My position on positives, if you want to call it that

I've been trying to focus on the positive lately.

I'm positive the van will get stuck at least once more trying to get out of the snowy driveway this week.

I'm positive the tax bill due by the beginning of next month should have given me a coronary, especially considering the credit card bill was nearly the same amount.

I'm positive my kids think 3:30 a.m. is the most perfect time to hit/kick/slap their way to the coveted spot in my bed.

I'm positive we blew the grocery budget this week, and I'm positively not going to worry about it since we had money left over last week.

I'm positive wine is usually the answer when I get in a writing slump, because I tend to suck down several glasses and write like a beast - usually pounding out 2,000 or more words in a shortish amount of time as I pour the words from my soul desperately into a Word document that someday will resemble a paperback.

And I'm positive the book I'm penning is almost done. This one I'm almost as sure of as getting stuck in the driveway.

I'm also positive that while I'm trying to "be positive," it's hard, because there's a huge difference between being positive of something and being emotionally/psychologically positive. Most people are aware of that difference. So while I try really hard to be emotionally positive, it's not something I usually wake up thinking will happen today. There are still a lot of days I look out the window and it's not the sun I see, but the dirty snowbank and slushy roads. Instead of being proud of my daughters' inquisitiveness and ability to make a mess while learning, playing, and growing, I can't see beyond the clutter.

Rainbows and butterflies

Today is one of those days I'm truly grateful for.

Ron and I went to the doctor's this morning for my post-op follow up ... the appointment I was simultaneously anxiously waiting for and hating the idea of going to since the day I called to schedule it. I think I hated the idea of going because I was so afraid there would be no answers.

But that's not what happened.

There were answers. A few. Enough to make the pain even more bearable; enough to guide me through the oncoming waves of grief. I know they're coming ashore again. They're going to wash over me once all of this sinks in a little more.

I am more than my miscarriages

Life changing news. I wrote about it because that's one of the best (maybe the only) ways I can get a grip on my emotions.

When I was younger, all this emotion and writing and pouring myself into an outlet was secret. There were notebooks and random stashes of folded up paper that lived in my back jeans' pockets that I would pull out and fill with angry, bitter poetry. A lot of anger. A lot of bitter.

This is where I come now. I try to make sure my thoughts are fairly well put together before I hit "publish." This is a space where I feel I can get out all my feelings - whether they're about stupid shit my kids are doing, the random places I find sippy cups, my love of cloth diapers, or my incessant need to finish writing the novel that should have been done months ago as soon as possible (because ASAP just makes more sense than an actual deadline when I have two small children) - but I also like to consider it a safe place for others to join some of these conversations.

Usually everyone just comments on the link I post on my Facebook page. That's fine.

Tonight, while I reflect on our loss - a child who won't get to spend Christmas with us next year - I also reflect on our gains throughout the year.

The waves and stages of grief

We may never know what happened and I'm trying to make peace with that.

"This was an abnormal pregnancy."

"It's nothing you did. This isn't something you could have prevented."

"I saw what might be a couple small tumors."

"It's possible there was a molar pregnancy."

"I'll be doing a suction D&C to reduce the possibility of scarring on your uterus."

"We might not get any answers."

I'd totally have that guy's love child

Words. So many words.

 To give you an idea:

That's the book I'm working on. Is it amazing? No. What's taken me nearly six months to do other writers who get to do this full-time and have help with the kids or just have older kids who are a little more self sufficient could probably whip out 46,000 words in a month or two. I'm not going to fault myself for not being further into this story because I love it, I love my characters, I love my writing partner's ability to get me back on track and storyboard with me day or night from California.

'Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday'

Marriage is amazing. My husband and I have been together a little more than 11 years, married for six, and there are a lot of days when we do everything together all in fluid motions. It's like a ballet of housework and yard work and parenting. Or we hardly see one another and I'm stuck dancing alone through the daily grind. Or I punk out entirely and don't go do things on my own because I'm a giant chickenshit and want to phone a friend in the game of Life, and he's the one I call. What do you mean I'm an adult? Psh.

June 21, 2008: Oh hey, we got hitched.

Since we are individuals and, despite my sometimes neurotic tendencies, I like being an individual, there are some things I don't share with my husband, at least not always in their entirety. Not Earth shattering "I'm hiding bodies in the woods" kinds of secrets, but little tricks of the momming trade that help me get through the money/emotionally overwhelmed/too much going on struggle that I deal with constantly.

Like the fact I haven't used laundry detergent in any of the wash loads for three days. I wash a lot of laundry. Instead I've been tearing through the box of baking soda that I also use for cookies and on occasion in the kids' bath. Our clothes smell like cotton and the washer doesn't stink. I think that counts as a win. Unless he reads this, he's not going to have a clue!

Hand picked perfect fathers

It's nearing midnight and I'm just getting around to this (and posting just after midnight because I suck) - not because I feel like I have to or am obligated to post something on Father's Day, but because I'm surrounded by some pretty amazing dads and I want them to know how loved they are.

Around Mother's Day I was all "oh my fucking Lord I just want a few hours to myself and please oh please can we just have one night where the kids aren't crawling into bed with us? Please?"

And, you know what? I deserve that.

But, so does he.

And neither one of us got it for our Hallmark holidays this year.

Not your traditional Mother's Day jargon

I really loved my last post.

Like, I loved it so much I read it multiple times after I posted it. And laughed hysterically at parts only I and a select few really understand.

That's not something I do regularly.

In fact, it's something I do so rarely I could probably count the number of entries I've loved that much on one hand.

My husband, though, admitted to me he didn't really "get" it and only skimmed.

How to not give a bath

My thoughts this evening have gone something like, "Jesus wouldn't really care too much if my kids went to church stinky tomorrow, right?" "Honestly, the son of God didn't have running water, so I'm sure he didn't always smell fresh as a daisy." "Clean hair is really overrated." "I could just put perfume on them. They'd feel super special."

Between some late nights I've had, Charlie having a cough and sinus issues, the Boy sneezing and pinching or pulling something in his neck and back this morning and now me with something funky happening with my left eye, I'm just not really in the mood to deal with a bath time fight.

I don't know if I could stand for them to not bathe, though. And a thorough wash up isn't going to cut it because my kids use their hair as napkins - I think there are tomato seeds, ice cream and chocolate milk in Charlotte's hair right now.

Be kind; rewind (my life to better days)

Forgive me, Father readers, for I have sinned been in a slump.

My last confession was 13 days ago. I shared with you how disastrous I felt my house was. I even showed you a picture or two. And made some of you giggle with the "Let it Go" video. Thanks for validating me.

I don't expect to get a lot of uplifting remarks, nor is this a cry for help in any way. I am simply one of thousands who battle daily to find their place and be comfortable in it.

The other day I posted on my Facebook page asking for blog topics. A former columnist of mine popped in with the suggestion I write about "being kind to yourself." I was in the frame of mind yesterday where that post would have been completely uplifting - I'd started my morning by doing a guided meditation on a new Roku channel I found and had my half a pot of coffee and the kids were relatively calm. Yesterday was pretty decent on all fronts.

But that was yesterday. Today was a different story - I slept late, needed to grocery shop, we ran out of coffee and I thought that alone would kill me, the kids fought with each other, the kids fought with me, the dog keeps trying to dig under the back porch, the hustle and bustle of dance class during the dinner hour, realizing my kids were eating yogurt for dinner at almost 7 p.m. and then a near argument with the Boy over this very blog entry (because he doesn't understand it).

Today reminded me of all the reasons I'm not nice to myself. Why I'm bitter and pissed off a lot. Why I sometimes want to pack a bag and tell my husband it's all his responsibility for three days while I go hide in the woods somewhere. This is basically the antithesis of my friend's request for a post about "being kind to yourself." Sorry 'bout that.

Giving credit to the daddy movement

Dads. At home. Stay-at-home dads.

I'm pretty sure I've seen some of them at the gym. They're like a mythical creature to me - I believe in my heart of hearts they do exist, but I've yet to have the opportunity to walk up and introduce myself to one. No, that's not true. I'm fairly certain I know at least one.

That's one more than I knew last year.

When my friend Matt asked me about my thoughts on this whole gender role shift phenomenon I decided I needed to do a little reading because despite how awesome I think the SAHD deal is, I know little about it. With the exception of a Facebook group I'm in, there are relatively few dads I know of who are home full-time with their children, whether that means they work nights, are laid off, have made the conscious decision not to work because of finances doesn't matter.

What matters? They made a decision that was the best decision for their family. They're taking on an active role with their kids. No, this isn't something new by any means, nor am I attempting to make it sound like it's a virgin concept that fathers spend quality time with their children. Dads the world over have taken notice of their children or opted to spend more time with them for years, decades, maybe even centuries. We really don't know. The idea this is a trending concept is a little misleading ... it's only trending because the media has shone its spotlight on the concept and that is mostly just in the last 12 months, or so I gather from my handy dandy Google search.

Let me get to the heart of this: The Atlantic piece I read about this very topic thorough irritated me and is not worth the Internet it's printed on; all hail Chris Routly & Co. (I don't know and haven't read stuff by all daddy bloggers or met a lot of SAHDs, so I'm lumping you all together just like us SAHMs usually are).

It's OK to cry in front of them

I had an emotional breakdown today in front of my 3-year-old and it's OK.

Mommy cries sometimes. And the holidays are hard. Being a big kid, an adult, is hard, I told her.

And I wept while hanging onto her youthfulness, shrouded in the shadows of our upstairs hallway.

"It's OK, Mommy."

It is hard, and despite how much I adore the season, every year for the last seven Christmases (this would be the eighth) I've found myself feeling sad. And three years ago that sadness turned to an emptiness.

First, when my grandma, Nana, passed away in 2006 it was difficult to get through the holidays, but making her Rum Cake recipe in her kitchen with my then boyfriend helped me through it. It made it bearable to mix and bake and taste and drink and love because I was doing it in her home. And the years after that just got ... easier.

30 reasons this relationship works

The Boy and I have been married for five and a half years this month, and while it's not that long in the grand scheme of things (my parents have been married 38 years next July) it's an accomplishment in this day and age. That's not to say I haven't learned a few things in our nearly 11 years together, because the lessons are there on a daily basis.

Things marriage has taught me:

My hope filled VBAC: She's almost 2

Somewhere in the vicinity of two years ago this week, I stared at my very pregnant belly wondering when the little goober was going to give up the hostage situation in my uterus and wave its white flag. I was three days past my due date, still working full-time and went to bed every night praying God would give my body the ability to birth my child as He intended.

I've told the story of how Josephine had been forced out before she was ready. Devastated doesn't even begin to describe how I felt, and though I tried part of me still can't even put into words the full range of emotions I felt over the course of my healing - both physical and emotional.

And then eight months later I was pregnant again. I was "late" and tested. Negative. Tested again a few days later. Negative. Spent my birthday attempting to have fun hanging out with my family ... could hardly stomach the beer in my hand and though I so very badly wanted a cigarette, the smell nearly made me vomit. On March 8, I had a biopsy done on my thyroid and went home scared to death of the results of that test. To clear my head, I peed on another stick figuring if it was negative this time, I was going to stop worrying. My body was probably just getting back on track after Josie had stopped breastfeeding.

Homeowner logic, the new oxymoron

Sometimes, as a homeowner, you just feel like an idiot.

I think that's actually part of the deed process - you need to sign over your rights to common sense and logic until you've lived at the deeded property for a while.

Heating, cooling, what light switch goes with which outlet, etc. These things can leave you in a daze of new homeowner WTFs.

For instance, today I present to you a lesson in heating your home.

Refrigerator, van ... it's all the same

It's after 2 p.m. and I'm close to mainlining the cup of coffee I reheated ... again.

The again is in reference to reheating the coffee, not mainlining it. I've never actually done that, but taking my caffeine intravenously is definitely an idea that's been tossed around. *yawn*

The last two weeks have kind of been a blur of kids coming and going and things changing. My 10-year-old nephew came and spent a week with us and then I switched him out for his sister, who is 14. I think having them here was more exhausting than keeping up with the Mini Me Duo. If nothing else, it was more mentally exhausting.

We be jammin'

I'm getting closer and closer to being a Flower Child. At least in my head that's where I'm headed.

In reality — because let's face it, I rarely live in the real world even though it's nice to visit — I'm following in my mom footsteps. Where am I headed with this? Preservation.

No, not preserving mankind or anything like that, but, like, actual preserves. Jams. Jellies. Home canned make-my-mouth-water salsa and stewed tomatoes. Growing up we did stewed tomatoes every year for as long as I can remember. We worked all summer in the garden growing a variety of tomato species — roma, beefsteak, whatever — along with bell peppers and onions so we'd have enough for stewed tomatoes and fresh eating.

All I want for Mother's Day is ...

My life right now is all about scheduling. And I'm sucking at it. Badly.

The only thing I have set in stone every week is the Bean's creative movement class on Tuesdays, but soon enough that will come to an end and we'll be doing the summer thing. I assume the "summer thing" will be much like our "spring" and "fall" and "winter" things ... a whole lot of what the eff are we doing today.

At least we're finally getting bedtime back. Forget prime time television with the Boy — I'm stuck sitting on the stairs outside the girls' bedroom usually from 8 to 9 p.m. At least they're in their own beds and sleeping most of the night again. Though the normal bedtime for them means an earlier wake up call. I suppose I can handle getting up at 6:30 some mornings if it means an hour or two of quiet at night to collect my thoughts. I usually don't get to do that during the day unless it's in three-minute increments interrupted by screaming because someone turned the TV off, took a toy or dumped Bailey's water dish.

In search of positivity and space

I took a break — from here, from the gym, from feeling like a useful member of society.

In all honesty, I needed it. The morning after my last entry, I packed the kids in the car and took off for my parents house about two hours away. We only stayed a couple days, but it was enough to make me realize things weren't going as planned around here. I was truly beginning to feel overwhelmed again. If you've been keeping up with me and my stories, you know this feeling started a while ago and I've been trying to get back on track. Bad weather and bad attitudes (mine and Josie's, which has likely been caused by mine) have been blamed.

So has the furniture, the dog, the car, the money ... You get the picture.

I decided earlier this week to nip it in the bud. We've been talking about what we need to do to fix the house up and potentially sell it and that has put me in full on "show ready" homeowner mode. I sent an unused television stand home with my parents on a recent visit and then took the baker's rack down — we used it to hold bath towels and toiletries in the bathroom — and repurposed a basket already in the bathroom for the newly homeless towels.

My cesarean revisited

She's almost 3 years old and I still mourn my birth experience.

Every time I see or hear a friend or family member is being induced, I cringe. When an induction of a loved one fails, I weep inside because I know what that feels like. And when they're taken back for the ultimate sacrifice to meet their child, I pray ... that they heal quickly, are able to handle the pain and cope with the emotional turmoil many, like I, have encountered on the path to postpartum new mommy bliss.

Recently I linked a blog post from 2011 that a few of my friends had also linked to on Facebook. I tagged other c-section moms because I wanted them to know we all are courageous to have undergone major abdominal surgery to get our babies out. We are awesome because we risked everything to meet our children.

I didn't expect I would get so emotional after posting it and then reading their responses and what they wrote when relinking to the same blog post. Rarely do I open up in an open format to express, in part, a condensed version of my five-day hospital stay when Josephine was born. I often feel like the past should be just that; the past.