Post baby body image

     I don’t fully know how other mothers feel about their post baby bodies, so these thoughts come from my personal experience and discussions with my friends.  We do not claim to be “normal” or “average”, so we do not claim to share the views of the average woman.  I do, however, feel that most women will relate to my/our feelings in general.  I’ve been pretty open so far about my personal struggles with self-image, but I'll briefly recap for those who need it.  I was a chubby kid until I was about 13 and slimmed down, so I was faced with image issues at a pretty young age.  While I’m at the age now where I’ve been considered thin or average sized for more of my life than I was considered chunky, in my mind, I’ll always be the fat kid.  These demons have always hovered around the outer perimeters of my mind, attacking when possible; sadly they have, at times, almost destroyed me.

            I wish I could figure out why some of us are more susceptible to feeling badly about our bodies than others.  Is it a personality trait, something taught to us by the world, or a spiritual issue that we could learn to control?  I’ve explored all of these options.  While I don’t really think that I have the answer to this completely, I have decided that there are a few things I am certain of:  1. I do believe that my Type A, control freak personality adds to my body issues.  It just makes sense to me that if I strive for perfection in every other area of my life, I would strive for perfection in this one too.  2. When I am not spiritually focused, it is more of an issue.  I constantly remind myself that I am “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalms 139), and that if my God is perfect, and He is, then he made me look the way I do on purpose.  Therefore, if God thinks I am good enough just the way I am, I should learn to feel that way also.  After all, how I look is not all that I am as a person.  (Though I do struggle to keep this statement in mind constantly.)  3. I do think that past experiences can have a lasting effect on someone’s self-perception; however, I do not think this is an underlying issue for me.  I was not made fun of excessively for my weight by my peers.  My parents never EVER made me feel inadequate or less than beautiful because of my weight; they were always my biggest supporters and worked very hard to build my confidence in a world they knew would tear it down if possible.  Bubby worried the most about my weight probably, because he didn’t like the idea of others making fun of me.  He was probably the hardest on me about it, but never made me feel badly about myself; rather, he encouraged me by showing me his football work out.  (Kind of cute now that I think about it.) 

My overeating stemmed from being an extremely nervous child.  While I had plenty of security at home, I changed schools a lot when I was young and constantly felt like the “new kid”.  I was pretty shy, so I made one or two friends and stayed in the background.  This all changed eventually, right around the time I started dropping weight.    When talking with a former pastor, Rfitz, after having Princess, I sort of realized for the first time what my major problem is with my weight:  I am either losing it or gaining it.  I LOVE to eat.  I will eat almost anything and like it.  Therefore, I am either obsessing over eating wonderful, wonderful food, or I am obsessing over losing weight.  There is no middle ground.  I get this from my dad.  When he decides to do something, he goes at it full force.  What makes him good at everything he does leaks into all areas of his life, and this is probably the one way that I am more like him than Bubby.  I’m not saying this is a rollercoaster in big blocks of time, either.  Sometimes, it is a day-to-day thing.  I know that this is not a healthy way to be, so I am striving to focus on being as healthy as I can, and relying on God to show me my beauty. 

I felt like I had to give this rather lengthy background in order to make you understand how having a baby (or 3) affected my self-perception.  When I got pregnant with Princess, I was at a pretty comfortable weight.  I was wearing about a size 6.  This was definitely larger than my end of high school/most of college weight, but not bad in my opinion, nonetheless.  I gained about 40 pounds during my pregnancy.  At my nine-day check up, I had lost all but 10 pounds of that weight.  Unfortunately, I gained another ten over the next few months.  I was too obsessed with Princess to be very obsessed about my own personal appearance for a while.  As you would expect, that fact eventually changed and I began to worry once again about my physique.  I began dieting and exercising.  In the past, I could lose weight rather easily when I wanted, but something had changed.  Losing weight was hard.  After battling the weight off over a much longer period of time than expected, I felt pretty normal again.  I did achieve my pre-Princess weight, but I couldn’t hold that weight easily.  When I went in for my first prenatal doctors visit with the twins, I was 14 pounds heavier than I was for my first prenatal visit with Princess.  Yikes!  This was especially unsettling when I found out there were two kiddos in there to nourish.  I gained 48 pounds while pregnant with my duo, but the physical change was much grater than the number difference lends itself to make one assume.  The stretch marks I avoided the first time, made an appearance the second.  The shape of my body changed a little as well, and all of a sudden, the body I had strived to love for 27 years had been replaced by one I liked even less.  Now what?  I spoke to a well-meaning nurse practitioner about it who suggested, in a surprisingly unoffending way, that if I wanted my old body back, I might want to consider surgery.  HMMM…  Please don’t let me elicit any sympathy from you, because that is not my intention.  My stomach is not horribly deformed.  In fact, I can look at myself and know that I was genetically blessed as far as my skin’s ability to stretch and retract is concerned.  At the same time, please don’t discredit my struggle.  Yes, I know I am wonderfully blessed to have my babies and a tight, normal looking tummy is a small sacrifice for the miracle of life.  I happily and knowingly made that sacrifice.  I would give an arm, leg, or even my life for my children, so I do not begrudge them my figure (or blame them for the change).  That doesn’t change how I felt the first time I looked in a full-length mirror after having the twins.  Being someone who has battled the body demon for so long, he took advantage of my weak moment and plagued me with feelings of freakishness.  I may not have thought my previous body perfect, but this one looked like a stranger’s body, not my own.  I knew that I could not put off working on my physique for 8 months like I did with Princess.  My mind couldn’t handle it this time around.  SO, I started trying to diet.  The first step of this process was learning to not eat like I was carrying two growing babies around inside of me.  Then, I had to try to actually be aware of calories.  It took me a while physically to be ready to exercise, but I knew that it was important to begin when I could.  Losing weight isn’t any easier this time around (I switched to present tense here, because it has only been 5 months next week since their birth.)  It is a huge struggle, and just when the scales start to move and old clothes seem in the near future, I get stuck and camp out at a certain weight for a while.  Carrying the twins was pretty hard on my body also, so exercising is more of a challenge.  My knees and ankles hurt when I exercise, and my stomach muscles are still pretty far apart as well as some muscle soreness around my scar, making abdominal exercises (which I sincerely want to do) more painful.  I am happy to say that I have met my first goal.  I am within a few pounds of my pre-twin pregnancy weight.  I’m proud that it didn’t take me as long as it did last time to get here, but my ultimate goal is to get to and maintain (in a healthy way) my pre-Princess weight.  We’ll see if it happens.

Now, let’s go back to the nurse practitioner’s advice of plastic surgery.  From now on, we’ll call her Barbie.  It will give you a better visual of her appearance.  She was beautiful, skinny, and blonde.  Not exactly who you want checking your new Frankenstein figure after delivering, but she was a better option than sitting there waiting until Dr. Wonderful finished delivering a baby.  As I said before, she did not mean any meanness at all with our conversation.  She was sincere, and I get the feeling that if she does ever have children, she would personally take her own advice.  She first complimented my scar and healing.  Then she asked if I had any questions about it while still looking at my bare belly.  Stupid me, I did.  You see, I knew that my six week post check up after Princess wasn’t when I felt like my stomach had gone back to normal, but I couldn’t/can’t for the life of me remember when it was.  SO, I figured she, who looked at post baby bellies everyday, would know.  Silly me.  Her response was, as best I can remember, “Umm, well, I guess some of it will go down a little more, but it isn’t all going to go away.  How do you feel about plastic surgery? “ Me:  “stammering incoherently and saying something that prompted a response.”  Barbie: “ Well, if you decide you want to look more like you did before, the scar would go from here (pointing to one side of my lower belly) to here (pointing to the opposite end).”  Me:  “Wow, that’s a lot bigger than my C-section scar.”  Barbie:  “Yes, it is a pretty big scar.”  The appointment went on, and she was wonderfully sweet and knowledgeable, which I knew from the other times I had seen her.  I liked her then, and I still do.  It was an innocent statement, but effecting nonetheless, because, like most women I would think, I then began to wonder if the thought I needed a tummy tuck, or if she just thought that I thought that I needed a tummy tuck.  When I related the situation to Dean, his reaction was:  “Wow, even I know not to say something like that to a woman who just had a baby.”  The insinuation was that if even a man knew not to say something, then surely Barbie should have.  I don’t know.  I appreciate that she was trying her best to be completely honest.  What if she had promised me that with hard work, things would go back to their previous state?  I would have gone home with a false hope.  I would rather know the truth and begin my workouts with a realistic expectation of knowing it will get better, but it won’t be perfect.  As a strange counter feeling, everywhere I went people complimented me on how great I looked.  I live in a small town, so I know a lot of people who work in my regularly frequented stores and restaurants.  Others gave so many wonderful compliments to me, but there were two things that always made me want to discredit the compliment.  1.  It was the last phrase of the compliment when people said, “You look so great to have had twins.”  I want to just look great.  Now I know that people didn’t mean it in a mean way, but our crazy minds do crazy things, and I felt like people who didn’t know I had just had twins wouldn’t think I looked especially remarkable.  2.  They were judging my appearance in clothing, and I knew what I looked like underneath.  I might have been around the same size as before (just a few clothes sizes larger), but  “naked truth” was huge.  For some reason, it made me feel like a fraud.  Underneath the baggy tank tops and maternity jeans (which I wore for months and months post delivery), things just weren’t what they used to be.  So I began to ask myself, “How DO I feel about a tummy tuck?”  When it comes to plastic surgery in general, I feel like if others want to do it, I wish them great luck, and I will be jealous of their courage.  However, I have the double standard for myself that I shouldn’t want it.  I should learn to love myself the way I am, because that makes me spiritually superior in some way.  (I say this not because I feel it true, but because that is what the crazy girl in my head says.)  So, I have this tug of war between wanting to be repaired and not wanting to want to be repaired.  I don’t yet know which side will win.  My husband assures me that he still loves me with my new body just that same as he always did, and I guess that is enough for now.  I don’t want to rush into getting anything “fixed”, but I don’t know if I want to leave it broken forever either.  (I mean, what would the mortician say?)  So what do I do until I do decide?

I guess my current plan of action is to continue to attempt to love my new body.  After all, I did earn those stretch marks.  My stomach muscles did some hard work, not to mention the area that lies between my stomach and chin, which took some pretty bad hits as well.  I can’t expect things to go back to the way they were, but I can strive to make the best of what I do have for now.  At the end of the day, I look at God and praise Him for the good things He has given me.  I push down the feelings of inadequacy that are not of God, and I look at the promises He gives me through His word.  For all the other mommies dealing with post baby body issues, I’m with you.  I understand, and I support whatever decisions you make about how to deal with it , whether it be a journey to acceptance, reparative surgery, or working out to make the best of what you have.  I pray for happiness for the other mommies out there that sometimes look longingly in the mirror and wish they saw something just a little different. 

The PPD demon

            Before I ever had Princess, I just couldn’t understand the idea of post partum depression.  It seemed so odd that “just having a baby” could in some way make you depressed.  Don’t get me wrong, I had dealt with being depressed before, I just couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that something so wonderful as having a baby could lead to such a difficult mental state.  I was happy, well rounded, spiritually sound, and thrilled to be pregnant, so I didn’t even fear the PPD demon.  I should have.

            I don’t know if I even made it home from the hospital before my battle with PPD began, but I do distinctly remember that within an hour of getting home with Princess, my first meltdown occurred.  I was sitting in a glider that my parents brought over for me to use until I could get up and down out of my comfy (yet extremely low) living room set.  I was surrounded by people who loved me and were trying to take care of me, my child was healthy, life was great.  I was not.  With no warning to even myself, I started crying.  To make things worse, I couldn’t figure out why I was so sad.  Now, I’ve already told you before that I’m a hold it together through the tough stuff and fall apart later type of gal, so I should have seen this coming.  I had a 20 hour labor that ended in a c-section and was followed by a string of tests on my heart, one of which meant that I couldn’t nurse or even hold my one day old baby for 24 hours.  (Thank you God for a husband who took up the role as a father wholeheartedly.)  The epidural caused my heart rate to be extremely elevated, so my heart needed to be checked for any damage.  If I could go back, I would have taken the Doctor’s thoughts into consideration when she suggested a c-section the first three times.  But, being who I am, I was determined to try to have Princess naturally.  Too bad her shoulders were hung in my hips.  In the end, everything was fine.  My heart was not damaged, not technically anyway.  I tell you this, not to share a horrible birthing story, (believe me, I’m trying to make it sound as least frightening as possible) but because I think my own ideas of what I could control going into the entire motherhood situation contributed to my PPD.  First, I thought I could control the birthing process to at least some degree.  WRONG!  When they finally broke my water, I was almost taken in for an emergency c-section because they lost Princess’s heartbeat.  They found it, thank You God, but Dean and I were horribly shaken from that moment on during the labor process.  I had never had surgery of any kind, and I was terribly afraid of even the thought of it.  SO, I determined to try everything I could to avoid surgery.  Well, I gave it a good effort, but when they finally got me to the pushing phase, Princess wouldn’t budge, and we had to throw in the towel.  Secondly, I thought I could control my worries as a new mother by being logical.  WRONG!  I don’t think I had the mental capacity to be logic about anything for a little while.  My friends who had babies before me made it look easy, but for this Type A control freak, it was impossible at times.  The pressure I put on myself for perfection as a new mother only made things worse.  Thirdly, I thought I was prepared for the 24 hour a day demand that a baby presented.  WRONG!  I thought I could handle it all by myself.  WRONG!  I thought asking for help showed weakness.  WRONG!  Eventually, I learned these things, but my life would have been so much easier had I just been able to express the feelings then and accept the help from others that I needed.  Don’t get me wrong, I did plenty of talking, but for some reason, I just couldn’t let things go.  My PPD was probably not considered extremely severe, but it felt like it lasted an eternity.  I had to constantly fight to enjoy Princess fully rather than giving in to the darkness looming.  I loved everything about Princess and being a mother (well, maybe not the lack of sleep), so I couldn’t understand why I was so depressed.  I would love to be able to say that I immediately hit my knees in prayer to God for strength, but I can’t.  Honestly, I felt like every day and night was so full, that I didn’t even stop long enough to think about praying.  Satan is a wily one.  I did eventually have one of those days where I just completely melted down to God, and poured my heart out to Him.  AND, little, by little, things got better.

     Looking back, I can see why things were more difficult than necessary.  Princess nursed exclusively.  Nursing was easy for me with her, so that’s what I did.  I didn’t like to pump, so I didn’t.  This meant that going anywhere was a struggle.  When you have to constantly hide everywhere you go so that you can nurse, you honestly just don’t want to go anywhere.  I am NOT the stay at home type of gal.  (That is what makes Dean and me work so well.  He has to work the farm on Saturdays, and my independence on those days makes me not feel or seem so needy or lonely.)  My mom and I usually go somewhere, but carting Princess around wasn’t easy.  I know they have nursing aprons for a reason, but I just couldn’t nurse inside a restaurant with people around.  (I come from a long line of conservative men who feel uncomfortable with the idea even at home while covered by a blanket.)  If I did go somewhere, I spent most of the trip nursing in the parking lot, dressing room, bathroom (if it was clean enough), back office (if I was desperate enough to ask), etc.  Therefore, I spent the first few months of Princess’s life feeling like a prisoner.  I had lost my freedom.  I can see now why I got depressed.  To make matters worse, two of my best friends from high school had children only three months after me, and they didn’t seem to be going through the same struggle.  Athack from way back was going through much more than me around the time of her baby’s birth and still seemed thrilled with her new motherhood, and LynsRae embraced motherhood in a way that is truly inspiring.   Both of them sacrificed their careers completely, which I didn’t even have to do, and yet they didn’t sit around crying about losing their freedom like I did.  My feelings of incarceration were made worse by my guilt over the feeling of incarceration.  (Strange circle, I know.)  I loved my child so much, so why did I feel sad about losing myself?  These are questions that I’m sure many new mothers ask, and if you are asking them now, or ever find yourself asking them, know that it gets better.  I learned to balance a new important part of my life.  Sometimes it was as simple as taking a walk (alone). 

            BT (Before Twins) I actually considered not having any more children for fear of PPD occurring again.  Please don’t dismiss this statement as unimportant to my journey.  I SERIOUSLY could have missed out on the blessings of my twins because I was afraid of PPD coming back into my life.  To even write it now feels ridiculous.  How could I possibly let something like that control me?  I have God to thank for rescuing me from myself.  My mom, godmother, and Sissy (who was only 16 at the time, God bless her) helped me to get out with Princess and see how it was possible.  My husband and Adod helped me learn to venture out without Princess, which was equally important. 

            I’m sure you’re wondering about my experience with PPD after having the twins.  I prayed fervently before their birth, not that God would keep me from feeling any depression after their birth, but that He would help me to fight off any dark thoughts the devil threw at me.  I won’t say that I didn’t have moments of feeling overwhelmed, because I did (and still do four months later).  I will say that I (with God’s help) only let it go that far.  I did not allow myself to be engulfed in that feeling and sucked down into the hole of despair.  My husband prayed about this as well, because I know he worried about PPD occurring again even more than I did, though he wouldn’t say so.  PPD was as hard on him as it was me, since he felt obligated to helping me while maintaining the household during the moments I fell apart.  I know more than once he came home to both of us crying as hard as we could and had to decide which of us to try to comfort first.   Those who love us most rallied around us again this time around to help us adjust to our new life.  This time, I let them.  I slept when they offered to stay awake, I went to the store for myself when they offered to stay with my kids, and I ventured out with all three of them into the world when help allowed.  It made my life so much better.  And while nursing didn’t work out for me this time, I allowed myself to only feel a little guilty about it, and switched to formula.  Sometimes, we have to give up on the little things we want to hold onto in order to just enjoy the moment.  I would rather enjoy feeding my baby a bottle than despair while trying to nurse when the milk just isn’t there.  I had to learn that the most important things are that my children are well taken care of, well loved, and learn to love Jesus.  The rest, I can let go of. 

     For those of you who are suffering from PPD, this is my prayer for you:  “God, please touch those who are suffering the pain of depression.  Ease their minds and heal their hearts.  Let them know that they are not alone.  Show them their strengths as a mother, and be their strength through weak moments.  Guide them to get help if they need it.  If they are too down to praise You God, I will Praise You for them until they can praise You again.  Put a blanket over their hearts to warm and comfort them.  Remind them of Your blessings.”

     I never know how much to say about things in this blog.  Maybe I say too much and am too open.  However, when it comes to an issue as serious as this one, I feel that those of us who have seen the dark times and come through them should reach out to those who may still be there.  If you would like to talk to me more about PPD, you can post a message under anonymous with your information.  It will not show up on the blog, but it will come to me to be approved.  I would be happy to email you.  If you would like to make a comment about the blog, feel free to post under anonymous and you can sign the bottom of it, or you can follow the blog and post a comment as well.  I am no expert, so I can only try to understand, sympathize, and pray with you.

Bring in the troops!

     Coming home with twins was an intimidating idea.  When I had Princess, I didn’t want to leave the hospital because I was afraid of taking care of her.  When I had to leave the hospital with the twins, I could have cried.  It wasn’t that I was afraid of taking care of a baby. (I was feeling better about that after three years of experience with Princess.)  Instead, my hesitation to leave a place with around the clock care and assistance was because I knew how demanding a newborn was, and I was getting a pretty good idea of how demanding two would be.  I read a few books on twins that not only suggested lining up help for when you come home with twins, but also gave examples of schedules and such.  I didn’t go as far as scheduling, but I probably would have if my helpers had volunteered.  I was so worried when I had Princess that I would not go to bed and leave her with anyone, not even my mother.  If you are a new mother and can relate to this, do yourself a favor and get over it.  I promise you that your baby will still love you most.  I also promise that your child can survive a few hours without you as long as they are being taken care of by someone who knows how to take care of an infant.  I promise you that you being in your child’s presence is NOT what makes him/her/them survive.  I can also promise that you will enjoy your child more if you are not sleep deprived.  (The rest of the world will probably like YOU better, too.  This is my personal experience here.) I got over any hesitation about leaving them in the night pretty quickly with the twins.  (Those who volunteered to come keep the twins at night while I slept were enthusiastically greeted.)  My helpers would come at night as well as early in the morning to help.  My mother, godmother, Sissy, and Sil each did some night shifts.  It worked out particularly well that Sissy was in college and was used to staying up all night because it didn’t seem to even bother her much and she had no hesitations of just crawling in bed with me when Dean left so that we all got as much sleep as possible.  The helpers and twins would stay on the other end of the house (so that I couldn’t hear the babies cry) and bring them to me to nurse when necessary (giving them supplemental bottles to ensure sleep time).  It was AWESOME, especially when Dean went back to work and couldn’t get up as much in the night.  I left them with these wonderful people without thinking twice.  If I had been able to afford it, I would have hired a night nanny a few times a week.  (I think about it even now, over four months later.)  My in-laws took early morning shifts and came over before the sun rose to allow me to sleep in.  The goal was always 6 straight hours of sleep.  Pure heaven. 

To be realistic, it’s not getting up three to four times a night that makes you so exhausted; it’s doing that every night of your life that gets tiring.  It always hit me about the third night.  I think my crew realized this and tried to intervene on my behalf.  My poor husband stayed equally tired since it took two of us to feed them in the night.  Dean could sleep through anything, but he was a real trooper and told me to wake him to feed one while I fed the other.  I was used to getting up a lot with Princess when she was a baby, but he was not because she was strictly nursed, which rendered him pretty useless.  Princess has never been a good sleeper.  In fact, we were a co-sleeping family with her, due to her inability to actually sleep, my constant worry, and her constant croup.  It just seemed easier.  We knew, however, that co-sleeping with her once the twins arrived was not a good idea, so Dean took it upon himself to work her into her own bed.  He would, and still does, lay down with her until she fell asleep.  It worked out pretty well, since she thought it was her idea and I took up a great deal of room with my massive belly and crew of pillows necessary for supporting it, thus making her uncomfortable.  In addition, we knew that co-sleeping with twins would not be easy, so we opted for bassinets.  The ones with wheels were especially handy for those who came to help out.  We would simply roll them back and forth. 

     There were other friends who came to visit and hold a baby for a while and helped out in different ways.  We had a wonderful church family who brought us dinner for an entire week.  (If you’ve never thought to do this for someone who has just come home with a baby, DO IT!)  There is nothing as good as not having to worry about meeting that need for your family.  My friend Adod assisted in unique ways such as picking up premie stuff when we realized newborn clothes didn’t fit Tinker and making sure I had caffeine free drinks at home and at Godmother’s (Adod’s husband helped with this too.)  It’s funny how the little things can mean so much.  I never would have imagined how much it would mean to sleep, drink something other than water, and have clothes that fit Tinker just right.  The help hasn’t stopped.  We are constantly grateful for people who help.  My sister in law, Sil, gets us formula at a cheaper price by going to a wholesale store for us.  Our babysitters come to our house to make it easier on the babies.  The blessings are endless.  I don’t know what I’ve done to have family and friends that are so loving, giving, and abundant, but I truly praise God for them.  God knows me better than I know myself, so I know he knows that I need the help.  There are times even now that I could just sit down and give up, even with all of the help I have.  But just when I almost do, Tank looks at me like I’m his favorite person in the world and smiles his big, friendly smile at me.  My heart melts down and is renewed.  Life is good.

When you have to live the nightmare...

     This post will throw off my chronological order for the blog.  I have been trying to start from the beginning and tell my story in an order necessary to understanding my chaos.  However, for some reason, I just can’t get this one off of my mind.  To be honest, these stories are some of the main inspirations for the blog itself, but I have dreaded writing them down.  I don’t know how retelling these accounts of motherhood will affect me emotionally.  I’m the kind of person who can survive a difficult situation with what seems like great strength, but I go home and break down completely.  I can stand strong while a doctor makes me sign for my baby to be put to sleep so that they can run an emergency test on her airways.  Then, a week later, I wake up in a cold sweat and sob into my pillow while my husband reminds me that it’s over and she’s okay.  I praise God for strength in the storm.  I can suction out the throat and nose of my 7 week old baby to make her breathe while my husband drives us to the local ER to figure out what is wrong, but then I sit here and shake at the memory.  I praise God for a quick reaction that I know was not in my own strength.  SO, to get this blog off my back, I’m just going to write it already.  Then maybe it will dive back down into my heart where I normally guard it.

            When I had Princess, I feared everything as a new mother.  I would watch her sleep, as if it was me watching that made her breathe.  I worried constantly about everything, real and imagined.  At 13 months old, Princess got sick, and my life changed forever.  We woke up with her crying in a strange new way.  We had been trying to get her to sleep in her own room, but she was very strong willed so it was a struggle.  Luckily, we both immediately knew her cry was different.  We thought maybe she had croup, but she didn’t cough at all.  It was her breathing that was funny.  Dean took her outside and tried to calm her down.  When she did clam down, she slept on my chest for the next several hours.  I thought maybe she had cried too much and made herself raspy.  At about 3 am, I took her to bed with me and we slept for about 2 ½ to 3 hours.  I woke up several times and it seemed like she was sleeping well, but still breathing funny.  At about 5:30 am, Dean called his dad to come look at her and see if we needed to take her to the dr.  It was a Saturday, so we’d either have to go to the ER or wait for an after hours clinic to open.  When she woke up, it seemed she got worse and worse, so we all decided that the ER would be the best choice.  She was obviously scared by this time.  Our local hospital is very small with no pediatrician.  When we got there, we received immediate attention.  This made me relieved, but scared at the same time, because I knew it meant they thought something serious was wrong.  Princess was born and began vaccinations at a time when the HIB vaccine was in a shortage, and that put her at risk.  The doctor thought she might have epiglottitis.  I had no idea what that meant, but I knew to fear it.  They decided to med-flight her to a larger hospital about an hour away.  My husband and I had to decide who would go with her on the helicopter (only one parent was allowed) and who would drive our vehicle over with supplies we would need for a hospital stay.  Dean, in his great love for me, let me go.  Maybe he worried about me driving over, but he knew my parents would drive for me if necessary.  I truly think he knew I needed to be with her as her mother and made the sacrifice.  I’m glad.  The flight was life changing.  One thing everyone who knows me knows about me is that I’m afraid of almost everything, heights and flying topping the list.  However, I would do anything for Princess.  I sat in the back of the helicopter with her in a car seat strapped to the gurney.  They were giving her a breathing treatment at the hospital that was taken with us on the flight (we landed before it was even finished).  They gave me a helmet and some emergency instructions that I would rather have not known.  My helmet had a plug on it that the lady in the back with me could plug in to her own helmet and talk to me through.  It stayed unplugged for all but about 45 seconds when she told me everything was going ok.  The rest of the 12 minute flight was silent.  As I sat there, I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life.  I looked at my baby, sitting there exhausted, struggling to breathe, but peaceful.  Then, my eye rose to the window next to her.  I saw out of the window a mountain range that I had seen hundreds of times from a different angle.  It was magnificent.  It was breathtaking.  It was awe inspiring.  I had been in a constant state of prayer the entire morning, but at this point, the prayer changed.  I had been saying to God all night and morning things like, “Please help her to be okay.”  “Please make me strong.”  “Please keep her safe.”  At this point, it hit me.  I loved Princess as much as I could possibly love anything, but God loved her more.  I wasn’t even capable of loving the way he does, yet here I am thinking I could convince him to heal her because of how much I loved her.  My prayer became this: “God, I know Your will is perfect.  I know you love Princess more than I can even understand as a human.  I don’t know what Your will is, and I don’t want to think that the outcome could be bad, but she’s Yours.  I lay her down in your hands at this very moment.”  I can’t say even now that saying that prayer made me immediately feel at peace, but I knew my heart was right with God for the first time since Princess was born.  She had become an idol.  It’s so easy for that to happen to mothers I think.   However, in that moment, I turned away from the idol and turned back to God.  I jokingly refer to it now as a “Come to Jesus moment”, but all jokes aside, that is exactly what it was.  I would also like to say that that prayer made everything else easier, but it didn’t.  When we landed, we were met by no less than 13 members of the medical staff.  Among others, there was a surgeon, an anesthesiologist, a pediatrician, and several nurses.  I had to sign papers allowing them to 1. Put her to sleep, 2. Let them run a tube down her throat to see if she did in fact have epiglottitis, and 3. Begin a tracheotomy if necessary.  Can you imagine a dr. looking at you and saying that they may have to do that to your child?  Even now, I don’t know how I did it without crying, but I did.  All of this was said in a matter of minutes as we walked from the landing to the OR.  I praise God for a strength that wasn’t mine.  I was completely alone.  Everyone in the world I knew was somewhere else, and those who were on their way to the hospital had no cellphone service.  I had no idea where in the hospital I was, and didn’t even know where the waiting room was.  A nurse took me to a waiting area for about 5 minutes, and another nurse came and took me to another waiting room.  It was completely empty, but I recognized it.  Three years before, I sat there while my dad was in emergency surgery after a tree fell on him.  I praised God in that moment for miracles of the past and for miracles to come.  The sweetest nurse sat with me as I waited.  She tried to talk to me, but I honestly don’t remember anything she said.  She would pat me on the hand and reassure me.  She told me that when the waiting room phone rang, she would answer it.  I praise God that I didn’t realize why she wanted to be the one to answer.  Soon enough, someone called out and said that they were out of the OR and took me to recovery.  The sweet nurse left me with the recovery nurses.  Princess slept.  Dean called, and was outside of the hospital.  The recovery nurse took my phone to where she could get signal and talked him through the turns and elevators to where he needed to go.  I praise God for people who care enough to go to trouble for a mother who must have looked like a wounded rabbit.  We were moved to the PICU and told that Princess did not have epiglottitis.  She did have croup.  For some reason, her reaction to croup had no cough and there was no warning.  It hit suddenly and at full force.  We stayed there for about three days and she improved each day.  We survived.  We took some scars with us, but I learned so much about God and my relationship with Him through the experience.  She suffered from croup a lot the next two years.  It prepared me for things to come.

            Fast forward about two years.  I woke up exhausted at 7 am to seven week old Tank crying for a bottle.  As he ate, I heard Tinker Belle cry out in an alarming way.  I looked over into her bassinet and saw that she was awake but not breathing, though struggling to do so.  It was such a surreal moment of realization.  It was my worst nightmare; it was years of irrational fears made rational.  I screamed out to Dean for a suction bulb (the thing you use for snot in a baby’s nose) and picked her up.  I had taken a first aid class, so I knew what to do for a choking baby.  I also knew she wasn’t choking on an object, but I had to do something.  I laid Tank down on the bed as fast as I could and picked her up.  This action alone helped her to gasp a few times before she locked up again.  After a few minutes, Dean had torn the entire house apart and finally found a bulb.  I stuck it in the side of her mouth as far back as I could and suctioned her out.  It helped.  I did the same in her nose and told Dean to call his dad (his parents have always lived across the street from us).  He was there faster than I could even imagine.  Dean got ready and my father in law held Tinker Belle while I put on some clothes.  I can’t imagine how bad we must have looked when we got to the ER, but once again, we were treated immediately.  We were there quite awhile until she seemed to be breathing with no times of hesitation.  At one point, the entire ER staff must have been in there. I praise God for medical personnel who love children.  We were moved to same hospital that Princess stayed at, but via ambulance due to extreme fog.  Tinker Belle was such a trooper, she went through numerous tests that I know were unpleasant, and often didn’t even cry.  They even put tiny needles in her head to monitor her brain at one point, and she didn’t throw a fit.  I praise God for her gentle, calm spirit.  In the end, she was diagnosed with severe reflux.  She simply wasn’t strong enough to work up the vomit she needed to while she was asleep.  I was once again changed.  After a three day hospital stay for not only her but her mother, father, and twin brother, she was sent home on an apnea monitor.  This was more for my peace of mind than anything else.  She was put on medication to help with the reflux.  When we first got home, I would lie down at night exhausted, and say this prayer: “God, they are Yours before they are mine.  I know You love them.  I am blessed to care for them, but Your will is perfect.  Protect them as You see fit, and I will praise You no matter what.”  I try to always remember to say that prayer.  I have three beautiful, healthy children today, but I know that in life, sometimes your worst nightmares become your reality.  I praise God that my nightmares ended happily, and realize that not everyone has that experience.  I pray for those mothers who cannot say the same.  If you are one, this is my prayer for you:  “God, please touch the hearts of those who have suffered unthinkable loss.  Please touch those mothers who are living a nightmare today.  God help them to know that you love them more than they could ever know.  Please help them to feel your arms around them.  Help them to know that there are other mothers praying for them to have peace, healing, and faith.  Help them to know that Your will is perfect no matter what happens in this life, and You are just.”

I hope that by writing what to me feels to be the most exposing post I could write, someone has been encouraged.  For me, this is the equivalent of the dream of going to school in your underwear becoming a reality by choice.  It wasn’t easy, but if it brings glory to God, it is worth it.

Introducing the family

I thought it was time to let everyone see the family.  I'll start putting pictures up regularly now. P.S. Please don't steal my pics.

Princess

Dean and Me

Tank and Tinker Belle

Word on the street 'bout twins is...

     I can’t even begin to list everything people told us about twins, but we got some very interesting comments.  First, let me explain that there are very few experts on multiples in the general public.  However, there are tons of people who will give you their “expert” advice on twins.  As a matter of fact, when people find out you are having twins (which usually comes up when they see that you are expecting and either 1. Ask what you are having or 2. Comment on how you must be due anytime even though you are months away from delivery), they are fascinated and excited with your predicament and feel the need to comment in some way.  To be honest, I was pretty hard to offend when I was pregnant with the twins, which was a good thing.  (Side Note: Number two above was usually said by a man or member of the senior citizen community, so their age or ignorance in what not to say to pregnant women made them easy to forgive.)  I particularly loved the looks on the faces of those who asked what I was having and heard me reply, “both”.  I could have said it differently, but it was more fun that way.  After such comments, they usually told me everything they knew about twins (it often didn’t take long), OR they told me about a set of twins they knew once.  These conversations happened in the grocery store, Wal-Mart, or anywhere else I ventured out in public.  This reason is why I refused to go out in public in my own hometown by week 34; my extreme girth might have had a little to do with it too.  Now, there is a pretty significant difference between facts on identical twins and fraternal twins.  I’m not going to start listing them since I myself am no expert.  (I don’t want to put any misinformation on here by mistake.)  I got tons of advice on how to make them sleep together (definitely together), or apart (definitely apart) from people who had never had children, much less twins.  I was told how much to have them together or apart in general (which is silly since they are siblings and will be together a great deal along with Princess who is three years older).  What was really troublesome to me at first was when people in the medical field gave me incorrect information.  Now, a doctor never did this, but there were several nurses and ultrasound technicians along the way that made incorrect comments.  (I found out they were incorrect only when I mentioned the statements to Dr. Wonderful, my high risk dr.).  I am not saying this to put down any member of the medical community; especially nurses and ultrasound technicians who took wonderful care of me throughout my pregnancy and delivery.  I’m simply trying to explain that as a mother to be (whether it be with two, three, or eight babies) you have to educate yourself and rely on your specialists for information.  I am not the “I know more than you” type person in life, so I usually nodded and thanked people for information given, even if I knew it was incorrect.  I think that’s the nice thing to do.  My mommy always told me that if I couldn’t be nice, I should just keep my mouth shut. (I’m summarizing of course.)  None of these things bothered me while I was pregnant.  HOWEVER, there were a few comments here and there that could get under my skin, so I will be moving on from those who were trying to help, to those who were obviously NOT. 

I can’t count how many times people would say things like “What are you going to do with twins!?!?”, “Better you than me!”, or “I’d die if I found out I was having twins!”  Now, I’m assuming you’ve read the post about my reaction to finding out I was having twins, so part of me understood each of these comments.  However, it did not take me very long at all (thanks to such comments) to become very protective of my twins.  I mean, I didn’t look at other women who were pregnant with only one baby and say something like “aw, you’re only having one?  I guess you feel shorted in comparison.” Please note that I didn’t actually feel this way, I just wanted to return harm for harm.  I wish I could say that I didn’t contemplate making such remarks, but thankfully, God gently put his hand over my mouth at the right time so that my outrage hit long about the time I pulled out of the parking lot in my car.  I didn’t so much mind the comments themselves, but the mama bear in me could read the tone of such statements and react accordingly.  Most people meant no harm or meanness, so I would smile, tell them I was both shocked and thrilled with my situation, and move along to the next moment of my life.  When the negative tones were obvious, I would reply in comments such as, “I guess I’ll keep them both!”, “I’m so glad God saw me fit to raise twins.”, or “I don’t know how we’ll do it exactly, but you’re welcome to come help!”  (A smile accompanied all of these.)  As I mentioned before, I usually didn’t feel terribly indignant until the situation was over.  I’m the kind of person who thinks of her best comebacks about 30 minutes after the confrontation ends.  (And then you can’t very well chase someone down in a store to say it without feeling even more ridiculous than you already do.) 

                  Not all the advice was bad and not all comments outrageous.  You wouldn’t believe how many people talked about their own desire to have had twins.  It seems like for every bad comment, a good one came along as well.  I know that people who barely knew me prayed fervently for my pregnancy and babies.  I also got to speak to some dear old ladies who had their own sets of twins way back when the women of the house would have to do all the hard work alone when it came to the children.  (I sincerely thank God that my husband plays an active part in taking care of our children.)  People encouraged me by telling me how blessed I was, and it seemed like when I needed it most, my dear Christian work friends, Joy Mac and Sfields, would send me a note of encouragement even though they both had their own chaos ensuing at the time.  I also had a whole team of support ranging from family to friends that did big things, like helping set up the nursery, to little things, like push the buggy.  I don’t know what I would have done without the people in my life who love me, but I know my struggle would have been much more difficult.  (Here is where I must once again give props to Sissy, Mommy, Godmother, A.Thack from way back, and NAC who all put together my nursery after Dean painted it.  You’d think putting together a nursery for twins to share would be just as easy as putting a nursery together for just one baby…You’d be wrong.  These ladies could lift heavy furniture and take apart and put back together a crib or two like nobody’s business.)

                  In the end, when you are expecting twins, you do exactly what you do when you are expecting just one baby.  You tune out the horror stories and negativity, and you focus on the positive thoughts and statements.  No matter what people had to say, I would tell Tinker and Tank every time we were alone how much I loved them and how special they were, even in utero.  I hope one day they understand that while a twin pregnancy was a huge surprise to Dean and Rea, who had not planned to have children at all, they were truly a blessing from God.  I can’t imagine my life without any of my three children now.  We may be looked at like a freak show when we venture out, but it’s worth the stares, comments (good and bad), and struggles to have such wonderful chaos engulf my life so fully.

Wide Load: Carrying Twins

     I didn’t have an easy pregnancy with my first daughter, so I knew I was in for it with the twins.  I was right.  I was sick as a dog most of the time, and gained weight at a rate that my back, knees, and joints couldn’t keep up with.  Actually, it wasn’t really the weight, but the disproportions of my body.  I only gained about 48 pounds, which may sound like a lot, but I’m proud of, even though I did not control myself whatsoever so I can take no credit for the number.  I enjoyed ever bite of it.  By 30 weeks, I had to quit working.  As a teacher, I had to be on my feet a majority of the day, and making it through the day meant being swollen beyond recognition by the afternoon.  It’s funny how people who have never been a teacher think it’s a great, easy job.  “I wish I could get paid for sitting around all summer.” They say.  My husband’s response: “Go back to school and you can.”  My response: “We don’t actual get paid FOR those months; we only get paid DURING those months by having our salary prorated to do so.  That means we take ten months of salary and spread it out over twelve months worth of pay.”  Dean is always more satisfied than I am at the end of such conversations because people just don’t get it.  Don’t get me wrong, our hours I work are great, and we have good insurance and benefits.  BUT, just think about being responsible for the English Literature, Grammar, and testing knowledge of 130 teenagers every year that you spend only 50 minutes a day working with.  I love my job, but if it weren’t for summers, I would have chronic ulcers.  Thank goodness I had an AFLAC policy for short term disability.  I wanted to stay home, relax, and play with Princess while it was just us two there.  I couldn’t actually get in the floor, but we used my belly as a table a lot to play on with small toys.  I wish I could remember more about the earlier weeks I was off, but for some reason, I just can’t.  I do remember that by week 34, I was so unbearably miserable that I cried a lot and could hardly move.  I thought I was going to give my poor husband a breakdown from trying to work, manage the farm, and basically do everything I couldn’t (which was everything).  Family and close friends helped by cleaning and cooking some, but his role had definitely changed drastically.  At week 34, I spent a night in the hospital.  At week 35, I spent another night, and at week 36, I was put in and didn’t leave until I had two more babies to take home.  Though miserable and constantly contracting, my health was good, so there was no reason to deliver the babies.  By week 36, even my high risk doctor, who I will call doctor Wonderful, felt sorry for me.  “I’m sorry, but there’s just no medical reason to deliver the babies early”, said Wonderful.  I liked him a lot, trusted him dearly, and knew he was truly great.  However, I became convinced that I was going to die from some kind of system shut down before the babies were delivered.  I know it sounds silly now, but I promise you that I was sincerely convinced I was going to die.  I prayed to God consistently to remove such thoughts from my mind and make me stronger.  I wanted my babies to be big and healthy and not have to go to the NICU at all or be left behind at the hospital.  My prayer was to make it to 36 weeks, at which point I told Wonderful I was ready.  Unfortunately, he was not.  “Just because a baby may be big, does not mean that he/she is ready to be born”, says Wonderful to a lady carrying two babies, one of which was measuring in the 100^th percentile.  Forgive me for being selfish, but I cried unashamedly at that particular news.  I sincerely wanted healthy babies, but my mind, body, and spirit were tired.  I was not just a little exhausted, but a wary, unnerved, broken spirit kind of exhausted.  I was the kind of exhausted that allows the devil to convince you that you just can’t make it any longer.  IN the end, the twins were born at 36 weeks and 3 days at the decision of a perinatologist.  The problem was that baby A, aka Tinker Belle, was so much smaller than baby B, aka Tank, that they could not get a good measurement on her to know that she was growing properly.  Once she measured below the 10^th percentile, they were delivered.  Tinker Belle, weighed in at a healthy 5 pounds and 3 ounces, which was impressive for a twin.  She had nothing on Tank though, who weighed in at 7 pounds 12 ounces, bigger than many singletons.  GEE, wonder why I was so miserable!!! I was thrilled though, because they could breathe well, and didn’t need to even visit the NICU….AND it meant I wasn’t such a weenie after all (don’t judge me til you’ve been there people.)  Of course, I know I would be nervous about going home with two newborns added to my family, but I think you get to a point in pregnancy where you just know that keeping them in there is harder than letting them come out so you can take care of them that way.  It’s not true at all, of course, but you feel that way long enough to be glad to hear that you are about to have major surgery.

You see how many babies in there?!?

                  It took me three months to get pregnant the second time around about two and a half years after Princess was born.  Those of you who had to “try” to get pregnant understand how long that can feel.  My husband, saddened by my grief every month, suggested a spiritual fast in which we would pray for peace with whatever God sent our way, while expressing to him our desire to have another child.  When I got pregnant with Princess, I knew almost immediately.  We were on vacation when we nervously waited the three hours minutes it takes for the test to complete and looked like two deer caught in the headlights of life when we realized the test was positive.  We smiled, threw up, and began preparing to tell everyone.  Therefore, it was no surprise that I was immediately suspicious of my second pregnancy.  I had a Thanksgiving trip to my grandmother’s house (9 hours away) planned, so I wanted to get in to the doctor as quickly as possible.  (Because I wanted a Dr. to confirm the pregnancy so I could tell all 90 members of my family, of course.)  The Dr. confirmed and scheduled an ultrasound for the very near future, which I thought a little odd but not enough to dampen my spirit.  Looking back, I don’t really know why I told my husband he didn’t need to go with me to that first ultrasound.  It just seemed silly for him to miss work when all we would see would be a little peanut (silly me).  My mother refused to let me go alone (and miss out on the chance to see said peanut before anyone else).  I also wanted to take my daughter Princess, so I invited my godmother to go along.  (As a side note, Godmother isn’t actually my godmother per se, but she is my mom’s best friend and the mother of two of my best friends, Sissy and Adod, so she took care of me a lot when I was younger and we all took/take vacations together in the summer.  It’s easier to just say godmother rather than explain that situation all too often.)  Godmother stayed with Princess in the waiting room, because I got pretty nervous at the last minute that something could be wrong.  Maybe, just maybe, the Dr. sensed there was something wrong and that is why she made me go in so early.  I was feeling stupid for not taking Dean with me.  Luckily, the technician quickly found the little sac which held a baby…(ENTER INNER MONOLOGUE) "Wait, is that a line down the middle of it?!?,,, and what is that other thingy over there anyway?  Somethings wrong!  What if I lose the baby?  What if I can't ever have any more children?! I promise I'll love it even if somethings wrong with it, God.  Please just let it be ok!"  I panicked for what felt like an eternity but couldn’t have been mere moments when the technician looked at me and said, “Do you see that there are two?”  I’m not exactly sure what my response was, but it must have been loud and frantic.  I think it was something along the lines of “Are you kidding me?!  My husband’s going to kill me!  One better be a boy or he’ll never forgive me!”  This sounded even crazier when broken by sobs. Also, considering that it was the first ultrasound, it was a bit awkward since I was crying so hard the image was shaking. (Think back to what kind of ultrasound that first one is ladies!) To say the least, I made a complete and udder fool of myself, (which later made me somewhat relieved to be transferred to a high risk Dr. ) Now, for fear of making my husband sound unreasonable, let me explain some things.  He was not angry at me for “accidentally” getting pregnant with twins, nor would he have held me responsible had both been girls, since neither was an option I had control over and took without asking him first.  HOWEVER, I couldn’t help but be shocked.  My husband, after being relieved of his class by a frantic (God bless her) guidance counselor telling him that his wife needed to speak to him immediately, flew down to the phone, waited while I calmed myself enough to say the words, and held it together pretty well when I told him that the “one last baby” would actually be two.  “After all”, he said, “it’s not like you could help it.”It reminded me why he was my hero.  My mother also made a fool of herself in the dr. office out of complete joy.  Daddy was a little upset when I told him because I was crying and preluded the news with “everything is ok but..”  because he said everyone says that before giving you bad news.   My sister-in-law, Sil, said something I shouldn't repeat on here, but was excited overall.  I couldn't get in touch with Bubby (my brother), so Sil told him later.  My husband told his parents, and they were absolutely thrilled with the idea of having an extra, unexpected grandchild.  Princess, being less than three didn't see why it was such a big deal, and, to this day, forgets that not everyone has two at once.  My friends were all excited, but a few of them thought I was being funny, and I had to text them a picture of the ultrasound to prove to them I wasn't lying.  Others often don’t believe me when I say that it never occurred to me that I could have conceived twins.  Twins run in my dad’s family, but out of 26 first cousins (about 15 or more of which have had children) my set is the first natural set to be born.  When I had Princess, I fantasized about having twins because I didn’t want to have to go through that whole process again, but for some reason my mind wouldn’t allow me to think that the second pregnancy could be twins.  Funny thing though, God didn’t ask before blessing me with them, and I’m glad because I might have tried to talk him out of it. 

Then comes Rea with a Baby carriage...

On March 1^st, after 20 hours of a labor I will spare you the details of, we welcomed (via c-section, which was NOT part of my birthing plan) our Princess.  She weighed in at 9 pounds even and was 22 inches long.  I wish I could say our entrance into parenthood was what story tales were made of, but in reality, we learned how hard this thing called parenting could be.  We both swore (especially after experiencing colic) that we would only ever have one child.  My husband had resigned himself to the fact that the family farm would be passed down to our little girl and whatever unworthy slug she may marry.  She was difficult, she cried constantly, was manipulative (from the beginning), and perfect in any way you can imagine.  She’s more beautiful than I ever thought about being, and more intelligent than I could have hoped for.  I truly believe that God sent me Princess to teach me what Agape love means.  I love her so unconditionally that it hurts.  I love her so deeply that I feel held captive by my love for her.  I love her so purely that I put her in God’s hands for protection constantly.  I never thought I could want anything more from love.  I don’t know when I started changing my mind about having another child, but I’m sure the idea snuck up on me and squeezed through the cracks of my mind.  While Princess is perfect in so many ways, she was not an easy baby.  AND if I’m being perfectly honest, it took me a year and a half to really feel good about my physique again after having her.  Yet, for some reason, I begin to think about her growing up with no siblings, which led me to think of how much I love my own one and only brother, which led me to think of her all alone in the world and grief stricken after the death of myself and my husband.  (I never said my thoughts were rational.)  SO, once again, I began to work on my husband about having JUST ONE MORE baby.  The sibling argument could only have so much weight since he is himself an only child and doesn’t feel that he missed much.  His parents were on my side with that argument though, and shared their own sadness about only having been blessed with one child.  I also MIGHT have insinuated that it would definitely be a boy the second time, and that I already knew he’d love farming.  (Don’t judge me; I was desperate to make sure she had a family connection in this world once I was dead!)  If my life before Princess was busy, then my life after having her was extremely busy and couldn’t get any more so, right?......

The very very beginning!

I met my husband, Dean, when I was one month shy of 18 years old.  I loved him instantly.  We dated for three years before getting married.  My sister-in-law and mother are given credit for fixing us up.  Dean is 5 years older than me, so we hadn’t really ran into each other even in our small town.  We were both in emotionally vulnerable states and we each thank God for sending the other to us.  He knows the ways I’m crazy and helps me, and I return the favor for him.  If there’s anything I can say for myself, it is that I have always been goal oriented.  My problem, however, is that I sometimes only look to the immediate future in my planning.  Therefore, when Dean told me he wanted me to be able to experience college life, I flew through a B.A. program at what might have been record speed.  Why you may ask?  Well, I wanted to be married of course!  The thought of future children never occurred to me.  HELLO!  College only prepares you for a future career.  When would I possibly have even thought of children?  There was also the issue of being pregnant, which meant gaining weight.  I had been the chubby kid up until 7^th grade when I dropped a bunch of weight due to moving for the first time ever (via cheerleading and volleyball).  My weight fluctuated a bit through the years, but most people from high school remember me as being pretty small.  I won’t deny that I had a bit of a self-esteem issue that led to less than healthy habits that I still struggle with today.  Therefore, actually carrying, and then birthing (a horrifying thought I never even let enter my mind until I was already pregnant), was out of the question.  Isn’t it funny how life works?  Out of nowhere, my mind began to change. My older brother had his second son, and there was just something special that caught my eye about children in general.  (I mean that in the sense of having one’s own child to rise, not just enjoying their cuteness and intoxicating baby smell.)  It wasn’t that I loved my second nephew any more than the first, but my oldest nephew was born just nine days after I got married, so I simply wasn’t in the place of imagining myself as a mother.  However, when “Tumpy” came along, he took to me right away, and I loved him in a way that I knew that I could meet his needs if necessary (rather than holding him while he was happy and then passing him off when the least little thing made me nervous).   My best friend at work was pregnant around the same time, and I remember her saying once before ever even revealing her pregnancy, “if all the Christians quit having children because the world is so bad, how will it ever get better?”  OUCH!  It was something I needed to hear.  I had used that very excuse, which prompted her comment.  In truth, I wasn’t actually afraid of bringing a child into a horrible world anyway; it was just an excuse to hide behind.  For some reason, God saw me fit to be a mother, and melted my heart with one little situation after another until I realized that I truly wanted a child.  It was then that I undertook a great task…talking my husband into having a baby.  Believe me; it was harder than you’d think.  My husband and I both battle selfishness (we at least feel a little better in the fact that we are aware of the situation, admit to it, and work on it).  Having a child would mean obvious sacrifice, and it was easier for me to (pretend to) accept the challenge than for him to accept it himself.  We are the kind of people who agonize over what kind of stove to buy and resent the price of everything for fear of stretching ourselves too thin financially.  Having a child is a HUGE financial commitment, so the thought was terrifying, especially to my husband who bears the greater burden financially between us.  However, through his great love for me (or maybe it was my constant begging, pleading, and nagging), he agreed.  We starting trying to get pregnant in June of 2007, and found out we had been successful before that month was even up.  I think it was God’s way of helping us to not back out.  My husband hit his knees praying for a boy, while preparing himself for the girl he knew we’d have, ever the optimist. 

 Like I said folks, brutal honesty is what you'll get if you hang around here.