hope to give you many gifts - I won't lie.  I won't say this is the most important thing you need to know because we haven't even started talking about sex, drugs, and alcohol, and I have lots to say about those things and how they affect your life.  But, please take this one seriously - you must advocate for your own health, and surround yourself with the support so you can do that. 

I hope I can be there when the time comes, but if it's not me, ask Dad, a friend, a trusted teacher, or a family member to help you.  Talk through what's happening to you so you have some practice at telling the story.  Research what you can and take notes.  Always command the discussion with your physician - set the agenda and be sure you get everything discussed.  Be curious.  Ask questions.  Trust your instincts.  But, also be ready to accept change when the facts belie your theories.  Don't stick to a solution that doesn't make sense if you have no facts to back it up. 

One thing I've learned over the years is that being emotional in a doctor's office is almost never productive.  I hate to tell you that, because when you are sick or have problems with your body, it can be scary.  Lean on me for emotional support and I will help you manage any stress you have before you go to the doctor.   

Above all, know that it is your right to know what is happening to you and why.  It's your right to ask what the treatment options are and to make the best decision you can based upon the facts and your own instincts.   It is your right and responsibility to give all pertinent information.  It is also always, always, better to know what's happening to your body than to hide from it.  Most of the time, I promise, you will come out healthy.  Those times you don't, the earlier you catch a problem and get it checked, the better. 

Despite feeling odd about discussing what happened to me today with my doctor, I did get my questions answered and I said everything I wanted to say.  I endured a few moments of embarrassment at my own ignorance, and that's OK.  I came out with what I need, for now, and maybe because of the information I shared today and the requests I made, I will get some answers, and be better off for them.

My deepest love for you both, 

Mommy

 

Life Unexpected: Seven Days in the Abyss

A week ago today I woke up the morning after a dinner party with my lips tingling and my feet itching.  It was the start of one of those life-changing events that I never quite expect and would love to forgo, despite thinking myself an adventurous, go-with-it, kind of girl. 

Now, seven days into it and feeling as though it will never end, I'm still sort of shaking my head and rolling my eyeballs.  The fact is, I've been through more than my share of who-woulda-thunk-it, life-changing health events, and I frankly think I deserve a pass-go.  (Yo, Gods - are you listening?)

Seven days ago, I experienced the sudden on set of Urticaria - commonly referred to as hives.  Go ahead - laugh!  I did !  It was annoying.  I was going to lose a day of relative comfort.  I was itchy and uncomfortable.  I was ready to be over it on day one. 

Little did I know that, within 24 hours, my lips, feet, and hands would grow hard, swell to painful levels, and feel as though they were burning.  I didn't know large expanses of my skin would start to sprout patches of swelling lumps that made me want to dig into my skin with my fingernails to alleviate the painful itching sensation. 

Within 48 hours, my earlobes had swelled and become beet-red and the skin on my lips started to peel.  My eyebrows swelled, and then expanded down the right side of my face, enclosing my eye, my cheek, my jawline, in swollen tissue.  The bones and joints in my body started to ache, my vision was completely blurred, my heart was beating out of my chest, and I started experiencing contractions and pain in my throat.  My stomach and intestines felt as though they were swollen.  Drinking and eating caused painful contractions in my chest and back.  The itching was interminable.

Seven days now, and as I write this, I feel as though there is a metal pipe holding me erect from my chest to my jaw, and another from shoulder to shoulder.  At the intersection is a painful lump that takes my breath away.  I feel like my internal organs are packed tightly within my body.  My toes are burning.  My shoulder and chest are flush with hives.  The medication I took this morning is starting to wear off but I can't take anymore until tomorrow.  I'll soak in a bath for awhile to find some relaxation, and take an antihistamine to try to bring some sleep. 

I have done nothing productive now, for seven days.

Evidently, most people who experience Urticaria never find out the cause.  I've been through a dozen possibilities - fish, cleaning solvents, soy, wine, limes, radishes, fruit.  There was nothing unusual.  Whatever this is, it's from something that appears as benign as the water I drink and the air that I breathe.   From what I've read and heard, I might be near the end of this episode, or it could become chronic.  I might have a similar episode in the future, though if I can identify the cause, I can perhaps avoid the source. 

I suppose there are worse things to experience in this life.   There are worse diseases and conditions.  Though I consider this to be quite serious in the scheme of things, it isn't life threatening.  Perhaps the worst of it is that I'm now reminded of what it's like to have a serious illness with never-ending symptoms and consequences, medications that can either make you feel better or far worse,  a lack of answers that makes you feel helpless. 

Or, perhaps the worst of it is that I haven't been able to function in the roles I typically perform - mother, wife, volunteer, friend.  My sole accomplishment these past seven days has been to keep my mind occupied so that my discomfort doesn't rule me.  Too much movement makes me dizzy; physical activity makes me weak.  I've remained stoic, frustrated because I'm expected to remain strong while still getting the message across that I'm extraordinarily uncomfortable. 

I hope tomorrow brings relief.  I may pray for it, though I think that prayers invoke more from what is within than any divine source of health or relief.  I hope I can laugh about this in a few weeks, and that my sense of humor will return.  I hope my marriage and my beautiful girls can sustain my lack of participation in life at the moment. 

I'm ready to be well again. 

 

 

 

 

 

Peri-Menopause, Brains & Boobs

by Lorie Fuller

We joined the YMCA at the beginning of the summer, partly to give the kiddos access to the pool and some activities, partly to give me a chance to get physical.  I termed it, "The Naked Y," because there's a bright-shiny-new-pool with bright-shiny-new-bikini-mommies.  Oh, and the yoga girls.  But, that's another story.   

I blew the dust off my active-wear drawer and shook out a few old athletic bras and some spandex butt-boosters.  You can tell your old workout clothes are in bad shape when the elastic crackles like breakfast cereal in milk.  You can't expect disintegrating elastic to hold in all the jiggly bits and keep the boobs from getting, errr, too far ahead of you. (Those of you over a 36D will understand what I mean.)

So, I went shopping at the local discount-designer place and began flipping through the fitness clothing.  Everything was sort-of so-so.  Typical sports bras and tops, sort of shapeless and clearly made for someone less amply endowed than I.  But then, I found this:

Having once been quite stylish and believing I have good taste, not to mention knowing I had years of shopping experience under my belt, I immediately recognized that this particular top was unique.  Yes - it was different, stylish, and I thought how clever it was that the bra part was on the outside.  Madonna.  I would be Mama Madonna around those skinny beach bitches.  I wondered, "Gee, do you suppose you get better support with a style that has the bra on the outside?"  I didn't have time to try it on, but tossed it into my basket, purchased it, and wore it the next day. 

Yes, I was wearing the latest style of sports bra and I was, well, not to pat my own back, but HOT!  I could tell all the bikini-mamas were impressed.  They would probably run right out to the store to try to find one too, right after they finished suntanning themselves into skin-cancer oblivion.  Ha!  I....I was Workout Girl!  I was leading the pack! 

I wore my new garment, oh, three or so times in the weeks that followed, back straight, chest out, lookin' gooood. 

Then, yesterday, I was doing the laundry.  And, out of the washing machine came this:

Wait!  Had I bought two athletic tops, and if so, why had a I purchased something so lifeless, without shape, without style?  Maybe this wasn't mine at all and....oh no! 

Then it hit me.  I approached the top, slowly, so as not to alarm the poor thing, pulled the neckline out very carefully, and looked down into the garment.  NO!  No, no, nononnonononononono!  It can't be! 

It was my stylish new sports bra!  Inside out!  Wait - no - it wasn't inside out.  It was....the way it was supposed to be.  Oh....my....God! OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!

No wonder everyone had been looking at my boobs! It wasn't because they were stylishly perky and fabulously reigned-in.  It was because I was wearing the damn bra inside out. 

Disclaimer that should have been on the tag:  Please don't wear this garment like a complete idiot should the stocking clerk accidentally put the top inside-out on the hanger.  There are no side seams on this garment. When turned inside-out, the bra seams go to the inside of the garment, and the tag that is printed directly on the fabric is in ink that blends in so you can't see it.  This makes it appear as though the garment is right-side-out even when it isn't.  Just say "No!" to sports-bra foolishness and only wear as directed.  Not responsible for mental distress or injury due to mis-use of garment and subsequent hazing by bikini-mommies.  Peri-menopausal women should consult with a physician before wearing this garment. 

Here's the back view:

_________________

Lots of odd things have been happening to me these past months.  I can't spell anymore.  I have no short-term recollection.  I have to take reading glasses with me everywhere because I can no longer read any font smaller than 14 pica. I can't open medicine bottles anymore.  I'm angry as hell.  I'm headachy, hot, and exhausted.  Only about 20% of my brain is working.  All, according to my doc, due to the onset of peri-menopause.   

I think there should be a Peri-Menopause Foundation.  I think you should be able to get one of those helper-dogs when you enter peri-menopause.  Or an interpreter - someone who can see tags on garments and remind you what words mean.  Or maybe a stylist - someone who will tell you honestly when you're about to make a damn fool of yourself at the Naked-Y, in front of all the scantily-clad, 25-yr-old, mommies. 

Mommyhood and the Division of the Cinnamon Roll

by Lorie Fuller

So, my husband brought home my favorite Great Harvest Bread Company cinnamon rolls this morning after taking the kids to swim lessons.  I know, I know--that makes him freaking fabulous compared to some husbands, so what can I possibly complain about?

I happen to be one of those weirdos who likes the outside of the cinnamon roll better than the inside.  I like the drier, chewier parts.  So, since my husband and I met, and I introduced him to the rolls, and we started eating cinnamon rolls together, I always ate the outside; he would eat the inside.  Are you with me? 

I love sharing!  I do!  It's nice, fun, family-like behavior!  It's part of the silent, unsigned but oh-so-understood contract you unonsciously agree to when you do "the method" and get yourself impregnanted after four years of trying.  But, here's the deal:  When you get married and then have a couple of kids, those cinnamon rolls get really small!

Once in a blue moon - just once in awhile - I like the idea of eating the whole thing, all by myself, just me.  So, this morning, I picked out one of four cinnamon rolls, knowing full well I wouldn't eat the inside, knowing that I would end up sharing it.  I poured a mug of coffee, brought the cinnamon roll over to my spot at the kitchen counter, and started to unwrap it.  And the first thing that happens?  My husband expectantly hands me a knife while my panting children look on. 

My family wants me to cut up the cinnamon roll.   

First of all, cutting up a cinnamon roll is sacrilege.  A cinnamon roll is one piece of dough rolled lovingly into a large spiral with it's yummy sugary goodness inside.  The caramelized sugar peeks out from the circular edges, promising more as you unwind it to eat.  Cinnamon rolls are meant to be unwound in long strips that you dangle above your upturned mouth as you prepare to take a bite.  So, it's bad enough my family wanted to cut the poor thing into pieces to pop unceremoniously into their mouths. Can you imagine what cinnamon roll hell must be like?  It's a place where moldy whole cinnamon rolls go to laugh at the ones that are being cut up into pieces.  It's the bottom of the barrel.   

On top of that, I know I'm supposed to want to do everything as a family, and mostly I do.  But I now do four people's laundry and dishes, pick out everyone's clothing in the morning, haven't had a bath to myself in years, act as a human jungle-gym, endure constant interruptions, never get to have a private phone call, step on headless Barbies on my way to the bathroom, and have to cook four different meals each night. 

Can't I puhlllease have something all to myself, just this one time? It's not that I actually want the whole thing - it's just the idea of having it all to myself.  It's just the simple thought that I could have the whole thing, all to myself, if I wanted it. 

They know in the end I'm going to share anyway.  They know that when I get to the middle I'll give it lovingly away.  Put away the puffy lips, droopy eyes, and hunger-starved looks, and stop making me feel guilty for the want of something private and sinfully good, my way.  Just this once.  Please?