The birth of Rowen Kate

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Have you ever had an event you were anticipating turn out so perfectly that you can't stop thanking God for it? This story was one of those times.

 It started with a miscommunication. Not a surprise around here. I had told Jameson the day before that we would take him to the Wildlife Festival they hold here in Conyers once a year. Then I mentioned it to Will who let me know he was going to have to work. I didn't want to disappoint Jameson so even though I was super pregnant and contracting on and off, we went. It turned out to be just what we needed. Its hard to get one on one time with each child and I knew shortly it was going to be even more difficult. We had a great time but by 4:45 I was getting uncomfortable. Jameson used the last of his tickets on the rides and after a couple of refused pleas for more we were on our way home. My grandparents were still here visiting and Grandma had made chicken and dumplings for dinner. I was still contracting on and off and was kind of uncomfortable and wasn't really hungry but decided to sit down with everyone and eat anyways. I wasn't worried about the contractions. I can't even describe how many days I had been having them. My midwife informed me that its called prodromal labor. The contractions were working, I was dilating, but actual labor just wasn't starting yet. As excited as I was for a non-induced water birth, I have to say I was getting worried. I was afraid that maybe my body didn't know how to go into labor on its own. I'd spent my pregnancy reading books by midwives like Ina May Gaskin (if you've never read anything by her, I highly recommend it) that encouraged me to believe that my body knew what it was doing. In the back of my mind I knew that was true, too. But when you birth your other babies 3 and 4 weeks early, by the time forty weeks rolls around its kind of a mind game not to psych yourself out about when its
finally going to happen.

I read a lot during this pregnancy. Ina May's Guide to Childbirth. Spiritual Midwifery. Orgasmic Birth. Yep, you read that last one right. Interesting book, but I wouldn't describe any of my children's birth as orgasmic. One of my sweet friends, Aryn, sent me two books in early August. I started reading A Lineage of Grace by Francine Rivers a few days before actual labor began. Its a book based on stories of women in the Bible who changed the course of history. I had a feeling that I needed to finish that book before I could go into labor. I'm not sure why, one of those silly things I guess. It is also an excellent read. So, after dinner I took a bath and finished the last story in it.

Around eight o clock the contractions got more intense.
 I was really uncomfortable and asked Will to ask my grandparents to take Jameson and Cianna somewhere. The nice thing about natural contractions is that especially in early labor, you get breaks in between. During a contraction, Will would put counterpressure on my back and when it was over I went back to watching an episode of How I Met Your Mother and messaging with Misty on Facebook. Poor Misty. She endured every, "Oh my gosh, I'm having contractions, I wonder if this is it?!??" message for the last month. I don't remember much of what I watched or our conversation because the contractions just kept getting stronger. At about 8:45 I decided it was time to call the midwife. Of course Will didn't know their number or how to operate my phone to get to it. I was in pain and getting frustrated that we'd had nine months to get ready for this moment and here we were still panicking. He finally got it figured out and the midwife could hear me moaning in the background and said to get to the hospital.

 

The car ride wasn't as bad as I was fearing. My contractions were still regular and I couldn't talk during them. A good sign that it really was go time. We pulled up to the hospital just after 9 p.m. which meant we had to enter through the emergency room doors. They asked if I needed a wheel chair and I stupidly said yes. I had several contractions in the emergency room while waiting for a wheel chair that was evidently wheeling its way there from China. In a not very nice fashion I informed the security member that they could forget it and I'd walk. She then told me that I couldn't because if I delivered my baby on the elevator, they were liable. I don't remember exactly what I said next but it was something to the effect that I'd be birthing my baby right their on the floor if they didn't get their umm, "stuff" together. I traveled in the wheel chair to labor and delivery without Will because he needed to get a visitor pass. What a joke. I was really, really mad. They were continuing to write passes for a family whose daughter was waiting to be induced because of people like me already in actual labor. He finally managed to make his way up to the room. I had been checked by the midwife and was pretty bummed to only be four centimeters dilated. I had been three the week before. I should have known better. Dilation is unpredictable. In natural births there is no rhyme or reason, other than that every woman's body is different in how long it takes. There are no mathematical formulas to determine how long it will take to fully dilate, no matter where your active labor begins. I asked Will to call our photographer (she is AMAZING, look for her site below) and tell her to take her time because I thought it would be a while. She decided though to head on up, and its a good thing she did.

My contractions were coming right on top of one another. My previous two labors were fifteen hours each and I remember thinking that if my contractions were this intense and this close together for the next fifteen hours I wasn't sure I could do it. I had planned on a water birth but didn't want to get into the tub too early. I got into the shower and contracted while Will sprayed water on my back. It helped but it was still the most intense thing I had experienced so far. My midwife was in there almost the entire time. She was listening to my vocalizations and could tell that things were really progressing. I had learned from reading that visualizations were a great way not to "fight" the contractions and with each one I imagined my cervix opening a little more. It didn't get rid of the pain but it gave me something else to focus on and I really believed it was working to make my contractions more effective.  I decided that it was time to get into the tub. It had to be filled with the shower head so I got out of the shower and labored on all fours on the bed. A big pop and my water broke. All I could say was, "that was gross." It wasn't really gross, it was pretty cool, but in the moment it was all I could think of. All of a sudden I got really hot. My doula reminded me that this was a sign of entering transition. Transition is the phase of labor usually between 8 and 10 centimeters dilated that many women regard as the toughest part. I had only been at the hospital a little over an hour and didn't think there was anyway I was already in transition.

 

Almost immediately after getting in the tub, I felt the urge to push. My midwife and doula were so great during this time. They didn't make a big deal about it being time, I didn't have to be checked for dilation again. My midwife watched my body language and my doula placed cold rags on my head while Will squeezed my hands.

The pushing was so incredibly intense. I had also birthed Jameson without any drugs but I didn't remember the pushing being so painful with him. I think in most natural labors, a wall gets hit.

 I had hit my wall.

I was saying things like, "Thank God I never have to do this again."

and "I'm not sure I can do this."

 and "Why do people do this?"

And then, at the height of the pain, relief. The hard works turns to

This.

And this.

It was difficult. They don't call it labor for no reason.

 But my body was capable.

 God knew what he was doing when he made women to have babies. A nine pound baby, no less.

 I birthed Rowen.

 My midwife was there to guard the safety. Will was there to love and support me. My doula was there to remind me that I could do this.

But I birthed her.

 I reached down and pulled our baby out of the water and onto my chest.

The last two hours of hard work disappeared. Replaced with intense love. Replaced with awe at my own body. Replaced with the confidence that comes in knowing that my body worked the way it was intended to.

We all want a healthy baby. You can have a healthy baby and an incredible birth experience.

Incredible birth experiences aren't just water births.

 Its hospital birth. Its home birth. Its induced labors. Its Ceasearan sections.

Any birth in which women do research about their options for birth and make their own choices for the well being of themselves and their baby is an incredible birth experience.

 

Doing something you weren't sure you could do is one of the best feelings in the world.

There is a lot to be said for having to go through a difficult time to get what you most want.

 Its really a metaphor for life.

Hard work leads to amazing things.

And then when the work is done:

All photos are courtesy and copyright of katey.elliot.photography.
You can find more information about her on her blog at http://kateyelliottphotography.blogspot.com/

I've deleted this a dozen times...

I went to a La Leche League meeting last night. Its basically a bunch of currently breastfeeding moms, soon to be breastfeeding moms or moms who just support breastfeeding in general. After the meeting was "officially" finished we all broke off into side groups and began talking. And someone brought it up.

Postpartum depression.

 Ouch. I sort of hate when it gets brought up in conversation. Mostly because there is so much I'd like to say and so much I don't want to talk about all intertwined in one. According to the Office of Women's Health, an office of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, 13% of new mothers and pregnant women have depression. I am one of those women. I'm 95.3435% (just a guess) through with my third pregnancy and I've suffered from either prenatal or postpartum depression each time.

Why?

I didn't know for a long time. Was it hormones? Was it circumstance? I still don't completely know. According to the Office of Women's Health it appears to be a combination of both. Hormones that work to change brain chemistry along with anxiety about difficult life situations work together to create feelings of hopelessness, lack of motivation and loss of interest in everything in general. The prenatal depression I suffered while pregnant with my first child made sense to me. I was soon to be an eighteen year old single mom, fresh off a difficult break up. I was trying to continue to go to college, being the only pregnant girl in my dorm at Southwestern. I've not always made great choices, but they've always been my own. My circumstances have been a direct result of the choices I've made, that will never change. So I saw my depression as a sort of punishment. I never sought any medical help either in the form of talk therapy or medication, the two typical ways that depression is treated. I basically told myself that I had made poor choices to get in this situation so I deserved to be feeling the way that I was. What I didn't realize at the time though was that my depression wasn't just affecting me. It was affecting my family, my friends, and after my son was born, my baby. I became pretty unlovable. Maybe if I had realized then how difficult it was for the people who loved me to watch me change into someone I wasn't, I would've sought help. I want to point out that I wasn't treated rudely during my pregnancy, either. My wonderful church supported me, didn't judge and even had a wonderful shower for me that I didn't feel deserving of at all. My great grandparents and my son's grandparents did everything they could to support me and make me feel accepted and loved. Many women in my situation didn't have that luxury. Nevertheless, I felt the way I felt. Too many tears, too much anxiety, too much isolation.

I thought once he was born the sun would come back out, so to speak. And it did, for a little while. I loved him immensely, instantly and probably a little too intensely. What I look back and realize now is that your baby should need you that intensely, but it was not as healthy for me to need him as much as I did. My family jokes a lot about how I never let anyone else hold him. Except that its not really a joke. I really did hate letting anyone else hold him. Not only was I so anxious about not having control for those five or ten minutes, but my arms literally ached in an unhealthy way without him. My depression didn't end once he was born. I wanted to sit on the couch and hold him. And that was it. Thank God for my grandparents who did the laundry and the cleaning and cooking for me and making me eat it; looking back I'm not sure what would have happened if I hadn't had them. Breastfeeding was so, so difficult for us. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was too intimate for me. As much as I wanted to hold him, nursing him felt too close for comfort. I tried. And tried. I felt stressed and nervous and he did too. He'd cry while nursing because neither of us could relax. He began losing weight. And then he was a whole pound under his birth weight. And I cried the first time I gave him formula. I even attempted to relactate when he was 7 months old and the fog had lifted. It was too late, but I had finally begun feeling better. I got a great job that I loved. I went on my first date in over a year, with a man who I had no idea at the time would become my future husband.

Remarkably, my second pregnancy was mentally what I consider my easiest. I had a great job, had figured out how to be a Mom, as much as anyone can figure it out anyway, and once the shock wore off I was feeling pretty good. I quit worrying about whether people were judging me for having a second baby out of marriage. I worked hard and had a happy and healthy son whom I had raised to the age of two without too many major complications. I realized there were certainly worse people in the world to be having another baby, married or not. Unfortunately, the loneliness I felt during my first pregnancy came flooding back eventually. Will was deployed to Afghanistan. He did everything he could from a world away, calling often, sending gifts for both kids, it was certainly more than I had expected. Still though, he wasn't able to be there. I dragged various friends to ultrasounds and went to most doctor appointments by myself. Once again I didn't seek help for my depression. Compared to what I had felt during my first pregnancy it didn't seem "bad" enough to warrant bringing it up. And again, I had made the choices that caused my circumstances. This time though, I was living on my own with Jameson and it was easier to put a smile on while I was out and act however I felt once I got home. Despite my depression I managed to take good physical care of Jameson. I carry around guilt for not being the happiest, most playful mom I could have been for him. Once my daughter was born and my hormones truly did level out it was like the fog had been lifted.

The truth is I had no idea of the severity of prenatal/postpartum depression until my current pregnancy. A month after moving here, right before Will returned to work from time off for our move, another two pink lines. Right after FINALLY getting the baby weight from my daughter off. Right after FINALLY completing Insanity. All the sudden I was home alone with the kids from 6 am to 9 or 10 pm every night. Nauseated. Watching the scale climb. Isolated. Again. And the depression was back. Except it was darker than I had remembered. Each time before I always knew it would end. This time I wasn't so sure. I wasn't used to waking up and not having to be anywhere in the morning. I started finding it difficult to get out of bed to feed the kids breakfast in the morning. I always did, but it was literally dragging. The difference this time was that I had someone around to really notice that I wasn't myself. I started hating to be touched. Not such a good thing for newlyweds. I started being sarcastic and snarky and just plain rude because I was angry about his hours away from home. Hours that weren't his fault. I was becoming pretty unlovable, pretty fast. But he still did. He even felt guilty because he was the reason we left everyone and everything we knew and I felt so isolated. Some days were okay. Some days were really, really bad. I'd go sleep on the couch at night so I didn't wake him up with my sobbing. I'd never considered self harm during any of my other struggles with depression. And even this time I never truly considered it, but did for the first time realize how someone can get in that mindset. When I thought clearly about that I decided it was time to get help. You see, my family has been through this before. My uncle committed suicide several years ago. A smart, talented, funny guy with some difficult life circumstances made a choice that shook our whole family. Not only did I have my own beautiful family to feel better for, but I knew that I couldn't continue to let these thoughts spiral into something that would hurt my family who had already been through it once before. My midwives were incredibly supportive. I was frustrated because I knew I needed PEOPLE not PILLS, but meeting anyone in the mood I was constantly in was seeming impossible. I was scared to take anything during pregnancy. I didn't want to harm our baby and I'd learned enough in college to know that there were no truly completely safe medications to take during pregnancy. I realized though, thanks to my midwives, that I had two already born children who needed me to be at my best. A husband who needed a wife who could handle this lifestyle. This person I was during depression was not me. I always did what had to be done, but I knew my kids were missing their happy mom and I knew my husband was definitely missing his happy wife. They recommended a medication that has been extensively studied in pregnancy. I was still scared, but realized it had to be done. It wasn't an immediate change, and I can't even say that all the changes were the result of the medicine. It did help me get out of bed. It did help me feel like I wasn't in a bottomless pit. In turn feeling this way allowed me to show my real self more often and get the confidence back to meet new people. Most days I wake up feeling pretty great. I have made the decision to wean off as delivery time draws near to avoid any possible withdrawals (although these are extremely rare, and my midwife told me it was completely unnecessary.) I've also been learning new ways of working through my depression. Its a sad thing that in our country it costs 90% less for me to take medicine than it does for talk therapy (counseling) that works just as well. I "practice" yoga and meditation and am totally awful at both but keep trying. I exercise when my hips don't feel like they are going to fall off and I make a list of what I'm grateful for often.

I didn't write this post because I feel the need to get this all out. Been there, done that. I wrote this post because I hate the stigma that comes with depression. No one wants to talk about it. Especially moms. We think we aren't good moms if don't feel blessed and happy every minute of every day. So not true. Chemical imbalance in the brain is a real thing. Having trouble coping with difficult life circumstances is a real thing. The worst thing though would be not to talk about it. If I can encourage one person going through this to seek help and not have to spend another day feeling the way I did, its worth it to me to put my personal life out there. We all see the happy times. We all see when people have it all together. What we don't often see is this.

How to be a reluctant stay at home mom

Anyone who's read this blog knows one thing for sure. I write feverishly, several posts in a short time span and then totally stop. Its all part of this ongoing head dialog I've had since I was a kid.

"Why are you writing this? No one cares."
"Seriously, isn't Facebook enough?"
"Undersharing never killed anyone."

In moments of confidence I change my mind and decide that writing makes me happy, seeing people comment on my writing makes me happy, and well, it's about the extent of my adult conversation during the course of the day. So, here we go again.

Since my last blog:

We found out we're expecting another baby! Some may consider it tacky, but I'm not ashamed to say that unplanned pregnancies are kinda my forte. I know for sure I'd never be brave enough to plan one, so I guess we're supposed to have three babies. We found out about this little surprise December 14th. The same day as the horrific shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Bittersweet and mixed emotions. How scary it is to be bringing another child into this world with a capacity for evil that is incomprehensible. What a blessing it is to celebrate life once again.

I got a job that I loved working at a little country feed store that is so different from the community that we're living it. Stepping inside that place was like coming back to Oklahoma every day. The thing about working for me is that I've always been pretty good at it. Its been a way for me to use my brain for things deeper than infant and toddler nutrition planning. Not that developing meal plans and watching them get thrown to the floor isn't difficult, it's just different. Unfortunately, it was costing more to send kids to daycare than I was making, which we could deal with for a while. Then they changed Jameson's teacher and I began noticing changes in him. Not good changes. We couldn't deal with that; so, I decided to leave. My last check just came in the mail and written on the back was, "Come back, we miss you!" I miss them too. I miss talking to people about layer pellets, horse feed and dog vaccinations. I was close to tears when a woman came in with a several day old puppy with a stomach obstruction and a vet who wanted several thousand dollars to fix it. Life happened in that store.

Life happens at home, too.

Which brings me to being a stay at home mom. See, I thought I hated it. What I realized is that what I actually hate is that I'm not very good at it. I get bored easily. One of Jameson's grandmas seems to get infinite joy from building Legos with him for hours. Sigh. Wish that was me. Its not. I love to read him books and teach him new things, but I don't enjoy playing. I never have. I was the kid who stayed inside for recess to go to the library and read. I never learned how to play, which is why I have to force myself to sit on the floor and play with my children.

It wasn't that I didn't find joy in taking care of my family. Its that I wasn't finding joy in not taking care of my family perfectly. Getting three loads of laundry done didn't matter if there was still another left at the end of the day. We might go on a nature walk and learn about neat bugs but all I think about is the thirty minutes I let him watch T.V.

Cianna is a wonderful little girl. Cutest to kind-of-walk this Earth if I say so myself. She's also either very happy or very, very unhappy. She clings to my leg for most of the day and her temperament is intense. She tests my patience everyday. What a terrible thing to say about a one year old. Its the truth. She has a disorder in her hemoglobin typing that we found out about during her routine newborn screening. They know very little about it and we are in the process of seeing a geneticist to find out more about what it is going to mean for her long term. Doesn't feel so great getting frustrated with your child, especially when they have a health concern. It happens though. I am only human. There is only so much crying and clinging I can take.

Ever heard that saying, "Cleaning the house when the kids are home is like brushing your teeth while eating oreos?"  I would say its nearly impossible to get this entire place cleaned at once. When I was single and working I cut myself a lot of slack in this department. Now I don't have a job. Cleaning this house is my job. Except that its not. Raising my children is my job. Teaching them that cleanliness is important is my job. Also important though, is teaching them that things don't have to be perfect to be good.

I came up with rules about how to be a reluctant stay at home mom, just in case you want to worry you're screwing up your children for life like I do:

1. Let your kid eat as many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as he wants. At least he's eating, right?

2. Have a mini melt down when the baby refuses to eat her own cut up into quarters grapes but will happily grab the whole ones off your plate. Stare at her intently ready to bust out the heimlich at the first sign of gagging.

3. Scour the internet for days trying to find a more natural source for Iron supplementation only to give in to the nasty black drops manufactured by the formula companies you've come to despise.

4. Change your mind a thousand times about whether to wean your baby as soon as possible. Then feel guilty about forcing her to grow up because of a coming sibling. Repeat.

5. Hate your husband's job for pretty consistently keeping him away from his family while simultaneously being thankful for the food on the table, insurance it provides for your family and the happiness he gets from it.

6. Miss that husband all day then be cranky when he comes home because its after 10, again.

7. Listen to people who don't have kids tell you exactly what you should be doing with your kids and how thankful you should be for every poopy diaper. Definitely true, once your uterus has expanded to the size of a watermelon or you start getting up with a baby five times a night, we'll talk again.

8. Burst into hormonal pregnant tears when you get to the exit for your new "home" after taking a trip back to your actual home. Extra points if your husband just said something really sweet about how happy he is that you're back.

9. Have the best husband who always knows the sweetest, most perfect thing to say. Never know what to say yourself, and look like an idiot for saying, "me too," for the fifth time.

10. Enjoy and love it when you can. Fake it until you make it when you can't. Its not like you've been doing this forever.  Keep practicing. You'll have it figured out by the time they leave for college, surely.

p.s. Oh good lord, college. Are we saving enough??

Dead Battery

If you've never been to downtown Atlanta, consider yourself lucky. It's a disaster. No, actually, its a complete disaster.

                                                              Photo courtesy Wikipedia
                                                  (I was in too much of a hurry to get out
                                                      of there to take my own picture)


I'll be attending college in downtown Atlanta because I'm a glutton for punishment, apparently. It took a lot for me to decide to finish school right now. In El Reno I know the reputation of every child care facility in town and I personally know most of the people who either own or operate them. I don't know anything here but sales pitches and signs I can see from the road. Most of the childcare facilities here are no longer open, and the choices are slim from the ones that are. Thankfully, we've found one that I feel comfortable with, but its still a difficult decision. Daycare isn't free and obviously I won't be making any direct income going to school. But I have to finish. For me. For my kids. For my grandparents who have enabled me to have already completed 100+ credit hours. So we'll pinch pennies to figure it our for now and by the time we leave Georgia, I'll have my degree in Education and easily be able to get a job I enjoy at our next duty station.

Oh yeah, my car battery died in downtown Atlanta. Dead. Dunzo. Won't even turn over. No jumper cables in the car of course. We won't be awarded any boy scout badges any time soon, I assure you. Luckily, I'm a student so the campus police will help with things like this. Complete with flashing lights zooming up as I'm changing Cianna's diaper in the hatchback of my car. She was sweet, didn't even laugh at us, which was much more than I could've mustered.

Will went back to work Friday. I've gotten pretty used to having him around these last 4 weeks so the first day was kinda lonely, but we're back in the swing of things now. Recruiting hours are long. There are pool functions once a month on Saturdays plus appointments with potential recruits and their parents a lot of evenings. Obviously its not my favorite thing, but I figure out of anybody we're pretty well suited for it. The key is finding things to do and I got lucky and found a church kinda bizzaar, homemade craft, breakfast with Santa thing in a little town about 25 miles from where we live.

This was the good part of the day

 

 

 

 

 

Then we got back in the car. And I thought, "hmm, it didn't beep at me, that's weird." And I put the key in the ignition, turned it and once again got the sound of death. Actually it wasn't even a sound. It was the absence of sound. Oh, geez. Here I am in a town I've never been to. Will is at a pool function and not available. And because I can barely remember the names of my children let alone to buy jumper cables, still none of those either. Luckily a guy was walking back to his truck and took pity on me, got his own jumper cables, which most reasonable people keep handy and jumped the car for me. Then he said something like, "I think its time for a new battery." The exact words my Grandpa had said to me on the phone the night before. Note taken. I will listen now, thanks.

I drove immediately to some big name auto parts store, Cianna in one arm, Jameson holding my other hand and found out that a battery for my car is approximately...a lot. $145.00 or so. The nice man installed it for me and I've learned my lesson. Battery dies once, its not always from leaving the radio on without the car being started too long. Sometimes the battery really is bad. Especially if the battery dies twice. It is most definitely bad then.

I spend a lot of time watching Jameson out this window while I'm doing dishes. Now that I'm married I have to cook like a real dinner, like every night. Which amounts to a lot of dishes. Cianna is usually either being worn on my back or crawling around putting unidentified objects in her mouth.

 

We took an adventure to the park today.

 

Then to get ice cream at the cutest little ice cream shop.

 

Where I was approached by a man, asking for directions.

 "I know you don't know me. I swear I'm not a murderer or a mugger I just really need some directions."

Boy did he ever ask the wrong girl.

Not only can I not tell what direction is which around here, or anywhere else for that matter, I'm sure he was terrified I would karate chop him with my hands full of ice cream and kids.

 

 

 

 

"Hilda Must be Dancing"

 
Like any mom who has nowhere else to meet other moms the first thing I searched for in Conyers was a library. They have a beautiful library with a lot of children's programming that I took the kids to last week. Believe it or not, library story times can be a social jungle for someone like me. Nightmares about having the kid who throws a tantrum about leaving while they all shoot laser beams from their eyes at me danced through my brain before we went. Luckily no such thing happened.

 

I was reminded something important about Jameson while we were there though. While reading "Hilda Must be Dancing" all the other kids were getting down, shaking their tailfeathers etc. Jameson wasn't. He has not ever danced on his own accord that I am aware of. We're raising an introvert. A cautious, deep thinking, wonderful introvert. I think the biggest fear of any parent of an introvert is that the rest of the world will never see how wonderful we know our children are. He's talented at so many things but doesn't like to share his talents until he really trusts someone.  He truly enjoys playing by himself. In a setting like this it can be difficult as a parent. My child isn't doing what all the other kids are doing. He's not answering questions that I know he knows the answer to. And then I remember that it really doesn't matter. I know how smart and wonderful he is, and as long as we make sure he knows it too, we've done our job.

So many more things happened this week, including but not limited to an awesome visit by my aunt, Christmas festivities, a one eyed cat and a visit from the wobbly plumber. I won't go into the plumber thing.

My aunt lives only four hours away. It is the ultimate saving grace for this place. You see, I'm not great at being a girl. Other than pictures of my kids I don't get excited about decorating. I don't enjoy shopping at all. I get lost in details, tend to only look at the big picture and have the attention span of a knat. My aunt is the opposite of all of those things. Organized, detail focused and efficient she's exactly what I needed to finish getting our place in order. I could list everything she did while she was here but then I'd be way too tired to finish this post. She was a Godsend as usual. Worth more than a million dollars in my book. However, I'm a stay at home mom. Which means I pretty much have whatever money I find in the laundry on any given day so thanking her with cash was out. Instead I made some meatball sandwiches that were edible. She seemed to like them, anyways.

 

She also watched the kids so we could go on a d-a-t-e. We watched the Thunder beat the Jazz. Let me rephrase that, I watched the Thunder beat the Jazz while my husband talked too much during the game. I do the same during football so I think he does just to get back at me. On a random note:

If KD ain't mad, I'm not either.

 

I get asked a lot how Will and Jameson are adjusting to living together.

 

 

I think this picture kind of sums it up. It's a lot of learning and adjusting. I'm blessed that my husband loves Jameson for who he is as a kid. Not just as my son or as his daughter's brother, but Jameson, for his personality, as an ornery almost three year old. Going from a single parent household to a two parent household is difficult in general. My brain knows that children aren't meant to be raised by one parent but when you live that way for a while, well, habits are hard to break. I find it difficult to let him help me with things because its scary to rely on someone else for help when you haven't in that area before. But it's important to him and I want my children to see a balance so I do. And sometimes the product is

 

mismatched pajamas. Or bedtime thirty minutes later than we're used to. What I've learned though is that my husband is an incredible father, whether he does things exactly like I would or not.

 

While he definitely loves our kids, he does not so much love Christmas. I live for Christmas. Such hope and promise and excitement and hot chocolate and warm fires and, well, you get it. To be fair, he's been deployed or away from his family for the majority of holidays over the last nine years. He's been a real sport and played along with my excitement though. Decorating the tree as a family for the first time was in the top ten moments of my life so far. I have the same ornaments we used on our tree when I was a kid. When my parents divorced a few years back I was the only one who really wanted them. They remind me of a time when everyone was happy and I hope someday they will do the same for my kids.  

 

 

 

 

 

Will even helped out too. We won't talk about the groom's hand placement.

 

 

We made it to church this morning without any bodily function incidents which is a step up from last week. Its really hard to break in a new church. Services are different, preachers are different and at least for me, meeting new people is hard. Go figure, my husband has already met 4 "friends" in his million plus trips to Lowe's, but it just doesn't work that way for me. If you belong to a church I'd like to encourage you not to get so happy with the current congregation that you stop trying to grow the church. The church we've been trying isn't the right fit for us so we're going to try a new one next week. The preacher said something that I liked this morning though. He talked about how when we decide to follow Jesus he gives us a new "title." A new job in a sense, a new why. I'm still kind of searching for mine but I'm enjoying being a wife and mom and letting that be "enough" for now while I pray about what's next.

 



 

 

Why, Georgia, Why

Disclaimer: In this world of oh so fantastic political correctness (is that word?,) I feel the need to say the following:

I am not actually an Eskimo. I was born in Alaska. My parents were not. Therefore, no actual Eskimo status. It's a nickname. That's all. I was semi-raised there, then moved to Oklahoma. Started wearing boots, listening to country music, insert additional midwestern cliche' here if you must. Married a Marine, now I live wherever they tell us to. Which brings me to this post.

Why, Georgia, Why  

Back up several months. I married my wonderful husband. Seriously, I don't deserve this man. He puts up with my mediocre cooking and housecleaning skills and reminds me where I put everything on an hourly basis. Luckily, he finds me charming. He started recruiting school what seemed like nanoseconds after we said I Do and we waited to find out where we'd be stationed. In a bit of wishful thinking I had our wedding photos framed and hung in our place in Oklahoma. He filled out form after form and we had phone call after phone call discussing where he would put in for first, second, third etc. choices to be stationed. Guess what?

Waste of time

In my mind's eye it went something like this. "Hmm. They want to live in Oklahoma, Texas, Tennessee or South Carolina?" "Nope. We love sending people places they know no one, how about Georgia?" Considering that after his recruiting gig is up we're looking at three years in Japan, its possible that I should be eternally greatful for its mere 15 hour driving time from "home."

So in the spirit of painful adjustments, below is my list of things I love and not so love about Georgia:

 

It looks like this. Pretty much everywhere. Just beautiful. Oh, hi there Jameson.

On the other hand, it seems as though I've gone through 1.2567 million tablets of Claritin since we got here. Excuse me while I sneeze, again.

 

 

This is my porch. I sit here with my non fancy hot chocolate that my husband makes fun of me for making in the Keurig. Sorry we don't all like old man coffee. I love waking up before the rest of the house and praying in this swing for a few minutes in the morning.

 

 

 

When she lets me sleep long enough to actually do the above, I'm sure I'll have something more insightful to say.

 

In case you've never moved, it takes a long time. There are boxes and boxes and more boxes to unpack. I'm a creature of habit. I like things to stay the same. So my plan was to move all of my furniture into the exact same spot it would have corresponded with in our old house. Only the house layout wasn't exactly the same. Where there was room for the beautiful buffet in the old house, not so much in the new. Insert mini meltdown related to everything being different expressed through sobs about my writing desk.

 

 

So we've hung mirror after mirror, pictures and more pictures. By we, I mean, Willie. Eventually this will make it feel like home. Right now it just feels like all our stuff is in the wrong house.

 

 

 

We basically move every three years. Which means buying a house everytime we move isn't the smartest idea. So we rent. The thing about rent houses is, they usually aren't super clean. Which means there's been a lot of cleaning to do. I'm seriously considering leaving it to Cianna. She obviously has a better handle on it than I do.

 

As far as the town we live in, I still don't know much. We attempted to try the contemporary service at a Methodist church this morning. That attempt ended in turning around after Cianna projectile vomited all over her Sunday best. Oh well, I'm sure Jesus understands. Good intentions and all, right?

 

 

The worst thing about Georgia is that they have no taste in sports. No Thunder bandwagon KD shirts even. Georgians, I'm finding, don't even care that much about their own team, the Hawks. Don't feel bad if you've never heard of them, I hadn't either. On none of our hundreds of channels have I been able to catch one Thunder game since we got here. I'm considering asking Santa for NBA pass.

 

 

 

By far the best thing about Georgia though is that my family all lives under one roof. I can make Grandma's old recipes for my family and pray they taste even remotely close.  It's our first time really living together and we're learning a lot about each other.

 

"Cianna, don't eat my train tracks!"

"Wait, you watch football how many times a week?"

"We're married, you're stuck with me, now I can fart in front of you."

 

That last one was courtesy of my husband, I promise.