Silver Linings

My compression stockings may make me look like an even bigger fashion reject than I already am (particularly since maternity clothes seem to only come in garish colors and prints and are not particularly attractive) and they may make my core body temperature rise 10 degrees now that it's warm out, however ...

SILVER LINING: I almost never have to shave my legs. And apparently leg hair requires oxygen (or blood circulation) to grow, because it grows much more S-L-O-W-L-Y underneath these fabulous socks.

The Frontier might not get 300 days of sunshine a year, have an ocean or Sea World nearby or boast fabulous seafood, sushi and baja-style Mexican food, however ...

SILVER LINING: Staying here means living in a state that isn't falling apart at the seams (yet), the cost of living is much less and there isn't a moving truck involved (yet).

Woodstock is getting her two top canine teeth (apparently she is unable to cut just one tooth at a time), making her as moody as a 13-year-old girl, however ...

SILVER LINING: it also makes her extra snuggly and extra appreciative when mom feeds her popsicles (a special treat) and soft mushy stuff like cold yogurt and warm oatmeal.

I love silver linings!

Wait, Not Yet

I had an epiphany this week (they do still happen, if only rarely, while pregnant): last year at this same time I was stuck in a job I'd been praying to leave for six months. Everyone told me to quit my job - my friends, my head shrinker, my family. (Himself did not - in self-preservation he tried not to talk about my job at all, as it would inevitably result in some sort of mass hysteria on my end). Normally when everyone is saying "RUN" I run, but this time ... the quietest voice inside said, "Wait. Not just yet."

Wait! Wait? What?! I spent a good deal of time telling Him exactly what I thought of that answer - couldn't He understand that I was dying a little every day? Couldn't He understand that my boss was a tyrannical lunatic who changed her mind as often as Heidi's daughter changes princess dresses? Didn't He get the fact that when one is financially dependent on one's paycheck having it be days, weeks, late was a problem (not to mention the bounced checks or the incorrect checks)?

Never did it cross my mind that it probably wasn't a good idea to try and explain things to God. Yet, despite all the logic and advice in the world, I waited. And waited. And cried. A lot. At least I listened, even if I did murmur about it for six whole months. Unfortunately, it's more likely because I was too afraid of being unemployed for a long period of time than any grand display of faith.

Then, the events of Friday the 13th occurred, and I was spun into a web of absolute devastation. If only I had quit, on my terms, I wouldn't be facing someone who was telling me I wasn't competent and did a terrible job. I spent the weekend begging Him to reconsider the "wait, not just yet" answer. Days later, I received the answer I'd alternately hoped for and feared for six months: Now.

I gleefully quit my job. I laughed all the way to the parking lot - during the points I wasn't thinking about how on earth I was going to make an income without a job.

Days later, The Office - a client - hired me full-time almost immediately. Same pay. Less stress. MUCH less drama. I said yes because that option felt best for my family and I eventually felt peace for the first time in months - even if I was bored stiff and deeply wounded, feeling as if I'd been shattered into thousands of pieces.

As it turns out, The Office was the answer to the six months of trying to change God's mind. He knew all along. I couldn't see past my immediate misery to understand it wasn't permanent. The boredom has passed and The Office has allowed me to expand my skills, to experiment with new ones, to rebuild my confidence, to have a consistent (correct, non-bouncing) paycheck, to make a difference. Not to mention, it often allows me to work from home, flex-time and whatever else I need to do in order to be the best mother I can be while I have to be employed full-time.

More than that, however, this week, I learned, that The Office will allow me to do the one thing I haven't dared hope for: have paid maternity leave. Not for long - 6 to 8 weeks of full-pay - but more than I ever expected. I can't begin to put into words the enormity of the burden this has relieved from my shoulders. This time, I did not have to bargain with the Devil and sell my soul, my sanity and the first six weeks of my child's life in order to keep my job. This time, I do not have to work part-time eight days after giving birth - and be railroaded into feeling guilty for not being available whenever The Factory felt like it. This time, I can celebrate the birth of our daughter, revel in the love of my two little girls, and go crazy handling only the demands of motherhood. Not other option I have had over the last 18 months would have granted me all of that. None.

Of course you know why I had to wait ... there wasn't the freedom in the budget for The Office to hire me before the Friday the 13th episode, nor was their relationship so tainted with The Factory that they'd even consider breaking their contract to hire me away. It required a perfect, and painful, storm on both sides.

It has been quite the journey. Months later, with the clarity of hindsight, I can say that "Wait. Not Yet" has been one of the best answers to a prayer I've ever received.

I send my apologies and stand quite humbled. And quite blessed.

I am Woman ...

I consider myself a feminist, in some sense. Not in the radical-going-to-burn-my-bra-maneater sense, in the "just because I'm a woman does not mean I'm incompetent, should be given less respect or fewer opportunities" respect. I view women and men as equals in the sense that both contribute enormously to society. Women aren't better than men. Men aren't better than women. We contribute equally to the good (and bad, sigh) of society - but in different ways. We are not the same, but that doesn't mean the same opportunities shouldn't be afforded us.

Yet, I think feminists did themselves (and the world) no favors when they failed to think their demands all the way through 40 years ago. They demanded they should be able to receive an education at the best schools, get jobs and wear pants. All wonderful things - things that have blessed my life enormously (especially the pants - especially in The Frontier in the winter). And society said, "okay." (after much persuasion, but that's beside the point).

So now, 40 years and several generations later, women get to go to virtually any college of their choice, have jobs and wear pants. Yet somehow, they forgot to negotiate, and are still responsible (in the vast majority of cases)in the eyes of society, culture, and, often, their homes - for nearly all of the domestic responsibilities and childcare on top of the expectations that they maximize their earning potential. In the demand to be liberated from society's view that women were inferior, they forgot to say, "wait a minute, no one can do everything all at once." Instead, women leapt to their feet, rushed out to try on their new rights, got caught up in all of the "things" their new found status afforded them and became caught in a cycle that leaves a generation of women more depressed, less healthy, more unhappy and less fulfilled than ever before. Radical feminists would blame men for "failure to see the obvious," but truthfully, the blame lies with us as much as anyone. No one told me I had to be superwoman - I just assumed it, and accepted the mantle without question.

This all came to mind this weekend while reading a pregnancy/childbirth book. A paragraph in it struck me. To paraphrase, it said that women's bodies were designed to bear children, however, they were not designed to bear children and function at the same level as they did prior to pregnancy. It went on to talk about the fact that now that more and more women are working full-time and living away from extended family, that they are expected to (and expect themselves to) not show a moment of weakness. They are expected to keep the same level of productivity at home and in the workplace, accomplish the same things - and to feel great while doing it.

It really struck me - on a day when I was feeling absolutely overwhelmed with the enormity of life. The entire chapter talked about women not stopping to care for themselves - ignoring their bodies - in pregnancy because they have been conditioned for years to not show signs of weakness. It saddened me to realize that society does indeed see pregnancy as a weakness - an ailment of sorts. It is something to be looked at as a temporary disability, a mere inconvenience, that will soon clear up allowing everything to go back to "normal."

Except, it doesn't. Pregnancy forever changes not only a woman's body (there are several body parts that will never quite look/function the same again), but a woman's heart, her mind, her ambition - her soul. It leaves an indelible brand that forever alters her very being. There is no going back to "normal" - nor a desire to do so - rather there is an adjustment to a new status quo.

I told Himself several weeks ago, "I firmly believe in woman's role in creation and childbearing (and rearing), but I also firmly believe that my body (or mind) was not meant to bear children while balancing the entire known universe on her laptop." Pregnancy is an breathtaking (sometimes literally!) experience that even at its worst points of discomfort (or sheer agony), is a celebration of a loving Creator - of life - of miraculous biology that leaves one in continual awe that her body is accomplishing such an amazing feat.

And yet, after a long day at the office, facing even longer hours at a second job as "Domestic Goddess and Wife", it's hard to remember the sheer miracle of life growing inside of one's body. It's hard not to curl up with a dozen pillows in the fetal position and will this to be over already so one can get on with life.

It is a sad state when the creation of a new life means so little as to be written off as an "inconvenience" that one should just "buck up" and "soldier through," without thought as to the cost. I'm not asking for bon bons and daytime soaps - I'm asking for a little slower pace, an afternoon nap and an understanding that creating a new little person is the equivalent of a third full-time job - one that comes with a single chance to get it right and has the potential to affect generations to come.

We might have won the battle, but I feel as if women are losing the war.

Those of You Planning on a Beach Vacation ...

...should reschedule.

Move to San Diego is off. For good.

It's not something we're discussing in detail in the '70s Palace these days, because of the way it happened (or hasn't happened, Himself knows, but hasn't been officially notified by the San Diego team or HR).

So, a dozen boxes to unpack (or stare at until we know when/if/where we're going to move months down the road). A garden to finish (someone please tell me what to do with the massive amount of tulips in my garden space - do they come back? Can I cut them down? Do anything to make them look nice now that they've expended their springtime glory?). A summer to plan - in The Frontier.

It's been a long roller coaster ride the past 3 1/2 months.

The whole thing probably explains why I couldn't get a single realtor to call me back in San Diego.

I'm going to miss the anticipation of a sunshiny winter and a full-time work-from-home gig. Not to mention the raise, which would mean less time I have to do a full-time-gig at all.

This too shall pass. This too shall be for our benefit. It just doesn't settle anything. Himself still will be transferred somewhere, sometime. We just don't know where or when.

Murphy's law says it will be sometime late August - just when Baby Girl #2 is supposed to make her earthly debut. Because isn't that how it always happens?

I'd rather not have to repeat this week.

Breaking (Obvious) News

Yesterday's health headline on MSNBC was "Pregnant Women More At Risk From Swine Flu".

A more obvious headline (and a more panic-inducing one for already homormonally deranged pregnant women) could not have been crafted.

What was more eye-rolling however, were the less-than-newsworthy tidbits the article provided, including:

• So far, the swine flu has not proven to be much more dangerous than seasonal influenza, and it’s not clear whether or not pregnant women catch swine flu more often than other people.
• In general, flu poses added risks for pregnant women
• Pregnancy weakens a woman’s immune system, so that she’s more likely to suffer pneumonia when she catches the flu
• Pregnant women with asthma and some other health conditions are particularly at risk for complications.

Anyone else wondering how on earth that warrants a news article? Shouldn't it be obvious? ANY infectious disease puts people in certain groups at higher risk - pregnant women, small children, the elderly and those of weakend immune systems in particular.

The entire rest of the article goes on to talk about how Swine Flu does or doesn't differ from the regular flu virus, fears of it mutating and how the antiviral drugs are a good idea to lessen it's effects.

I can (sort of) understand the inital fear - an unknown virus, proving to be rather strong in Mexico, begins spreading worldwide. But I am at a total loss how it is STILL warranting fear-mongering headlines in the media. It's far less deadly than the regular flu (thus far), obviously is going to be more dangerous for certain groups and people do need to take stock of their personal hygiene, but does any of that warrant the crazy headlines/updates that are still going on? A simple "don't forget to keep washing your hands" PSA ought to suffice.

Signed,
Pregnant Woman with Asthma (who washes her hands and is healthy and sees no reason for publishing obvious "news" that is just meant to scare people)

I See My Mother Kneeling...

There is a children's church song that was one of my favorites when I was a child, "Love is Spoken Here." The first verse goes:

I see my mother kneeling with our family each day.
I hear the words she whispers as she bows her head to pray.
Her plea to the Father quiets all my fears,
And I am thankful love is spoken here.

As a child, a teen, an adult, I generally thought of the "her plea to the Father" as one of those of the "Father, please keep my children from driving me insane and selling them to the gypsies" variety.

This morning found me with those lyrics running through my head as I knelt in the middle of my bed, pleading. Only my pleas weren't of the "please keep my child from driving me insane and selling her to the gypsies" variety. I realized about halfway through that I really hoped this was one "plea to the Father" that Woodstock wouldn't hear, because what mother wants to admit she's pleading to be as good as her child?

It sounds, in words on paper (in cyberspace), ridiculous. But I have a strongly held belief that until the age of accountability, children are, in essences, perfect spirits. That, combined with Woodstock's utterly gentle, loving nature, makes me want to weep at how much she's taught me. It hardly equates with me teaching her the letters of the alphabet or that big green harvesting machines are called "Combines" (she's really into trucks at the moment - obsesively into trucks, I might add).

Yesterday was a no-good-horrible-very-bad-day, for a dozen of little reasons. I kept it mostly together all day. Shortly before Woodstock's bedtime, I began fighting off tears. Tears of hormonal pregnant insantiy, to be certain, but tears nonetheless.

As I rocked Woodstock before bedtime, tears pooling in my eyes, she looked up at me and said, "Momma sad," and snuggled into me, resting her little blonde head beneath my chin. As I put her down, for the first time, unprompted, she said, "Love you Momma."

This morning, after the emotional fog had cleared and I was again thinking with some form of rational process, I struggled to express myself to my own Father - who has certainly never felt that I was better than He - He whom I must have disappointed thousands of times over and over. How does a mother, four days before Mother's Day, pay homage to her Father for the gift he has given her that has opened her heart to so much goodness, so much love, so much clarity? How does one say "thank you" for a little person's wisdom and insight? How does one plead with her Father to help her refrain from screwing things up as she tries to protect the love and goodness inside the snuggly lump of purple fleece in the other room?

How indeed.

This Mother's Day, I want to thank Woodstock - for teaching more than I could ever hope to teach her.

Note to Self: Never Trust a Toddler With a Secret

Two reasons one should never trust a toddler with a secret:

Reason One
Saturday I purchased a DVD for Himself for his birthday (3 weeks hence) at Costco. I had a coupon that was expiring, so I had to buy it that day. Since it was, in theory, from Woodstock, I showed it to her when I got home - never imagining a 20-month-old could spill the beans so to speak. I said, "Woodstock, look what we got daddy for his birthday!"

Then I put it in the bag of things that needed to go downstairs. About 10 minutes later, Himself came up from the basement. Woodstock gleefully ran to the bag, grabbed the DVD and handed it to Himself, saying, "Happy Birthday Daddy!"

She was so proud of herself. Himself melted into a big puddle - although puzzled by why I had entrusted Woodstock with such information as to what his birthday gift was. I was torn between adoration that she got the context perfect and mild irritation that I was dumb enough to think Woodstock wouldn't "get" it and therefore wouldn't share it.

She then launched into singing "Happy Birthday" - complete with "Happy Birthday to Woodstock," which is the only way she ever sings it. :)

Reason Two:

This was not, actually, a secret, but a good lesson that children have no known boundaries about what should and shouldn't be shared repeatedly.

Himself and Woodstock trekked to the Great Frozen North Sunday for a 2-day trip to see Himself's dad and sister. Himself, in all his parental wisdom, opted to go for "travel light" and didn't bring the pack-n-play. "Woodstock can sleep in a big bed," he said. Um, sure.

On the way home, Himself called to tell me to not be alarmed by the bruise/rug burn on Woodstock's forehead because, well, because she had fallen out of the big bed. I bit my tongue, aching to say "I told you so."

When I arrived home, Woodstock ran into my arms, then said, "Mama. Fall out bed. Ouch head," and pointed to her souvenier of the event. Since then, any time she approaches her (or any other) bed or touches her head, she repeats, "Bed. Fall out bed. Ouch. Head," or some variation. Including sharing this piece of information repeatedly with the sitter.

Good thing it's just a rite-of-passage-for-every-toddler moment. I didn't need to say "Told you so," because it appears Woodstock is never going to let Himself live it down. Four days later and she is still reminding us about "Bed. Fall out bed. Ouch."

If All Else Fails, Fling Yourself Onto the Driveway

And no, I'm not talking toddler tantrums here.

I've been carrying Baby Girl much lower than I ever carried Woodstock (who spent 14 of the last 17 weeks in utero with her head snuggled under my ribs). Starting last weekend with my business trip to L.A., her low-level-lying has made me feel like I'm a near cripple. The pelvic, hip and lower back pain (not to mention the sciatic pain from the pressure on my sciatic nerve) has been nearly unbearable to sit or walk. I have spent every possible moment in bed, on my side, with my feet elevated.

As it turns out, all I needed to do was fling myself onto the driveway.

Wednesday morning, I put Woodstock in her car seat and walked around the car to my side. At some point, I caught my shoe on a crack and soon, I was flying through the air, destined to do a spectacular belly flop on the driveway. My one conscious thought was "do not land on your stomach." So I did what I'm sure was a terribly graceful turn which left my left hip taking 80% of the impact and my shoulder taking the remaining 20%.

Of course, I was wearing elastic-waisted maternity pants, which meant upon the moment of impact they slid down, exposing my the backside of my fleshy white hip to the abrasive concrete, resulting in a spectacular road (driveway?) rash.

Hoorah! I saved the baby, I thought. Then I realized that "falling" is one of the "things one must absolutely not do" when on anti-clotting drugs. Deep bruising can cause problems - more so if you bruise your organs rather than your well-padded hip, but still. Slight cause for concern.

I scraped myself off the driveway and slid into the car, wincing. Woodstock greeted me with "Funny mama!" thinking, of course, that I splayed my arms wildly in the air while falling just to amuse her. It goes without saying, I couldn't quite agree with her.

Once I determined that the bruising, while large and ugly, was not going to cause any serious issues and that Baby Girl (after some prodding thanks to chocolate milk) was moving along as usual, I felt a bit more relieved.

However, the relief has continued to come over the subsequent 48 hours, as the startling bump has caused Baby Girl to reconsider the comfort of her low-lying habitat, forcing her to relocate further up in the direction of my ribs.

If you forget that I can only sleep on one side now - all night long - and can't sit for long periods due to road (driveway?) rash on my rear side, I could almost dance a jig. The forced relocation of Baby Girl has eased the sciatic nerve pain, the pelvic pressure/pain and a significant portion of the back pain. I can walk again! Praise the driveway!

Who says there isn't a silver lining in all things?