Showing posts with label Journal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Journal. Show all posts

May 9, 2011

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes...

And now for something from the "be careful what you pray for" files...

You may know that the memorial of St. Joseph the Worker was last Sunday. You may also know that I have a special devotion to dear St. Joseph, the sweet patron saint of workers, fathers, and the Universal Church. And you probably also know that my own beloved husband has been job-free since September.

A wee novena for the feast day was certainly in order, don't you think? Yeah, me too. And now, wouldn't you know it, I'm well into the recruiting process for a real-live new job of my own. Oops!

A few weeks ago, Bill came across the perfect career opportunity--for me. Right back in my own field (business/systems integration, ya know), right here in town, for a great company, on a really exciting project, right now. He suggested I send in a resume, so I did, not expecting to hear from them--after all, I've been "retired" for over a decade now. Technologically speaking, I'm a dinosaur.

Maybe not quite. In the past week and a half--beginning right around the time I finished praying the St. Joseph novena--I've had two phone interviews for this position, and have gone through a roller coaster of emotions and opinions about the whole idea of possibly taking a "real" job again.


Here are some thoughts that have been pinging around in my dinosaur brain:

1) Can I still be a good Catholic mom if I'm a business mommy?
2) Would Bill really be happy to stay home with the kids?
3) Will I lose my mind trying to multitask between a really hard full-time career and managing our home at the same time?
4) If I go back to work, will my kids be scarred for life?
5) Is having a working mom better than having to move if Bill gets a job in another town?
6) Does Bill really want this? Is he going to do the laundry and everything?
7) What if I hate it?
8) What if I love it?
9) Should I return that new swimsuit I just bought, since I won't be at the pool with the kids this summer after all?
10) Do you think I could convince them to let me start work in September?

Preparing for the interviews, I've alternated between getting very psyched about this opportunity, which is a very cool one, and feeling completely overwhelmed that I actually am a total technology dinosaur that no one would want to hire. On the other hand, I really am probably a pretty good candidate for this position, and it could be great for all of us.

Finally it occurred to me that if God can part the Red Sea, He can surely get this job for me if that's His plan. And if not, well of course I wouldn't want it anyway. Over the past week I've gone from wanting the job very much and obsessively preparing for the interviews, to feeling certain that what I really want with all my heart is actually to homeschool KLD and JPD again next fall. The good thing about that is that no matter what happens, I'll be happy. It's all good, right?

Stay tuned!

In the meantime I am clinging tightly to the words of St. Paul...
"I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength."
~ Philippians 4:11-13

January 10, 2011

New Year's Resolution

Imagine that you wake up one morning to discover that you weigh 15 pounds more than you thought you did. Pretty scary, right?

Last week on the scale at the health club that happened to me. Talk about a wake up call! How is it possible that I've gained 15 pounds since last summer...when I should have lost 15 pounds since last summer?

Actually, it wasn't as bad as I first thought; it turns out that my own scale at home is off by about 12 pounds, so I'd only gained about 3 over the holidays and not the 15 I first thought. But still. Still. It was ever so motivating. (I have a perfect "before" picture from Christmas, too, but no way am I posting it! Maybe when I have an "after" photo to go with it!)

I'm going for baby steps here, because I want to be in this for the long haul. My goal is just to exercise more (more than none is easy, right?) and eat like a normal person instead of like every meal is my last and the food is trying to run away from me. Even with just baby steps (if 6 days of working out is really baby steps), I lost 3.1 pounds this week.

Most of all, I'm working on changing inside my head. Taking care of myself is not selfish or vain or frivolous or the lowest priority in the family; it's serious business. If I don't, I'll end up with a stroke and/or diabetes in another decade or two, which will be when MPD's a teenager and, God willing, my babies are starting to have their babies. No more excuses about having been pregnant for a decade, being over forty, taking medication, being busy, etc., etc. No more self-destructive behavior that I've been doing because...why? I'm not sure. Hopefully I don't have to figure that out in order to turn things around!

Stay tuned for that "after" picture! :)

December 28, 2010

Home for the Holidays

Every once in a while during the holidays, I get lonely and blue about the fact that I'm so far from home (Texas) with most of our relatives more than a thousand miles away. My entire family--except for my mom, of course--is in Texas, and two of Bill's siblings live in Philadelphia; we rarely get to see them. When I want to start really feeling sorry for myself, I mope around about my kids' startling shortage of grandparents--with my dad and both Bill's parents deceased, it makes us extra thankful to have my mom here with us.

What a contrast from my own childhood, surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and my parents who had grown up together from childhood. There certainly was no shortage of relatives around for the holidays in those early years!

But now, here I am in the frozen arctic Midwest, far from home and family. If I let myself think about it too much, I could get sad about the fact that our holidays regularly consist of just our party of seven, plus one grandma. Sometimes we get Bill's sister and her husband and daughter, and the kids love it when we do. But mostly, we're on our own for making and celebrating family traditions.


And you know what? It's all good. I could get all lonely, blue, and sad about our little party of seven--but when I start going down that path, I just put that out of my head. Our own little family has plenty of traditions of our own, and we're making memories that will be every bit as special to my kids as mine are to me. My kids, after all, aren't comparing our Christmases to the ones I had forty years ago in Texas. Ours are all they've got; and to me it seems that things are pretty awesome around here. To tell you the truth, this year things have been especially beautiful and--hard to say this but--perfect.
I think, when it comes to relatives, that we each have to just make the best of whatever hand we've been dealt. I never would have imagined that my kids would have such a shortage of grandparents, or that I'd live so far off on my own, but that's the way God has set it up, and what else can I do but be thankful and happy? What a miracle, after all, that our party of seven is intact! I think losing my dad when I was 18 has helped me not to take the family I have for granted. I know it makes me more aware that each day we have together is precious.Sometimes I do dream of having a houseful of extended family for Christmas. Maybe someday we'll move back to Texas and that will be so. But this year, for the first time, I began to foresee a day in the future when I'll surely have that houseful of family. It will come in another decade or two (aka the blink of an eye), when I'm the grandma, and my house is full of the next generation. And isn't carrying things on to the next generation what family traditions are really all about?

December 21, 2010

Early Christmas Present

Tonight was my turn to drive WWD's basketball carpool. It's just far enough away--about 30 minutes--that it's not worth making the round trip twice, so I planned to just hang out at the gym during practice.

Which would give me, I realized, just over an hour to myself. As in--alone. Far from my chore-filled, to-do laden house.

What would I do? Bring a book? Bring my laptop? Catch up on phone calls? Squeeze in a few errands? I was so excited about the sudden empty block on my calendar that I was overwhelmed--stumped as to how to fill this one free hour, on the dark night after the snowy winter solstice, three days before Christmas.

I dropped off the boys, went to fill up my van with gas and wiper fluid (the latter being something I never once did in my entire life before moving to the midwest), and started back to watch practice.

For no particular reason, I decided to take a quick detour through the parking lot of the Catholic church a block away from WWD's practice gym. Just to check it out--peek at their school, that sort of thing.

The church lights were on.

"Cool," I thought, peering through the church's glass doors from inside my warm van. I'll just say a little "hello" prayer while I'm so near to the Lord.

I even thought I could see the red tabernacle candle, but it turned out to be my brake lights reflecting in the church window.

Then I saw it. The monstrance on the altar. Could it be? Yes. Right there, in the small-town church, on this dark solstice night, miles away from the retail frenzy that has filled the rest of my week...Eucharistic Adoration.


An hour of Adoration, all alone. Quiet. Peace. A whole, uninterrupted Rosary, all by myself, without the phone ringing and without me falling asleep after about the first decade. And then...more peace.

My dear sweet infant Lord Jesus, how can my family's Christmas celebration ever be a worthy birthday party for You, the most holy and amazing gift the world has ever known? How can we ever, ever comprehend God's glorious plan for mankind or His eternal and infinite love for each of His precious creatures?

As St. Paul explained to those long-ago Corinthians, "For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know as I am known."

And as St. Matthew wrote, "Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him." Tonight, He sure knew what I needed...more of Himself!!

Could there be a better Christmas present than a sweet, silent hour with my Lord? I felt like I got a little peek at the Nativity itself!


O Come Let Us Adore Him
Christ the Lord!

November 5, 2010

November Daybook


Outside my window... Overcast and blustery. Definitely November.

I am thinking... about Advent and Christmas preparations. For once, I'm simply looking forward to the holidays without feeling at all overwhelmed. And for the first time since I moved to the midwest in 1995, I am actually looking forward to winter!

I am thankful for... having Bill at home most days. Unemployment is kind of fun, if I don't think about it too hard.

From the kitchen... we're doing a brisket tomorrow. This is such a Texas thing, that we hardly ever do. Yum!

I am wearing... my new jeans that I wear almost every single day lately, a wheat-colored sweater, my shearling flip-flop slippers.

I am creating... a Thanksgiving menu in my head. Every year, I want to try new recipes. Every year, I am overruled in this by my family who unanimously votes for the same old favorites. I am not too sad about this, because I love the favorites too.

I am going... to pick everyone up from school in about 20 minutes. Let the wild rumpus begin!

I am reading... the Wall Street Journal every day now that Bill's getting it at home. I love it. I've never loved newspapers, but this one is really good. Does this mean I'm finally a grownup? (Yes, I know...a conservative grownup.)

I am hearing... the sound of MPD driving his Diego car around on the coffee table. He's supposed to be taking his nap, but now that he's figured out how to climb out of his crib, it's a free-for-all around here I tell you! We still have something resembling "quiet time" during this part of the day, and I know that if he doesn't nap, bedtime will be earlier and easier.

I am hoping... to figure out a way to watch WWD's basketball scrimmage tonight. It's a long shot.

Around the house... I am planning to finish putting all the Halloween stuff away this afternoon. I'm in the mood to de-clutter and clean, clean, clean this month. Yesterday we (mostly) finished a big fall clean-up for our yard--everything cut back, raked out, ready for the first snow. I feel like this is a metaphor for life right now--in a good way.

One of my favorite things... coffee. Of course.

A few plans for the rest of the week...
a big visit with Jamie and the boys tomorrow night! Hooray!

A picture for sharing...A bit of our fall clean-up:

November 2, 2010

My Brown-Eyed Girl

Look who got to bring home the class pet for the long weekend! :) I am happy (and quite relieved) to announce that Hermie the hermit crab survived several days and nights at our home. KLD did a great job taking care of him.

KLD, you are making me so happy and proud these days. I'm so glad for you that you are loving school so much, and you have so much peace with your friends and your sweet teacher. For you, above all, school was a much better choice than homeschooling. I know you sometimes tell me that you want to homeschool again, but your cheerful smile, lack of morning tummyaches, and enthusiastic stories about your days speak louder than your words.
Everyone laments the middle-child spot, but you know what? I think you've got this all figured out. You get to be a big kid for the good stuff, like staying up late, and a little kid when chores and other undesirables are being handed out. Those older two "blue-eyes" blaze the trails around here while Mom's still strict and uptight, then you follow along when Mom's a bit more relaxed for such things as--oh, I don't know--enforcing bedtime, the allowable age to read Harry Potter, or whether you can ride your bike to the pool. It's not such a bad deal, right?

I wish you could see how amazing you are. I know it's hard to do so when your benchmark is your two several-years-older siblings. But you're incredible, sweetie--good at everything you've ever tried (okay, keeping your room tidy, maybe not so much--but everything else) and so beautiful, clever, strong, and wise. Even though those two little brown-eyed brothers drive you nuts sometimes with all their mischief, JPD is your own special buddy, and MPD adores you and loves it so much when you play with him.
I am so proud of your hard work on your multiplication tables, your enthusiasm for soccer, your love of books, your progress with your piano lessons, your ambition for the school Christmas pageant auditions, your adventurous spirit, and your fierce individualism right in the middle of it all, to name a few things. You are often quiet (and sometimes very un-quiet!), and when I look into the depths of your dark chocolate-colored eyes, I wonder what you are thinking. No doubt, it's something wise.

All I want to know is, where have the past few years gone? How can you already be eight years old? Just yesterday, we were going to toddler story time at the library, or meeting your Dad for lunch in the middle of the workday, or you were widely renowned as "the cutest two-year-old I ever saw" by one of your babysitters, or smokin' the other preschoolers in swimming lessons or preschool snowski class (my favorite!). Just yesterday, we had to drive back two hours to retrieve your precious "nummy" from that hotel in Cleveland, because you would not sleep without it when we got to Philadelphia. Just yesterday, you were sleeping in the pack&play all summer in our apartment while we waited for our house to be renovated unexpectedly. Just yesterday, we had your 2-year-old Elmo birthday party on the floor of our new house because we had no furniture moved in yet. Just yesterday, you were in the Baby Bjorn at the Lincoln Park Zoo, sleeping the day away because you were only about 2 weeks old.

Just yesterday, I took this picture:And you're just as cute as always, year after year. I love you so much, KLD, my sweet "Tootch"!

October 7, 2010

Mommy Wars


To tell you the truth, when Jamie first recommended this book, I kinda expected it to be a big yawn. (I should have known better--Jamie's book recommendations are always spot-on!) I am SO over the whole stay-home-vs-working-mom thing. I even blogged about this topic already, here and here. I used to ponder this issue when I was in my 30's, a fresh refugee from corporate America, and a shiny new mom myself. Now? I'm no longer in my 30's, and I've done a little of both sides (a very little of the working Mom side), and I really just think Moms should set things up however they want to. Whatever works for you, your husband, your finances, your family. Really--whatever. As for me, I'm a total SAHM, no career aspirations whatsoever. Been there, done that.

That was about a month ago. I got the book, couldn't put it down, loved it, hated it, and--here's the freaky part--in the past week I've submitted my resume for two different full-time jobs, and I couldn't be more excited about maybe (MAYBE) becoming a working mom, after all.

It wasn't because of the book, of course. Or was it? Not really--it was just part of a serendipitous (i.e., divinely orchestrated) combination of events that may wind up, you know, just changing my whole life around. No big deal. But actually--sorry--this post is not about me and my little career aspirations. Stay tuned for that. This post is about the book.

Just like the throngs of Amazon reviewers, I have lots to say about this book. I agree with the criticism that many of the women whose essays are included are somewhat out of touch with reality outside of NYC--socioeconomic reality, flyover-country reality, just-keeping-food-on-the-table reality. Yes--many of the women in "Mommy Wars" don't get it, on a lot of levels.

I really liked many of the women in the book. But not all. The mom I most wanted to go to "war" with said that she thinks that truth be told, mothers who choose to stay at home with their children full-time really are just getting satisfaction from the martyrdom aspect of it all. No kidding. My second-most hated one seemed pretty proud of herself simply for opting against an abortion when she found herself pregnant. Sheesh--am I the one who's out of touch with reality here?

Despite these two (very) bad apples, I really did find the book fascinating and absorbing. Inspiring, too, since almost all of the women were professional writers of one flavor or another, which is what I've always wanted to be when I grow up. I did get an overwhelming sense of the take-your-breath-away love for one's children that takes most of us by surprise when we have babies. There's nothing like it, and all the women in the book--even the one who frankly admitted, even to her son, that she'd have aborted him back in 1964 if it had been legal--all the women did seem to love their kids a lot.

You know what, though--abortion really did come up quite a bit in this book. I can only recall one essay in which the author actually admitted having had an abortion, but the general attitude in all of the essays was, to me, rather startling. Apparently, for sophisticated urban writer moms, abortion is no big deal at all, even though no one seems to doubt that there's a real baby already growing in there. This, my friends, is where we are after a generation of legal abortion. Next stop--out-and-out infanticide, I suppose. I pray not--and I pray for these poor women to somehow, sometime, know that enthroning of Self is not the key to a happy life.

Which leads me to the second way that this book made me feel like a disenfranchised freak (did I say that?). To me, all the essays had this undercurrent of selfishness--what's best for me, how can I be fulfilled, I've got these talents and ambition. Well, sure, but--really? Here I've been thinking that I shouldn't really be thinking about any of that. I've been under the impression that the key to a happy life is humility, self-sacrifice, self-effacement, serving others. Pride--defined as the worship of Self--is the greatest sin of all, is it not?

I'm not trying to sound self-righteous here, I promise. This whole humility vs. pursuing-worldly-success conundrum has had me so tangled up, it's why I hardly blogged at all last week. Because humility, yes, but we are supposed to use our talents and gifts to our very best ability. "For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do," as St. Paul tells us in his letter to the Ephesians. Our work--how we spend our time on Earth--is our offering back to our Creator. We're called to make it the very best we can, no?

Maybe I am the one who's out of touch with so-called reality here, and I'm just on a waaaay different wavelength from all the women whom Leslie Morgan Steiner found to include in her book about Mommy Wars. Maybe I'm just part of some fringe group of uber-Catholics who still try to follow the Church's teachings about how to have a happy life. I didn't realize I lived in such a bubble. But I like it here. I think I'm going to stay.

The book? Sure, I liked it. It made me think. A lot, obviously. And that's what good books do.

October 5, 2010

A Case for Good Nutrition


Yesterday MPD and I had a delightful day visiting Jamie and company. But...here is what I ate and drank during the day:

- 1 large iced tea upon waking
- 2 large iced coffees with cream and Splenda, on the road trip to Jamie's
- 1 piece delicious chocolate velvet cake, made by Chef Jamie
- 1 serving Thai peanut chicken, Chef Jamie again
- 1 sinfully delicious Trader Joe's dark chocolate bar (yes, all of it)
- 1 large McDonald's Diet Coke to go w/the chocolate bar, on my way home

By the time I got back to pick WWD up at school by 3:15, My. Head. Hurt. So. Bad. I just wanted to stick my whole head in a cooler of ice. Seriously--I haven't had this bad of a headache in recent memory. Maybe it was even a migraine. I was just wasted for the whole evening--I started drinking lots of water, took a Tylenol, and ate a salad with the kids' dinner. A few hours later when I collapsed into bed, the headache was finally going away.

Do I need any more evidence that too much sugar and caffeine is bad for me? Not to mention the aspartame in that Diet Coke--and yes, for the most part, I'm still abstaining from that particular poison. It's clear, obvious cause and effect...eating bad stuff=feeling bad. Simple, right?

UPDATE: I forgot to mention that Bill was re-living his bartender days the night before, and I had 1-2-3 tasty cocktails and stayed up late. Might that have had something to do with my splitting headache? Nah.

August 12, 2010

Baby Pool Reflections

This has been a particularly nice summer at our pool. We've been hanging out there pretty much every morning, in and out of swim team, swim lessons, dive lessons, water ballet, and lots of evenings of just playing around.
MPD and I, of course, mostly hang out by the baby pool while everyone else's activities come and go. Our baby pool has a gate that separates it from the big pool area, a zero-depth entry, a nice mix of shade and sun, and a big tub of water toys that have been our friends more many years now.
When we first joined the pool, KLD was our baby pool regular, WWD and MRD were just learning to swim, and JPD was a nursing babe staying cool in his baby seat. Compared to those days, this summer's been a cinch! Nobody's nursing, the lifeguards keep JPD out of (serious) trouble, the big kids do their own thing with their friends, and MPD's past that stressful stage where I have to sit on the edge of the baby pool ready to catch him if he topples over face-first. What a summer of bliss, now that I think about it! (No doubt that's a sign that I'll be nursing again by next summer, or--yikes--huge, hot, and pregnant--oh my!).
Anyway, one of the nicest parts of the pool this summer has been the pleasant Mommy camaraderie around the baby pool this year. I have especially enjoyed chatting with the moms who have been holding down the baby pool fort with me while our big kids have their swimming lessons. Every year, it's always a combination of old and new mommy faces, as the toddlers become preschoolers and then eventually graduate out of the baby pool.
Very few mommies share my tenure under the baby pool umbrella. The moms of WWD's long-ago kindergarten friends are way gone--tanning and reading magazines over by the deep end, or not here at all after they drop off their no-longer-elementary-aged tweens. And, of course, the shiny-faced moms now debuting on the baby pool scene with their firstborns are a decade or so younger than me.
So am I ready to graduate from the baby pool? Yesterday some of the other baby pool veteran moms and I were discussing the possible end to our baby pool tenure. Sad, we agreed. For all of us forty-something moms, the move to the big pool is coming, ready or not.

I do like being a soft and rumply almost-worn-out mommy, kind of like a long-loved teddy bear. I don't want to go back to my shiny-new-mom days, at all. (I was way too stressed out about everything you can imagine! Now I'm quite the opposite.) But I do love the laid-back, shady baby pool scene with its tub of pool toys. I'm not ready to move on just yet.

August 5, 2010

My Kind of Town?


So Houston was all about my twenties. And it turns out that Chicago, along with its northern suburb Lake Forest, was all about my thirties.

My quick jaunt to the Windy City with the girls this past weekend was an unexpected trip down memory lane. It has now been six years since we moved away from Lake Forest and I was startled by the contrast between our small-town life and what might have been, had we not moved.

There really is just no place like Chicago. I remember the first time I saw the skyline in real-life: August of 1988, coming down the Kennedy Expressway (of course), at night, cruising over that Ohio street exit into Streeterville...NOTHING could have been more thrilling to my newly-graduated, full-fledged adult (ha!), 21-year-old self. From that viewpoint, it feels like the Chicago skyline is swallowing you. It's just huge. I know I said I love the Houston skyline; well, Chicago could eat about ten Houstons for breakfast. There is just no comparison.

Chicago has this energy that is hard to describe. The restaurants, bars, clubs, shopping, people, cars--just incredible. I love the juxtaposition of old and new buildings. The rich melting pot of neighborhoods from all over the globe amazes me; really, truly, I think every single part of the world must have an outpost there. Recently I read that Chicago's Polish population is second in size only to Warsaw's, in the whole world. Last weekend on Michigan Avenue, the girls had fun checking out license plates from lots of different states, and MRD was thrilled to hear a group of people speaking French behind us at the Cheesecake Factory.

The lakefront takes my breath away; you can stand in one place and turn one way--ginormous spread of huge buildings--turn the other way--vast blue emptiness, water as far as you can see. One winter night, frosty storm waves crashing onto Lakeshore Drive splashed my car as I drove north out of the city. Speaking of Lakeshore Drive...can anyone not drive fast on it? Well, at least as long as there's not too much traffic.

Chicago traffic...now that's breathtaking. Living in our sweet little town, the kids actually thought I was making it up when I told them that in Chicago, it regularly takes more than one or two turns at a red light before it is my turn to go. Back in his days as a single guy in Chicago, Bill would often return home on a Friday night (from a week of working out of town, say, in San Antonio with his brilliant colleague and bride-to-be) and drive around for an hour or two, looking for a parking place in front of his apartment in Lincoln Park.

When we bought our first house in Lake Forest, and I retired from la vida loca de consulting to stay at home with WWD, then MRD, life was anything but simple. The airport limo came for Bill at 5 a.m. most Mondays, to take him away for the week. Even when he was working in town, his hour-long commute meant that most weekdays, he didn't see the kids. And for me at home--well, going to Target with a couple of toddlers is scary enough even without a twenty-minute traffic-fight each way! Preschool? Better sign them up at age 6 months, or they might not get a spot. And the real estate prices--don't even get me started! Sure, there are lots of wonderful museums, which I did love--but the $20 to park, not so much. Finally, September 11, 2001 came along, and the idea of life in a major metropolitan area lost its appeal, big time.

Chicago is so cool and lots of fun, but, at least for me, not so much for actually living there in real life. I think the thing that I liked so much about it, once upon a time, was that Bill was there. What fun those Chicago weekends were! :) (Have you read Pioneer Woman's steamy love story about how she met her husband? Remember how before she met her Marlboro Man, she was planning a move to Chicago, where she was looking forward to being around all those cute Catholic guys? I'm just saying.)

The thing is, maybe I should just accept that I'm a suburban soccer mom at heart. (And swim mom, football mom, gymnastics mom, basketball mom, etc.) Not to mention that here in our bucolic paradise, there's always plenty of parking. And a cute Chicago Catholic guy, right here next to me in my very own living room.

July 22, 2010

Lookin' Good


Today was a much-needed rainy day around here. Pouring, all day. We did nuthin', all day. I woke up early and snuck out to Mass all by myself (pure bliss of course), then came home thinking about how my back wasn't hurting--significant, since during the last few days it's been threatening to have another full-out explosion.

By the time I changed out of my Mass clothes, my back hurt something fierce. It's an old pregnancy injury--my sacroiliac joint, to be precise. And on a bad day, it makes childbirth look like nuthin'. Today was not quite that bad of a day.

After breakfast, KLD asked me if she could give me a handful of change for some crisp dollar bills. I said sure--but she should put the change into a ziplock bag for me to use in the car for coffee runs and so on. She did and happily traipsed upstairs with her shiny new dollar bills.

Then I decided I needed to run to Walgreen's for one of those menthol patches for my back. On the way there, I decided I needed coffee.

Okay, so picture me: Changed into raggy old yoga pants, an old t-shirt, and Birkenstocks, hobbling out of the rain into McDonald's with a baggie of change, counting out nickels and pennies for a cup of McCafe. When a stylish mom with a couple of toddlers failed to meet my eye at the checkout, I realized that I probably looked totally like a homeless woman! Ha!

I guess I can be thankful that my kids are still just a little too young to be totally embarrassed by me! And that I didn't actually see anyone I know! Or perhaps my pedicure (and the bit of makeup I put on before Mass) gave my true identity away as just a lame, slobby suburban Mommy. :)

July 14, 2010

Goodbye Old Friend



I'll miss you.




Yes, it's true. Of course, I've quit before--for pregnancies, for Lent--but this time, I MEAN IT. I hope!

This summer I've been drinking a lot of Diet Coke. Since I normally drink a lot of Diet Coke, let me assure you that this summer I've been drinking A. LOT. OF. DIET. COKE. As in, I don't really wanna talk about how much.

And you know what? I feel like crap. I feel like crap so much that I've been to the doctor. My head hurts, I'm exhausted, I'm crabby, my blood pressure is inching up again, my back hurts, blah blah blah...

Lately I've been doing a little experiment to go along with a no-carb diet I'm sorta into these days...I substitute iced coffee, iced tea, or (what a concept) water for my Diet Coke at different times of the day. I do use Splenda if I feel like it, but absolutely no aspartame. And guess what--Diet Coke is making me sick. Typically I'll have a giant iced coffee out the door in the morning, then water until I'm on my way home from the pool, then iced tea. I feel fine with all of that. Then I get home and if I grab a Diet Coke--caffeine or no, it doesn't matter--BAM! Headache and sleepy. I've tried this experiment enough days now, with enough variables, that I'm sure of what's going on.

So yesterday I Googled "Diet Coke is making me sick" and "Aspartame is making me sick." And..yep, it's true; the stuff is totally poisonous. Go ahead and Google it yourself--what are you waiting for, a link? :)

You'll find lots of nasty, serious stuff--including all my symptoms, of course--and apparently aspartame has also been linked to MS and lupus-like symptoms along with a litany of other unpleasant side effects. Diet Coke contains as much as 50aspartame, and the rest of its ingredient list--featuring such delicacies as phosphoric acid and that gross artificial coloring--isn't much better! My favorite thing about aspartame, though, is that it breaks down into formaldehyde. In fact, if you don't keep your soda chilled, it will do so before you even drink the stuff--formaldehyde on the rocks, anyone?

(Of course, the FDA is completely unhelpful on this one, as they're no doubt completely bribed by Monsanto, the company that manufactures aspartame. It's always those eeeevil corporations, darn them! And guess who was the CEO of Searle, the company that originally invented aspartame before being acquired by Monsanto...Donald Rumsfeld, of course! It always comes back to the eeeevil Republicans, I tell you!)

Ahem. So anyway, today was my Day 1 without Diet Coke. I'm far from alone in this addiction--while you're Googling, check out "Diet Coke Addiction." You'll find posts like "Day 347 without Diet Coke." (I promise I won't be posting about Diet Coke for that long!) I do believe this is a real, serious thing, and that someday my kids will view my soda habit the way I view my parents' former nicotine addiction. So please pray for me; I do need to be around for my kids and, I'm hoping, grandchildren. And no--I don't think the formaldehyde will be much help in preserving me for them.

And you know what? I feel much better today already!

June 22, 2010

There's No Place Like...Houston


Dang-it all, I love Houston. I just do. I know that it’s glitzy to the point of extreme cheesiness, with a Gentlemen’s club on every corner. I know that its lack of zoning gives it a certain “something” that can be described as “quirky”—or just plain “gross.” I know that it’s roughly comparable to the Amazon rainforest in terms of heat and humidity, and that the sheer volume of traffic on the vast concrete freeways is enough to make any cowgirl quake in her boots.

But when I was a girl, a trip to the Houston Galleria easily rivaled Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. I’d always treat myself to a new paperback book, a gold bangle bracelet, a treat from that European chocolate shop with all those cool little marzipan figures. When I was a very young woman—old enough to drive but still young enough for the sight of city lights to take my breath away—seeing the Houston skyline at night, and sailing around the perimeter of downtown on the Pierce Elevated I-45 freeway, made me absolutely thrill with the possibilities and wonders of my life as it stretched out ahead of me.

I loved working downtown in the Pennzoil Building, wearing heels and a suit and a starched white cotton blouse and trying my best to act like a grownup. I loved driving my little white car to work on Memorial Drive past the park, with that shimmering skyline popping into view when I came up the hill. I love driving out west along Memorial, with all those graceful old—interspersed with new—houses. I love the crazy jumble of people from all over the globe that makes a Vietnamese restaurant a perfectly acceptable neighbor for a taco joint or a place serving up Cajun seafood.

I love the whole NASA thing, and the evidence of the oil business everywhere (especially at the prices at the gas pump!) and how you can take an hour’s drive and get to the beach. I love the sea gulls and palm trees, reminding me of the beach even around downtown. I do appreciate seeing right-leaning political viewpoints expressed on bumper stickers around town, and Houston certainly delivers on that. I love the Houston zoo; it’s my favorite one in the world, for sure. I love the graceful, gnarled old oaks lounging around everywhere, and the azaleas and the crepe myrtles and the monkey grass that lines so many walkways. I love when those walkways are made of pea-gravel, which reminds me so much of my grandmother’s house. Nothing says summer to me like the sound of the cicadas crackling in the trees on a stifling August afternoon.

In a strange way, I do love the summer heat, just because it belongs here. It’s connected to the glitz of the people, somehow. Maybe hot temperatures call for metallic sandals, bright glossy fingernails, tank tops, and expensive handbags. It’s certainly true that perfectly coiffed hair makes more sense here than in the wintry Midwest, where winter hats are smashing down your hair so often anyway. I think the heat is also connected to Houston’s culinary smorgasbord, although I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just that muy caliente outdoor dining is so deeply embedded in my memories that I can’t think of eating Tex-Mex, or barbecue, or fried shrimp without psychologically experiencing sitting in the Texas heat as well. After all, that’s why we need plenty of margaritas or sweet iced tea to cool us off with our lunch.

It’s funny how cities do have personalities, for whatever reason. Chicago is solid, experienced, known for its gangsters and skyscrapers. Minneapolis is funky, Norwegian-inspired, otherworldly in its wholehearted enthusiasm for wintertime. Dallas is hip, polished, sure of itself. To me, Houston is real—the place where ladies get out of pickup trucks sporting high heels, and where nobody’s perfect, but anything’s possible. No guts, no glory, down there in that steaming concrete oil town, home of Enron and BP, but also home to NASA and Continental Airlines, Rice University, and a beautifully built new Roman Catholic Cathedral, earthy stucco amidst the steel-and-glass downtown.

Sure, Dallas is way more stylish. Austin is much prettier. Don't get me wrong; it's not that I want to actually live in Houston, necessarily. But for me, as it turns out, there is really no place like home. And Houston is it.

May 23, 2010

It's Not You, It's Me


If you are my Facebook friend, and you've noticed my recent absence, I must tell you that it's nothing personal. I would never un-friend you, I promise. Someone did that to me once and it caused me a ridiculous amount of angst. (I'm over it.) I would, however, un-friend Facebook. And a couple of weeks ago, in order to step back and ponder the drug that is Facebook, I deactivated my account.

It's the "in" thing to do, apparently, since there's even an official "Quit Facebook Day" quickly approaching. Recently I've come across articles about detoxing from Facebook all over the place. Privacy concerns seem to be paramount, but to me it's more personal than just data (which, of course, can be quite personal).

I've been in the habit of posting links on FB to articles that I find interesting. Often--not always--when I do so, I have a particular FB friend or group of friends in mind, who I think would enjoy the link, hate the link, laugh at the link with me, or react in some predictable way or another. I've recently figured out the hard way, though, that all my other FB friends see those links too. (Duh!) And I don't know about you, but my FB friends are a wonderfully diverse group. Someone I haven't seem since childhood, for example, could easily take one of those links the wrong way, if I intended it for my fellow forty-something Catholic mom friends, or vice-versa.

I'd been thinking of FB as a big party, where I got to see everybody I ever knew in my whole life all together in one place. "Share the love!" I thought. And share I did--whatever was on my mind. Now I wish I'd been a bit more circumspect, because at least one of the links I posted seems to have hurt someone's feelings.

See, the thing about FB is that there's no context for discussion. You can't sit down and hash things out over a cup of coffee. You can't roll your eyes when you say something tongue-in-cheek. You can't see when the other person is starting to frown, and quickly reorganize your point. You can't even know who's "listening" to your conversation! And all that sets up a perfect storm of potential for hurt feelings, which isn't what I intended when I signed up for FB, at all.

This is, I suppose, what everyone's talking about when they decry social media and how it has impacted contemporary communication and our relationships. Of course it's much easier to type something bold, brash, and hurtful than it is to say it to someone's face. Even though a FB profile isn't anonymous, it can only provide a one-dimensional perspective of someone, which can hardly represent the whole person.

All that's not to say that FB isn't worth doing. Sure, it's fun. The best part is finding old friends, some of whom I never thought I'd find again, ever! So cool! And regardless of whatever overanalyzing anyone does about how social media are changing "kids today," there's no turning back the clock. It's the new reality. As I've just learned, the key thing with FB is to treat FB friends with just as much care as real-life friends, because, after all, they're just as real.

The Holy Father gives us bloggers and Facebookers his blessing, calling on Christians to
"utilize the new technologies of communication in a positive way and to realize the great potential of these means to build up bonds of friendship and solidarity that can contribute to a better world"

and appealing for cyberspace to be a place that promotes a

"culture of respect, dialogue and authentic friendship where the values of truth, harmony and understanding can flourish."
Yeah, that's it. What he said. :) As always, he's got it just right. If only I'd followed his words in the first place! But I don't suppose he has time to help solve the data privacy issues?!

May 20, 2010

May 20, 1985

Today is 25 years since my dad died, at my age--43. We knew about his kidney cancer for about 10 months or so before we lost him to it. I was 18 and had just finished my freshman year at the University of Texas at the time. I have never written or talked about that time, because I've never really had a lot to say. (I still don't, but bear with me--ha!)

I think it's strange that my memories of his last days and his funeral are so blurry. I can't remember if I saw him just before he died, or a few days before, or a week before. I'm pretty sure I saw him still in the hospital, after he died, with a red rose in his hands, clasped across his chest. To tell you the truth, I can't remember feeling anything other than "so this is how it ended up." I must have been numb.

I was numb for the funeral, too--people tell me that seeing my brother and I stoically walking hand-in-hand down the aisle was almost creepy, because of our apparent lack of emotion. But at the time, I was just doing what I thought was the "proper" behavior at one's dad's funeral (I was, and am, quite into being proper--I can't help it!). Sobbing in front of everyone just wasn't my way of dealing with the situation, and Keith followed along, as was his way. I didn't cry at all about it for a long time; I don't know why.

I believe that our life events and circumstances provide the forge that God uses to mold, shape, and carve us into the beings He has planned for us to be. He does bring great good from great sadness, after all. Sometimes it's easy to drive yourself crazy trying to analyze His divine plans. It's taking me a lifetime to stop analyzing, and just live! But my dad's death was certainly a pivotal point in both my brother's and my faith journeys, if you go in for such concepts as "faith journeys." After that year, Keith and I both developed into extremely fervent Christians.

I can't speak for Keith, but to me, when confronted with something so profound as the early loss of my father, I was struck once and for all with the totality of my powerlessness. We are not in control, after all. Until then, I'd been pretty much focused on carving out my own contribution to the world, working hard to build my resume and climb the ladder of earthly achievement. In other words, I was a totally selfish teenager, as my dad would have been first in line to tell you. But when he died, all of that began to seem like a waste of time. My world view changed in favor of things that are more deeply relevant--relationships, not my resume. And since then I've never once believed that I could control my own life. If God was so obviously in charge of when and how our lives end, I figured, how could we really do anything at all without Him?

I've seen this go the other way, you know. My mom and my grandmother both had a spiritual response to my dad's death that was the polar opposite of mine and Keith's. They became angry with God, and my mom, at least, has never been able to trust Him since. To tell you the truth, it is one of the greatest sadnesses of my life that now, with her disability, she can't understand things about God in any way but a very childlike one. Of course, that's exactly how He wants us to know Him, though, isn't it?

Twenty-five years after the fact, when I try to remember clear details about my father's wake/viewing and funeral, they just don't come. I have flashes--riding in the limosine past the chemical plant where he worked for his whole life, that hand-holding walk with my brother, what I was wearing (of course), reaching out the limo window for a hug from my childhood neighbor, whom I hadn't seen in years--but I'd expect to remember much more than I do. Other memories, of things much less important from the same time period, are much crisper, and I can't imagine why that would be. Perhaps the fact that there have been several other very similar family funerals at the exact same funeral home, with burials just a few yards from my father's, with many of the very same people attending, has blurred those 1985 memories. I am scared, humbled, and saddened by the fact that one or two more of those family funerals are looming in the not-too-distant-at-all future.

Not to be over-the-top dramatic or trite about it, but I really think that my dad's death was when I started--just started, of course--to grow out of my selfish, spoiled teenage self. And perhaps that is a very small part of the good that God brought out of that young death. In a tiny way, maybe, my dad died for me, in that way. Perhaps he (God? My dad?) knew there was no other way to snap me out of it! And now, after twenty-five years, I see my dad every day, of course, in the five precious little faces and souls that take after him in so many ways. I know that he sees them too, and he is so proud.

April 26, 2010

My Pro-Life Story: Postscript(!)

Thanks for reading my little pro-life story; thanks very much for emailing your thoughts and comments.

And you’re right; I left some things out. What about rape? What about saving the life of the mother? What about the fact that women with unwanted pregnancies have always found ways of terminating them, sometimes with unsafe or even tragic results?

Yes, what about those cases? They are nightmare scenarios, to be sure. I used to think that these kinds of scenarios were so awful that even the possibility that they might occur made it necessary for abortion to be legal across the board. But once I realized that pre-born babies are, in fact, human beings, it gave me a different perspective on these scenarios. No longer did an abortion seem like a satisfactory solution—ever.

See, I just don’t think that it’s okay to kill a human being, ever. Once you open the option of one group—say, doctors—judging the potential quality of life for another—say, a pre-born baby who may or may not be born less than perfectly—and therefore determine whether they should live or die, you start down a slippery slope that doesn’t lead anywhere good.

I clearly remember my dear friend Leslie’s voice on the phone, years ago, when she told me the results of her routine ultrasound with her second pregnancy. “Kim, there are some problems,” she said, and I could hear her tears. Her son had some kind of developmental problem that involved his bones not solidifying. She said that in the many ultrasounds that followed that first one, they could see the baby’s bones curving and spiking at odd, curving angles. Because his bones were so fragile, he would never survive delivery, they said. He would never be able to walk or move or—well, live, they said. Of course they encouraged her to “terminate” him. She didn't.

Although Leslie and John expected the worst—their pastor was on hand for delivery, ready to bless the baby as he died—her son was born with no problems. He’s now a healthy teenager with no significant health problems.

There are countless stories of doomsday prenatal diagnoses like Leslie’s, which turn out to be wrong. How many of these stories end differently, with heartbroken parents and an empty place at the family’s table? Even if a parent could decide that it was actually merciful to spare their child the pain of being born for just a short life, or a life of disability, how could they ever, ever be sure enough of the diagnosis?

There are also many stories of parents who gratefully count their few minutes or hours holding their newborn before he died as some of the most precious time they could have imagined. And most parents of babies born with Down’s syndrome seem to say that their children have taught them profound depths of joy in life that they never could have imagined. Did you know that over 90% of Down’s babies are now aborted? Who are we—who are the doctors—who is anyone to say that these babies’ lives are not worth living?

But what about rape? Could anything be more ghastly than having to carry your rapist’s child? Of course not—but how does condemning the baby to death for his father’s crime help? I can’t imagine that it would erase the horror of the rape. In fact, many abortion survivors experience their abortions as an act of violence against their bodies. Of course in the case of a rape, this would make things worse, not better. It turns out that for many rape victims, giving their children life helps them to overcome their horror and reclaim their strength following the violence they survived.

Incest is actually different from rape as it relates to abortion, because abortion actually enables the criminal in many of these cases. An obvious pregnancy would shine a light on the darkness of incest in some situations; conversely, incest often can continue, hidden, due to the ease of procuring an abortion.

What could be more heart-wrenching than facing a pregnancy that might threaten your life, or even deprive your older children of their mother? I can’t even imagine having to face that situation. But which of us, as moms, would not give her life for her child? Of course we would. And killing a baby to save his mother requires that judgment again—which life is more valuable.

St. Gianna Molla gives us such a beautiful example for this; her clear instructions to her husband were “If it is a choice between my life and the baby’s, do not hesitate. Save the baby.” No doubt, her older children missed their mother very much, following her death from hemorrhaging a couple of weeks after giving birth to their little sister. No doubt, they are happy, healthy adults now, secure in the knowledge that their mother is a real-life saint.

What about the argument that women will find a way to abort their babies one way or another, so we should keep it legal in an effort to keep it safe? A couple of thoughts here: First, even though it’s legal, abortion is often still unsafe. And should we legalize all criminal activity because it will occur whether it is legal or not?

All human activity is the result of personal choice; government may limit or attempt to influence those choices for the good of society. The argument that people face difficult circumstances and tough choices so we should make this easier for them because they will do it anyway just isn’t logical. Poor people face difficult circumstances and choose to commit armed robbery to get cash to buy food; should we also legalize armed robbery?

In the case of these nightmare scenarios related to abortion, I'm not sure what the legality of the whole thing should be, to tell you the truth. But a whole lot of abortions happen that have nothing to do with rape, incest, or the life of the mother, and it seems obvious to me that laws in fact do help shape the morality of society, for better or worse.

Each year, in the United States alone, over 1.3 million babies are aborted. 99% of these abortions are not the result of rape, incest, or danger to maternal or fetal life. Yet those who favor abortion in our country often use these rare cases as the argument for keeping abortion legal and widely available. That’s a lot of collateral damage, don’t you think? Imagine the outcry if the U.S. were engaged in a military operation that had 99% collateral damage; could anyone defend the action regardless of the reason?

Once I realized that a person’s life truly does begin at conception, I realized that protecting a “woman’s right to choose” really does infringe on the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for 1.3 million American boys and girls per year. Since 1973, that’s about a third of a generation of Americans. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but to me, this doesn’t feel like something I can ignore.

Speaking of hurting feelings, I want to say clearly that I certainly don’t think that women who have abortions are criminals, at all. I think they are victims. I want to do anything I can possibly do to help them—before, during, after, or many years after they are pregnant. Abortion is a gravely evil lie that our society spins and sells quite effectively; men and women should be saved from it, not judged for becoming its victim. I wholeheartedly believe that we must do everything possible to eliminate the circumstances that lead to unwanted pregnancies in the first place.

Maybe that can be the topic for my next six-part post!

Just kidding--now back to posting family photos…

April 20, 2010

My Pro-Life Story: Conclusion

The background for this post is in Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

Although God never causes suffering, sadness, or evil, He does allow them in the world, and He brings forth beauty and glory and good from them. He’s outside of time, and He sees the big picture—the whole of history, all in one exquisite tapestry—all at once. This is why we can think of Him having a perfect and divine plan, of which any one of us is a tiny, vital, part.

When it comes to discerning God’s plan for my life, I tend to be quite obtuse. It is often necessary for Him to hit me over the head (or shove me to my knees, as the ever wise and insightful Rebecca says) before I get my head out of the sand. My three miscarriages, at progressively later gestation dates, surrounded by many smaller encounters and exposures with thoughts and issues related to life, got me on board the pro-life ship in a big way. (He showed me His thoughts on birth control, too, in a similar manner, but that’s a topic for another post.)

Science clearly shows us that life begins at conception. It’s not a matter of opinion at all; it’s the truth. In 1973, when Roe v. Wade passed, they didn’t have the ultrasound technology that we have now to see the little hands and feet, the tiny thumb-sucking, the tiny—but strong—heart beating. As another ever-wise-and-insightful dear friend put it, following her first baby’s birth, “Go ahead, have your ‘choice,’ but just recognize what it is you’re choosing to do.”

It’s tempting to view abortion as a way to simply turn back the clock on an unwanted pregnancy. But empirical evidence shows us that it almost never works out that way. It’s always tragic and life-altering for everyone involved. The only exception—and one could certainly argue that it’s a tragedy for them too—may be those with an ugly, profit-driven agenda behind abortion. Abortion is a billion-dollar industry, after all, which enjoys the support of very influential people in very high places. Of course those whose livelihood depends on abortion are hard-selling the myth that abortion is a simple commodity with no moral fallout.

If you don’t agree, and you’ve bought their spin that “reproductive freedom” is a good thing for women, then you may not be aware of the statistics on the percentage of cases that involve women being coerced or threatened into terminating their baby’s life. Or perhaps you haven’t considered that having the easy option to just “take care of it” tends to make the pregnancy the woman’s responsibility alone, when it actually isn’t.

If you think, as I used to, that a baby in his mother’s womb isn’t fully a human baby, because he’s connected to his mom and dependent upon her, then perhaps you haven’t considered the fact that this same argument applies to a three-day-old, three-month-old, or three-month-old nursing newborn.

As Jen Fulwiler points out here, in one of my favorite abortion-related articles of all time, identifying a specific group of people (African-Americans in the 18th century, Jews in the 20th century, baby girls in ancient Greece) as something other than human has led to atrocities throughout the course of history. Abortion is the atrocity-related issue of our time, which is exactly why it is so divisive.

Nobody wants to offend their friends by talking about a tragic, horrifying topic that we can hardly even bear to think about. But that’s just what the abortion industry wants us to do: Keep it hush-hush. Don’t think too much about what is really going on.

Nobody wants unsafe, back-alley abortions. Nobody wants babies to come into the world unloved or uncared for. Nobody wants the government—God forbid—telling us what to do with our bodies. No one is against freedom. But laws, after all, exist to protect the weakest members of society; do they not? Certainly in a country founded upon the principles of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," the right to life includes everyone?

People need to understand what science is telling us about the miracle of human life. It’s far more amazing and beautiful than our society acknowledges. Society would have us settle for a demeaned self-concept that enshrines transient physical pleasure and short-term convenience as the highest accomplishments we can hope for. We deserve better.

The story continues, here.

April 19, 2010

My Pro-Life Story, Part 4

Continued from Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3.

The next month, there was another baby on the way, and her little brother came two years later. By age 38, I had my four children. Along the way, though, I’d noticed that my own plans about having babies (in which month I’d prefer their birthdays; no summer pregnancies, please; not too close of a birthday to their siblings'; and that under-35 strategy) never worked out the way I’d expected. The miscarriages had made me realize what miracles babies actually are, of course—and that, clearly, I wasn’t in charge.

In the meantime, I’d learned a lot more about my Catholic Church’s teaching on family planning. That’s a topic for another post, but I’ll just say that it’s not simply a matter of “the more little Catholics, the better,” which is what I’d always assumed. When I researched the Church’s life-affirming position, I was surprised to find it spot on. Not only that, but when I considered the shocking concept of having a fifth child at the ripe old age of 40 it seemed selfish not to, given the many blessings that we have to share with another sweet baby soul.

And so, another fast forward, and I’m 40 and pregnant with #5. The baby was a girl, due in June. That February, when I was 18 weeks pregnant, my doctor failed to find her heartbeat at a routine appointment. My doctor held my hand as I cried while we tried and tried to find my baby's heartbeat; a few minutes later, "fetal demise" was confirmed by ultrasound.

My doctor told me that due to my baby's advanced gestational age, it would be necessary to induce labor and deliver the baby.

"Why," I sobbed, "can't I just be 'put under' and have a D&C," like the prior two miscarriages? I was fixated on the idea of being unconscious for the whole thing, as you can imagine.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't want that," my obstetrician said, referring to a 'Dilatation and Curettage' procedure at 18 weeks. "It would be too horrible. They would have to take the baby out in pieces."

Two days later, I went to Labor & Delivery at the hospital, where the staff induced labor and I delivered my baby girl, Margaret Grace. She was very tiny, very red (since at that age a baby's skin is still transparent), and very much no longer alive. The staff encouraged us to hold her, take pictures, grieve, and say goodbye. They had a tiny baby blanket and hat for her. We cried, and prayed, and a priest came to give her a blessing. We loved her, and we still miss her. Her brothers and sisters cried, and never got to meet her (they still talk about her--especially KLD who feels quite ripped off that she didn't get that baby sister). Not once did anyone ever suggest that Margaret was anything other than a baby, of course.

Imagine my horror when it occurred to me that this exact same experience could be re-enacted in another mother's life, with the chilling difference that the baby's heart was still beating when the whole procedure began.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't want that. It would be too horrible. They would have to take the baby out in pieces."

Imagine the horror of anyone doing that to a tiny baby--on purpose.

Click here for the story conclusion.

April 18, 2010

My Pro-Life Story, Part 3

Continued from Part 1 and Part 2:

I became pregnant for the fourth time at age 34. With two successful deliveries behind me, my biggest concern was how I would manage three children aged three and under. I’d always wanted four children, you see, and I wanted to have them all before I was 35, because at the time, the prevailing wisdom held that moms over 35 were statistically much more likely to have a baby with Down’s Syndrome. Also, I didn’t really know anyone who’d had children after 35--at least not on purpose.

Moms who have lost a child to miscarriage are especially nervous during the first trimester; since my first loss it has always been hard to believe that my baby will really be safely born. Passing that 12-week mark is huge. And statistically, once you make it past 12 weeks, you’re pretty much in the clear, especially once the baby’s heartbeat has clearly been established.

I was 14 weeks pregnant and had already seen that tiny beating heart twice when, at an office visit, they couldn’t find my baby's heartbeat with the Doppler.

“Don’t worry,” they said. “Let’s just take a peek on the ultrasound to see what’s going on.”

I kept the printout from that ultrasound. The clearest thing—besides the tiny little ribcage, which was very, very still—was a miniature hand, raised in a goodbye wave, floating as if in space. That was 2001, and sometimes I still cry when I think about that little hand. And the ultrasound tech, with a really bad look on her face: "Oh, Kimberly, I'm so sorry." At such times, sometimes it's actually helpful to have a toddler in the room with you; Mommy responsibility keeps you from completely falling apart.

This time, I knew better than to try to stay at home for the whole thing. We’d moved by then, too, and our first little house was only about 10 minutes from the hospital.

I waited too long. I had the baby in my bathroom. It was tragic, and startling, mostly because—it was a baby. My 14-week-old fetus was shaped exactly like a tiny little human, complete with arms, legs, fingers, toes. I’d never imagined that a miscarriage would produce anything but blobs of tissue—that’s all they ever talk about, after all. My sweet husband (Remember that ‘wise and wonderful’ colleague from the beginning of this story? It’s him.) wrapped up the baby’s body and brought it with us to the ER.

I’d thought that no miscarriage could be harder than that first one. After all, I had two kids already, and as an experienced miscarry-er, I was tough. Right? Wrong. I fell apart. Good thing for the profuse amount of pictures of my two toddlers that summer, because I don’t remember much of it. We were moving, of course. And then came the 9/11 attacks, which rocked everyone's world. Of course, I was desperate to become pregnant again—and hysterical when two whole months (!) of trying went by with no baby on the way.

Part 4 is here.

April 17, 2010

My Pro-Life Story, Part 2

Continued from Part 1, which is here.

Fast forward again, this time to my 31-year-old self (now Catholic by the way), crying in the bathroom of my Chicago apartment with the heartbreak of miscarrying my first child. At 11 weeks gestation, my precious, already-beloved baby had no heartbeat, and suffered a “spontaneous abortion.” (I hate that they call it that on the forms—like a knife in my stomach in more ways than one.) I had no idea what to expect, and no idea what was going on in my abdomen at that point. My OB/Gyn (a lesbian abortionist when not at her day job, about which I was, of course, oblivious—well, not the lesbian part) recommended that I “let my body expel the tissue naturally,” or something like that, which basically meant crying and hurting and bleeding all weekend, wondering when it would be over.

The doctor had given me a prescription for some kind of something that would help my uterus contract and settle down when the whole thing was over.
“Take it after several large pieces of tissue are expelled,” the nurse instructed me.
“What do you mean?” I said, “How big?”
“Oh, you’ll know,” she said.

Well, I didn’t know. I got it wrong and took the medicine too soon, which resulted in a horrible trip to the ER in the middle of the night (does anyone ever go to the ER in the daytime, I wonder?) and an overnight stay in the hospital. I can still picture my doctor’s gentle, comforting smile early the next morning when she came to check on me; she did make me feel better that morning. Despite the bad call about the do-it-yourself miscarriage, she was a skilled physician who went on to deliver my first- and second-born children in the two years following that first heart-wrenching loss.

Not many people talk about miscarriages. (When you have one, you find out that they are actually quite common.) For some reason, it can feel embarrassing, like the whole pregnancy was more of a misdiagnosis than an actual child who died. This denial, I think, makes it harder to process your grief over the loss. Nowadays, I know people who would have had a funeral for that baby, and I wonder if doing so would have helped me grieve.

Part 3 is here.