Dear Preemie Mom

Dear Preemie Mom:

I see you. I see you, scared and confused, as you have to leave your baby behind in the hospital because he was early and he needs a lot of help. I see you taking notes as the doctor explains all the machines and sounds that surround your tiny, sweet baby. I see you trying your hardest to take it all in - all the medical jargon, all the dates and times and schedules - but your eyes keep wandering back to your baby in her isolette as you wonder when you will be able to hold her.

I see you driving to the hospital day after day, determined not to miss a second with your little one. I see your shoulders slump as you prepare yourself for another long day of visiting your baby and then leaving him behind once again.

I see you as you get to take your baby home - a time filled with such joy and excitement, and also a little bit of fear. You wonder if you will be able to take care of her like the doctors could. You wonder if you will be enough.

I see you a couple months down the line, rejoicing over having your baby with you at all times but becoming frustrated that your baby needs so much attention all the time. Doctors, specialists, therapists - it seems like your life now revolves around when the next appointment is and how long it will take you get there. You try to remind yourself that you should be grateful, because your baby has had to fight harder than most to even make it this far. But that doesn't always help your frustration. Sometimes it even adds to it. Why did your baby have to fight so hard? Why did this happen to your family? You ask yourself these questions every day but no answer seems right.

I see you at the birthday party for the child of a friend, a child who was born around the same time your own child was due, before they came so early. I see your smile, which is genuine, but it isn't the same smile it used to be. Because while you are happy for your friend and her child, it hurts to see how behind your own child is, and what a long way he has to go.

I see you crying late at night, wracked with guilt and worry and anger. If only you had been able to keep your baby inside a little longer...if only you had insisted the doctors take a second look at the scan... if only you hadn't had so much caffeine or sugar or whatever else you think could have contributed to your baby's prematurity. I see you blaming yourself, wondering what you can do to right this terrible wrong.

I see you decline invitations to playgrounds, to lunch, to so many places that first year. You're so afraid of your little boy getting sick. The doctors told you that this first winter was crucial, that you should not go out unless you absolutely had to. So you sit alone with your baby, knowing that it will all be worth it in the spring.

I see you carefully pack your diaper bag - yours isn't always like other people's diaper bags. You need a lot of hand sanitizer, extra oxygen tanks, some masks that keep germs away. You venture into the grocery store like a soldier approaching a battlefield - assessing risk, wondering how quickly you can finish your task, praying that when you leave, everyone will still be healthy.

I see you stammer and flounder when someone asks you how old your baby is. You know if you give the real answer that there will be so many questions, and you are tired of questions. But to you, giving any other answer feels like a disservice to your child, like you aren't acknowledging all of the hard work she put into coming into this world. So you split the difference - sometimes you tell people the real age, and sometimes you don't. It changes every time you are asked.

I see you wondering if you are the kind of mother your baby really needs. You think that someone else would be much better suited for all of this. All of the therapy and special arrangements that have to be made - you think you aren't cut out for this. You don't know how you will make it through. You look back to the life you had before - maybe you used to work and now you have to stay home. Maybe you want to stay home but you have to work. Either way, it is not the life you planned for yourself. It is not how you imagined having a baby would be.


I don't have answers for you. I wish I did. I want answers for me, too. But I want you to know that I see you. I see you, and you are not alone.

Sincerely,

A Preemie Mom

The Space-Toddler Continuum

Let's get one thing straight: This post is not about science. I don't do science. Tried it once; didn't like it. So if you came here for science, please talk to my husband instead. That guy knows science.

If you came here for cute pictures of my kids, here you go:

Don't be ashamed if that's the only reason you're here. They are pretty adorable.

But if you did, indeed, come here for a blog post, please keep reading. However, I feel obligated to warn you that this isn't one of my funnier posts. I will post a funny one later to make up for it. Just for you. Kisses!

**Disclaimer: I am super proud of Joshua. Like, super proud. He does amazing things. He works harder than anyone I know. I know his delays are only temporary and that he will catch up. He has come a really long way in his short little life and I admire him for his tenacity. Even on days when he is giving me toddler 'tude, I am reminded that it was this same stubborn personality that got him through the toughest days at the NICU.**

I put that disclaimer up because this post is, more or less, a big, long whine and I just want people to know that I know those things.  So - on to the show.

I wrote before that recently I had found myself starting to resent Josh for all of his issues. I knew (and know) that none of this was his fault, that it wasn't anyone's fault, but I was angry and I wanted someone to blame. So I picked my toddler. Classy. But, honestly, I don't resent him anymore. Once I realized that was happening, I started to figure out why I was angry, why I was looking for something to blame, why our situation suddenly frustrated me when it's nothing we haven't dealt with for (almost) the last two years.

And as I've watched Jenna grow and change, I think I've solved the mystery: I am stuck. I am stuck in a time warp of sorts, where things and people and circumstances progress at a regular rate, all except for Joshua.

It's kind of like taking a trip to Narnia. You guys know I love me some Narnia and look for pretty much any excuse to work it into this blog, but in this case it really, actually applies. In case you haven't read the books/seen the movies/have done both and still think I'm reaching, let me explain: In the story, four kids travel to a magical land called Narnia by means of a closet in a stranger's house. Yet another reason you shouldn't go through strangers' closets, but anyway... The kids stay in the magical land for years and years. They start out very young when they arrive and by the end of the book, they are adults. When they decide to go back home, they are surprised to realize that almost no time has passed at all in the real world. Maybe a few minutes at the most. They have become children again and no one is the wiser.

That is what I think of when I think of our lives with Josh. Daniel and Jenna and me, we're all living in Narnia, living our lives and progressing at the "normal" pace. But Josh is still in the real world, and every time we go back to check on him, not much has changed.

If you have kids or nieces or nephews or ever saw a kid once at the mall, you're probably familiar with the most common piece of parenting wisdom in the entire world: "Enjoy it; it goes by fast." This makes mothers everywhere roll their eyes, even the ones who say it to others, because, really, is there any statement that's more obvious?

But lately I find myself discovering that it doesn't go by fast for everyone. With Josh, for instance, it hasn't gone by fast. I mean, yes, the days and weeks have passed so quickly it's hard to believe that he will be two soon. But looking at his development, where he is in therapy, well...it's hard to believe he will be two soon.

Recently Josh was evaluated by a team of therapists and tested at about a 12-month level for development and skills. This was progress from his last eval, which was great news! But I think my frustration comes from the fact that it took him nearly two years to get to this level. Two years of hard work for him to still be behind. And that is just difficult to deal with a lot of the time. Because it doesn't mean that in another month, he will test at a 13-month level. He just doesn't follow a timeline like that.

Does that make any sense at all? I don't want to sound like I'm disappointed in Josh or that he is doing something wrong. Neither of those things is true. But one of the perks of being a parent is the joy you get from your kids and the way they grow up. Joshua will be two in February. He doesn't walk yet, he doesn't really say much, and, honestly, I don't get as much interaction out of him as I would a "typical" two-year-old. Do I enjoy him and love and cherish the interaction we do have? Absolutely. I freakin' love that kid. But because of the way he progresses, it's like he's growing up at half the regular pace, and that gets hard sometimes.

For babies born prematurely, doctors and specialists and parents adjust their age for milestones and expectations. This means that since Josh was born a little over three months early, he isn't expected to meet the milestones of his actual age, but those of the age he would be if he had been born on his due date. So right now he is 21 months and gets evaluated as an 18-month-old. However, that all stops when he turns two. In theory, preemies catch up by then and there is no longer any need to adjust their age. Obviously, Josh won't be caught up, but they will still stop adjusting his age.

I have been looking forward to Josh's second birthday ever since they told us that he would probably catch up by then, way back when he was still in the NICU. I didn't wish my time away but I was excited about being able to give a simple answer for his age and to be able to pretend that he was just like every other kid. That won't happen, and while that isn't the end of the world, it still bums me out. His therapists say that when he turns three, he should be much closer to being caught up. So now I guess we wait for three. Unless it's four. Or five. Or never.

Toddlers are supposed to toddle. They are supposed to run around and climb up things and push over the baby gates and flush things down the toilet. Those things are frustrating and I don't think other parents have it easier, but I really want Josh to flush something down our toilet. Not because I relish the idea of either going after or missing whatever he flushes, but because it means he will have walked in there by himself. He will have figured out how the toilet works. He will have had the wherewithal to sneak around, find Daniel's watch (I'm just assuming...), and use his planning skills for evil to create a mini-disaster. All things that he should be able to do right now. It's weird to want that, but I do. I want him to yell "NO" at me and say "uh-oh" when he drops something. He has a few words but he rarely ever says Mama or Mommy. And I know he loves me, but I just wish he could tell me. He's almost two. That is how it should be.

And please hear me - er, read me - when I say that Joshua "should" be doing something, I don't think he's doing anything wrong. I know he is really trying hard to learn and grow. I know that all kids develop at different rates and that Jenna could struggle just as much in spite of being born on time. I know that this will pass, and it won't be our lives forever. I know that I will look back on this post and laugh about how dramatic I am and how much of a Debbie Downer I can be. But right now, I am here, stuck in some kind of space-time continuum where everything changes but it doesn't change. And the more I see other kids his age or younger progress and then pass him up, the harder it is to keep up with our little time warp.

I almost didn't write this post. I didn't want to bum people out, I didn't want people to think I am super depressed or upset, and I didn't want to have to justify my feelings to anyone. But one of my greatest comforts since Joshua was born has been reading blogs or articles by people in the same situation and knowing that I'm not the worst mom in the world for feeling like this. So I am going to post it, and tell people about it, and hope that maybe it will help someone else who is dealing with this. Maybe not exactly this, but something close enough that you can relate and know you're not the only one.

And since this was a bummer post, I'll end with something hilarious: A joke!

- Knock, knock!
- Who's there?
- Interrupting cow!
- Interrupting cow wh--
- MOOOOOOOOO.

Huh. I guess that one doesn't really translate in print. Oh, well.

The Mommy Wars

Before I became a mother, I had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. It was one of those subjects that I was woefully but blissfully ignorant of - I really didn't have much use for information like which brand of diapers was best or how you need to move like a frickin ninja to escape infant projectile vomit.

I am still far from an expert, but after I had kids, I crossed over to the Other Side. No, not Narnia. The Other Side of the gap that separates parents from non-parents. The side filled with tiny onesies and 800 sets of plastic keys (seriously, do they even work in the plastic cars? Then WHAT IS THE POINT) and dogs that whisper "Hug meeee" at four in the morning when you're walking to the bathroom. You can look behind you and see the non-parent side for a little while. Then Dora the Explorer asks you to help her find her map and before you know it the non-parent side is nothing more than a distant memory.

The parent side has lots of surprises. You learn words like "Wubanub" and "cluster feeding" and, in our case, "hyerbilirubenimia." But one of the most unexpected surprises I encountered was the Mommy Wars. If you're not familiar, the Mommy Wars is an ongoing battle between mothers (and occasionally fathers) over various methods of parenting. For example: formula feeding vs. breastfeeding, strollers vs. babywearing, cloth diapers vs. disposables, velociraptor vs. t-rex, etc etc. I tend to bop through life in a cloud of glitter and Skittles and assume everyone does the same, so I was really surprised to see how often these issues popped up, not to mention the intensity of the arguments they caused. Articles are flung left and right; everyone from psychologists to school teachers to children's birthday clowns seems to have a scientific opinion on whether letting your baby sleep in your bed will scar him for life. Sometimes people start snapping their fingers and singing and that's when you know that it just got real.

As much as I love a good argument, I found myself avoiding these particular fights as I delved into research of my own (fine, as I copied every single thing my sister did). Not because I was offended. Not because I wanted to interview those birthday clowns for myself to see if their science was accurate. No, my avoidance was due to something much simpler. Something that I think has the potential to end these Mommy Wars forever. Are you ready for this incredible secret? Here you go:

Apathy.

Yes. Apathy. I do. not. care. I do not care if you feed your child formula. I do not care if you breastfeed your child. I do not care if your child only eats hot sauce. Not because I am a serene, peace-loving person who can rise above such petty conflicts as I practice yoga in my meditation garden. I am just too lazy to care. I am tired. I am busy. I am constantly losing one of my children. So at the end of the day, whether you strap your baby to your back in a pretty wrap or with several socks tied together, I'm cool with it. Just don't drop the kid because that's not cool. I mean, I probably wouldn't turn you in or anything. Actually, just writing about it has pretty much sapped my energy so go ahead and drop little Timmy; I won't tell.

This isn't a humble brag where I toot my own lazy horn and show you how I win all the Mommy Wars due to my lack of judging others and indifference to others' judgment of me. Despite the awkward, chaotic mess that is my daily interaction with people, I do care what other people think of me. I'm only human. But I am a lazy human, and while I have tried hard to get worked up over the fact that Sally Smith doesn't believe in disposable diapers...eh. What do I care? Is Sally at my house, throwing away my diapers and forcing me to use cloth ones? Has she hired Tonya Harding to bash me in the knee so I can say a lot of embarrassing things on national television that will follow me forever? No? Then...eh. Sally can have her cloth diapers and I can have my disposable ones and somehow I think the world will keep turning.

So, parents and people everywhere - join me on the Other Other Side. The side where you always feel accomplished because your kids are alive at the end of the day and that's really all you were going for. The side where all your decisions are right because no one was paying attention to them anyway. You don't even have to put on real pants. Take the plunge. Cross over. Drop your cares and worries at the gate - your toddler or dog will probably eat them and then you won't even have to step over them.

Apathy: The real future of parenting. I'd put that on a t-shirt, but...eh.

Clearly my parenting is superior to yours.

The Post That Almost Was

Ever since I started writing this blog, I have been trying to think of interesting and/or hilarious things to write about. It isn't easy, you know. I have to work really hard not to do any laundry or dishes so I can concentrate on being funny for you people. It's my sacrifice for you.

Inevitably, the best ideas for blog posts come when I am either in the shower or about to fall asleep. When I'm in the shower, I usually just give it up. I don't have any paper. Daniel gets mad when I write in Sharpie on the walls. If I write it in soap it washes away and I get sad. So those have to go. I just convince myself that whatever idea I have isn't funny. 

If I think of something to write about as I'm falling asleep, I desperately try to remember it. I'll even write the post out in my head in an attempt to remember it. I will stay awake for an hour trying to think of as many details as possible so I don't forget my idea. 

You'd think I would use all that time to go get a pen and write it down. But my bed is really comfy. 

A lot of times I remember the ideas I have right before I go to bed. Unfortunately, I am not the most coherent person when I am sleepy. I can't even say words correctly. Ask BFF Jen. When I get tired I make as much sense as a drunken ferret with marbles in its mouth. So a lot of my ideas aren't exactly blog-worthy. 

Last night's idea was no exception. I am still wondering why I thought this was going to be a good idea - and a really good idea, at that. I was really excited. Way too excited. Wanna hear? Sure you do. 

I was going to write a post about my eyebrows. 

Yes. 

These bad boys right here:

See, I am very particular about my eyebrows. Actually, I am very particular about everyone's eyebrows. I don't really keep mine groomed in any special way. But I can. not. stand it. when eyebrow hair is brushed the wrong way. Or whatever you do to eyebrows to make them do this:

I can't take it, people. Daniel - who, by the way, has magnificent eyebrows - likes to make his eyebrows look all crazy and follow me around until I am forced to fix them. We have a weird relationship. 

Anyway, as I was lying in bed last night, I turned my head to get more comfy and I felt an eyebrow hair pop out of place. Just one. It sprang out of line like it had been waiting for me to make just such a move so it could finally free itself from the oppressive regime of my forehead. I stand for no such mutiny and immediately smoothed it back in place. Better luck next time, eyebrow hair. 

And it was then that I thought, this would make an awesome blog post. 

I know. I'm just as confused as you are. Why on earth would that make a good post? What else was there to tell? That was literally the whole story, in that tiny paragraph above. Not a lot of plot points left. 

I guess I could have embellished a little. Like if a giant grizzly bear came and messed up my eyebrows and then,  when I woke up, tried to eat me. That would make a good post. Or if someone moved just one eyebrow hair to taunt me and left a note threatening to come back and do it again if I didn't leave $1,000,000,000 in unmarked bills at the QT in 12 hours. That would also make a good post. Although if that happened, I assume one of the conditions would be that I couldn't tell anyone about it so I couldn't write the post at all. 

But none of those things happened. My eyebrow got fresh with me. I nipped that business in the bud. And then I spent the next half hour mentally writing a hilarious post about unruly eyebrows. 

I think the NICU broke me. But I like it. And so does my unicorn. He also has nice eyebrows. 

And then there were three

A month ago at this time I was recovering from the emergency C-section that brought Joshua into the world. They told me I couldn't see him until the next day. We still hadn't heard from the doctor. All we knew was that Joshua was here and he was very sick. I was begging the nurse to let me see him right then but I had to wait until my blood pressure came down. Good times.

I have been thinking about that day a lot recently. I never really had the chance to process everything. At the time it was also such a shock and felt so unreal. Then we were just watching and waiting and praying Josh would make it for the first few hours. And I just never thought about it. So I decided to write it down, to help me remember in the future and maybe help me process it. I have been having a lot of nightmares about the whole experience lately and I think this will help with that, too.

On Friday, February 22nd, I had my monthly check-up at my OB's office. I was aggravated that I had to go because I would be late for work and I was trying to save up my extra hours for when the baby came. Although to be fair, I guess I did use those hours for the baby, after all. When I got to my OB's office, the nurse took my blood pressure. I was already on meds for high blood pressure, which had only become an issue since I had gotten pregnant. The meds had been helping but I guess they weren't helping anymore because my blood pressure was high. That combined with the swelling in my feet and legs, massive headache, and pain in my right side led the nurse-midwife to believe that I had developed pre-eclampsia. She didn't want to wait for me to do my labs on Monday, so she said I had to go to Gwinnett Medical, where I was supposed to have Josh, for them to do tests.

I was even more annoyed then. I was going to miss a whole day of work. I texted Daniel and called my mom. I was fine for most of the drive to the hospital. Then when I called my sister-in-law to let her know what was going on, I started to cry. I felt like I had endangered Joshua with my high blood pressure and that broke my heart.

At Gwinnett Medical, Daniel and my mom both arrived just before they took me to a room. The nurse didn't think they would even want to keep me overnight but they wanted to wait for an ultrasound before they let me leave. They did the ultrasound and noticed Josh wasn't moving very much. He had a low heartbeat and nothing they did made him wake up. I realized then that I hadn't felt him moving very much in the last few days. I hadn't thought anything of it at the time. But that combined with his low activity level meant something wasn't right.

The doctor came in and said we were to head to Northside Hospital immediately. There was a perinatalogist (which is fancy talk for a doctor that specializes in babies who are still cooking) that they wanted me to see. He was going to come to Gwinnett but he could get to Northside faster.

When we got to Northside, it finally dawned on me how sick Josh was when the doctor told me the perinatalogist was on his way from Monroe and was driving as fast as he could to get to the hospital. Until then I kind of thought they were overreacting. But the doctors and nurses were very concerned. There was a machine to monitor Josh's heart rate and the nurse said it was the flattest strip she had ever seen, meaning his heart was barely beating.

The specialist arrived and did a special ultrasound. He said he was looking for how much Josh was moving, how fast his heartbeat was, and if he was getting enough nutrition from the placenta.

We were 0 for 3. He wasn't moving, his heartbeat was slow, and he was only getting intermittent blood flow from the placenta, meaning he wasn't getting enough nutrition. The specialist told me at the very least they would try to wait to deliver Joshua for a few more days. The only reason they would have to deliver him that night was if the blood flow from the placenta reversed, which would mean he was getting no nutrition.

I was trying to read the scan and I noticed there were some spots that were brighter than others. I asked if that was significant. He said he would explain it to me, and then, as he pointed to the screen, we all saw it. The blood flow had just reversed. If the doctor hadn't been late, we wouldn't have seen that happen. They told me later Joshua would have died by the next day.

The doctor told me we would be having the baby that night. He said it in the same tone you would use to order pizza. I guess he was trying to keep me calm. But I started to cry. I didn't stop crying until we were in the operating room.

Daniel left for a minute to update everyone. My in-laws had already started the drive from Florida. Almost my entire family was there and I saw them a few minutes before they took me to the operating room.

The operating room was scary. Surgery didn't scare me. But the idea that in about twenty minutes we would be parents was surreal and overwhelming. They told us at 6 that we would be having the baby. He was born at 7:08. That isn't a lot of time to adjust.

Daniel was with me, dressed like a doctor and holding my hand. I was telling him knock-knock jokes and asking him to tell me stories. The nurses were talking to us, too. I think the doctor was telling a joke but I can't remember for sure.

And then Joshua was there. They took him to go help him breathe and see how bad he was. He was in shock when he was born and his heart had almost stopped completely. When they brought him to me, all I could think was that he was the tiniest baby I had ever seen. I still couldn't believe he was there. The doctor said I could give him a kiss, so I did. And then they took him upstairs.

The C-section was traumatic. I don't want to be dramatic but the idea that they could just decide to take my baby from me while I could do absolutely nothing about it was terrifying. It was a nightmare. I hated it. It was like my mind thought that if I could just wait it all out, it would turn out to be a cruel joke. I would still be pregnant. My baby wouldn't be in the NICU. But as hard as I wished for that to be true, it wasn't. I was trapped. Our lives had done a complete 180 in fewer than 12 hours.

I felt so guilty. Everyone told me it wasn't my fault. But it was. It was my pre-eclampsia that had caused the blood flow to reverse. Logically I know that isn't true. But it felt true. It felt really true as the doctor explained to us that there was a 35% chance that Joshua would die. It felt even more true when she listed out all of the obstacles he had to overcome. It was hell.

You know the rest of the story. Joshua had some ups and downs but they saved him. And he's doing well now.

So that, as they say, is that.

The Routine

No, the title of this post does not refer to a song and dance routine that I am going to perform for you. I know you're disappointed.

There have been several requests for me to film and post Daniel's many dance numbers - I'm trying. I really am. But someone keeps talking to me about how Some Things Are Private and how You Have To Ask Permission Before Doing Stuff Like That and Something Else I Didn't Really Catch Because Grey's Anatomy Was On And It Was A Really Good Episode About A Little Kid With Liver Disease. It's like Daniel doesn't care about this blog at all. But I'll wear him down. Don't you worry.

So, my teeny mini baby is doing well today. He's doing so well that his parents ditched him and left him with Grammy. Well, and the 14 kajillion medical staff members, but mostly Grammy. He's on the CPAP (it has bubbles!) and he's doing well! One step closer to breathing on his own. He also gets some super-rad breathing treatments for a while because his lungs keep deflating. Jerks. Part of the breathing treatment is a little vibrating massager thing that they rub on his back to break up the congestion in his lungs. It's kind of funny because it's sooo tiny (just like everything else that Josh uses) and it's just funny to think of a baby getting a massage.

And Daniel got to hold Josh today! The nurse let Daniel hold him up when they changed the bedding. It was totes awesome.

The Amazing Levitating Micro-Preemie

Today we had to discuss the dreaded W word... no, not whales. NO, not washers. It's... ... ... work. Yes, work. I know. I've kind of just stopped going but it turns out that if you don't go to work, you don't get paid, which means you don't have all that food and shelter stuff people keep mentioning. Then you run out of places to steal food from and you have no bail money and it's all just downhill from there. So as much as we're dreading it... Daniel will probably have to go back soon. His manager has been very understanding but that can only go so far, you know?

I know he has to work. But I am not looking forward to it for two reasons: 1) Daniel is the one who actually pays attention to the nurses and doctors. I try. But I get distracted by my pretty baby. And now they've added the bubbles and they're just so fun and by the time I'm done playing with those the doctor has gone. Until now that has worked because Daniel is not so easily amused and he listens. He is also a numbers guy. I am going to have to make liberal use of the pens my SIL gave me (which are so colorful, YAY) to write down everything. If I can remember them. Someone remind me.

Reason #2 that I am not looking forward to Daniel's return to work is that it means we'll settle into a routine. Normally I like routine. I even, dare I say it, love routine. But this routine means we're really, truly, no seriously in the NICU for a while. Until now it's been easy to pretend that it's only going to last a few more days and then we'll bring Joshua home. Healthy, I know. But if we get into a schedule and a pattern... it means we're really doing this. Josh is really staying in the NICU for 11 more weeks. Stupid NICU. Except please don't leave, NICU; you're saving my baby's life. I love you.

So that's it for updates. I'll keep you posted if anything cool happens, like a shark attack or if Josh learns trigonometry or something. Thanks for reading!

Yes, that is my giant thumb in the corner of the picture. 

Conversations that can only be had with your BF4L

BFF Jen and I argued about orphans and snow today. And, lucky you - I have captured the moments below for your viewing pleasure. To give it some context, I had just told Jen that I had accidentally spilled water on a book of poems Daniel wrote for me, ruining the first few pages. I tend to be "over-dramatic" and react "dangerously out of proportion to the situation" so I was very sad.

Aaaaand, cue convo:

Jenna: I know, that's a bummer. But at least you still have it and now you have a good story to go along with it. Or you should make up a good story to go along with it.

Me:  The story of my sorrow.

Jenna:  Daniel was away on a trip for days and it was the first time you had been apart. And it was Christmas. And it was raining...it hadn't turned to snow yet. You had gone out Christmas shopping alone and had taken the book of poems with you to have a little piece of him, and when you were coming back into the house, they fell into a puddle.

Me:  Awwwwwwww that's sad, too.

Jenna:  Well yeah, it's supposed to make everyone pity you in your sorrow.

Me: How about an orphan was in our house and knocked a cup of water onto my night stand. He gave us 6 million dollars to make up for it. And why would Daniel leave me on Christmas?? I don't want him to. He never travels.

Jenna: Oh for the love. Fine, the kid knocked it over and gave you a bunch of cash.

Me:  I mean, what, is he going to leave me on VALENTINE'S day, too??

Jenna: Yes. And leave you with the orphan again.

Me:  I hate that orphan. He always wants to talk.

Jenna:  Shouldn't have let him in the house.

Me:  He just walked in.

Jenna:  Well next time push him out.

Me:  It was raining! About to turn to snow! On CHRISTMAS.

Jenna:  You can't mix stories!

Me:  I just did.

Jenna:  Well then that also means Daniel was still gone.

Me:  Nuh-uh! Aren't you listening? He NEVER travels!

Jenna:  Yes huh, it’s my story.

Me:  It's my poem book.

Jenna:  That you dropped in the puddle.

Me:  I DIDN'T DROP IT. THE ORPHAN SPILLED WATER ON IT.

Jenna:  Yeah, yeah.

Me:  I'm still sad.

Jenna:  Then I can’t help you.

Me:  Then I have nothing else to say.

Jenna:  yes huh. HEY IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY ONE WEEK FROM TODAY

Me:  YAY YAY YAY I LOVE MY BIRTHDAY YAY

Jenna:  Told ya. Bwahaha.

Me:  Aw, shoot. You win this round, Cooper. But I'll be back.

Jenna:  HAAAAAAAAAA. Yesssss.

B. F. 4. L. 

Everything I never knew about babies

Daniel has a general knowledge of just about everything. The Bible, history, mechanics, television - he knows a lot.

I, on the other hand, live my life in a land where unicorns and Pop Tarts reign supreme. Sure, I don't know who my Senator is (I totally do), but I can find you pictures of six cute cats in thirty seconds or less.

So it didn't surprise me to find out that I didn't know a ton about babies, either. When my nephew was born, I discovered all sorts of things. I would share them with you, but I don't want to be on DFACS' radar before my baby is even born. Let's just say I didn't know much about babies. Daniel knows a lot about them, so our kid still has a good chance of eating every day and going to school and whatever else children do.

I am still learning about babies. I have, however, learned some interesting things about pregnancy. These revelations aren't "scientific" or "medical" or "useful" but if I had realized just how true they were, I would have prepared myself more for them. You want to know what they are, don't you. Come onnnn. Say yes. Say it. Say it say it say it say it say it.

Okay, I'm just going to pretend you said it. Here we go!

1) Pregnancy makes you stupid.  You may not know this, but I totally have a super power: I can remember anything. Birthdays? Check. Anniversaries? Done. Random facts about guns and the history of guns? I'm on FIRE.

But not anymore. Now I'm stupid. Stupid is a harsh word. But I cannot think of another way to describe my brain when I am at the post office, trying my hardest to remember my address and telling the nice USPS lady that I could just drive down the street and look at my mailbox really quick. My mom gave me a notebook to write things down so I would remember them. I have no idea where it is. Sorry, Mom. I teach children's church at my church and called at least 3 kids by the wrong name last week. They kind of just went with it. They also wear name tags, by the way.

So be ye warned, potentially pregnant ladies. It is serious business. Get a notebook. And Velcro it to your shirt.

2) Lettuce is the enemy. McDonald's is my friend. I can no longer eat lettuce. Not sure why lettuce specifically has given me that lovely feeling that I am about to barf at any moment. But it does. I avoided Taco Bell for a while because of all the lettuce. I avoided Taco Bell. Then Daniel pointed out that I should just get my taco without lettuce. I told you he was smart.

McDonald's, on the other hand, is my new best friend. I do not go to McDonald's. Ever. Before these last few months I had gone to McDonald's maybe 5 times in the last ten years. I don't like it. But now I love it. I kind of want to marry it. Except I'm already married. But I think Daniel would let me bring McDonald's into our marriage. He likes it, too. We could all be so happy together.

Ahem. Anyway. McDonald's is awesome.

3) Everyone and their mother has a medical degree. Apparently. I had heard that people were incredibly rude and nosy to pregnant women. Not on purpose, of course (I hope), but it was still an issue. And maybe I didn't believe it was that bad. I'm here to tell you - it is that bad.

Random strangers have told me which veggies to eat, to lose weight, to make sure I take a swimming class so my baby will know how to swim. Yeah. That last one really confused me, too. The Quizno's lady keeps telling me horror stories about parents dropping babies or forgetting to feed them. And once a child at Babies R Us asked if I was pregnant. I mean, yes, I am. But we all know you don't ask. Never too early to learn, right, Johnny? Oh, stop crying; I didn't pinch you that hard.

Believe it or not, strangers are the easiest ones to deal with. I can get all Southern on them and say something polite that on the surface makes me sound so gracious but that really means they have .2 seconds to back. the heck. up. before I go crazy ninja on them. It's the people that I see on a regular basis that really drive me nuts. I have had people email me about how much I am hurting my baby by drinking Diet Coke. One person told me that my highlights have likely damaged my baby forever.

If you are one of those people... sorry. It's better you know this now. We're still friends. It's cool. But how about we all abide by this one rule, m'kay? If you don't have some kind of medical training or degree, I don't want to hear it. 

**There is obviously the exception of other pregnant women and/or mothers that I am friends with. Please give me all of your advice and I will make you a cake. HELP ME.**

The rest of you, go use that eager, helping spirit to build a house for the poor or donate some toys for Christmas. Learn to weave baskets, take up knitting, apply to clown school and buy a red nose - just no. more. advice. My own mother-in-law is actually a real live nurse and I have yet to hear from her about all the terrible things I am doing during my pregnancy. So rest assured that I have medical staff on hand who are measuring my Diet Coke intake by the ounce.

This post seems mean now. Maybe I shouldn't post it. Eh, who I am kidding. But here - have six cute kittens to make you happy again.

Movie. Reviews. Are Back.

Okay, to be totally fair, I always say the movie reviews are back and then I just write one because I saw a terrible movie and want everyone to suffer as I have suffered, and then I forget about them again. But it's my blog and I am in charge so that is how I'm doing it. Muahahaaaaa.

ANYway, back to the movie. I am the best wife ever. As are my friends Kassie and Amy. We sat and watched an absolutely terrible, ridiculous movie with our husbands. That movie was The Expendables. Fools, all of us. But we watched it and for the most part kept silent. Thank goodness for Pinterest and Facebook.

I managed to block it out and move on. And then, the unthinkable happened: They made a sequel. 

A. Sequel. 

And I even volunteered to see it. I know. Daniel was sad and I was trying to cheer him up.

This time, the cast of characters was widely varied: Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jet Li, That British Guy Who Is Always In Action Films, Chuck Norris, Jean Claude van Damme, and Bruce Willis, who is Daniel's man-crush.

"Please. I'm every guy's man-crush."

So we find our heroes in the midst of an over-the-top and totally realistic, I'm sure gravity and the laws of physics just take a break once in a while action scene. They were in Nepal. Or Naples. Or the Netherlands. At any rate, they make it out of there juuuuust in the nick of time. And they have added a New Guy! He shoots things from far away. Nice. The former Governor of California also graces us with his presence, throwing in a few "I'll be back" one-liners to kick the giggles off. At first I thought it was only for laughs, but after he said a few other lines I realized that the famous ones are his best bet, since listening to Arnold Schwarzenegger speak is like listening to a kitten sing with marbles in its mouth.

They finish the mission and Jet Li suddenly realizes how far his career has dropped and decides to bail from the movie. Good for you, buddy. The rest of the team makes it back just in time for happy hour at the local Brew N' Stew, where The New Guy announces that after this month is over, he is also going to drop out of the club. He's a nice kid with a girlfriend and potential, so he clearly will not make it for the rest of the movie.

Sylvester leaves for home and finds none other than Daniel's man-crush waiting for him. Man-Crush says that Sylvester owes him because of something from the first movie. To pay him back, Sylvester must retrieve an item - and add a woman to his team. NOOOOOOOOOO. But he has no choice... apparently... and off they go.

On the way, The New Kid tells them a haunting tale of his time in the Army. I take that back - he tells them an extremely dull and uninspiring tale of his time in the Army, that, after several minutes of meditation on the subject, was found to have absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the flipping story.

They land and, after some for serious we are not kidding around danger, find what Man-Crush has sent them for. But, alas - The New Kid has been caught in the mean time by Jean Claude Van Damme. Nice work.

After JCVD gets the item from the team, he lets them go and oh-so-casually knifes The New Kid on the way out. I like a man who can leave in style. The New Kid dies (told you), telling the team to get a letter to his French girlfriend. Which is written in English. Which we know because Sylvester reads the whole long thing out loud. Boundaries, Sylvester. You need boundaries. Also perhaps a face lift.

Now they not only have a mission - they have REVENGE to take care of. What is this new plan, you might wonder? "Track 'em, find 'em, and kill 'em." Ah. Very nice. I do enjoy a well-thought-out plan.

In the mean time, JCVD and his homies now hold the plans to a plutonium mine. Is there really such a thing? And if there was, would you keep every single detail about it on one computer? They are forcing the local villagers to dig for the plutonium for the purpose of... something, I'm sure. These kinds of plans make no sense to me. You A-bomb someone, someone else A-bombs you, and before you know it children everywhere are being told that all they have to do is hide under their desk and cry for a little while as they watch a cartoon turtle demonstrate proper safety procedures.

But I digress. 

The good guys set up camp but are soon attacked by what I can only guess is another country. I truly have no idea what country they're a) in, b) fighting for, or c) fighting against. I also don't care, which works out. At any rate, things aren't looking too good for the men (and lone woman) until suddenly all the bad guys are wiped out by an unknown source.

It's Chuck. Flipping. Norris.

Okay. I do enjoy me some Walker, Texas Ranger, so I can get on board with this. As long as he doesn't make any Chuck Norris jokes about himself... fail. It was a funny joke. But there is a FOURTH WALL and you are vomiting all over it, Chuck.

Chuck gives them some helpful information and then hits the road. The rest of the guys make their way to a town that is filled with only women, since all of the men have been taken to work the mines. When the evil guys come to the town to get more villagers (namely the children, nice), Sylvester and his team start throwing knives and shooting guns and back-flipping and pole-dancing and soon enough, they have won the day! (It may seem like I am flying by, here, but believe me when I tell you this movie is nowhere close to over.)

The good team goes after the men trapped in the mine to set them free, only to get trapped themselves. Good. Maybe they'll starve to death in there and I can go home. But Man-Crush and Arnold arrive to set them free, and, no, we never find out how they found each other, if this is the first time they've met, if they're secretly married, etc. This is not a movie you watch for the plot. Apparently.

"Nargghh dfjp dhdhq gttoook."

But now, the team must (still) find JCVD and get the plutonium from him and avenge The New Kid! Ooh, I bet this will be the most exciting scene of all.

They find JCVD at the airport, ready to load his planes. All of the bad guys are either zombies or in a video game because I know a saw a few of them die earlier. They open fire on the good guys and the good guys fire back, in spite of the fact that there are civilians all over the place. 

I can just read the headline now: "Team of Middle-Aged Men (and one incongruously young woman) Take Down Evil World Domination Plot; Also Kill 1400 Civilians."

Whatever.

Chuck Norris rejoins the party, and he and Arnold continue to make jokes about being back and fists hiding under beards and Rambo and please. Just. Stop. Sylvester leaves it to them to take care of the rest and follows JCVD, who is trying to sneak away on a plane.

Wonder of wonders, Sylvester catches up with him. They shoot for a few minutes before JCVD announces he is out of ammo and surrenders. Then Sylvester murders him and they all go home.

Just kidding. If only it were that simple.

No, instead JCVD challenges Sylvester to a real fight. A fight without weapons or gimmicks or scary background music. Gentlemen, and ladies, if you ever find yourself in this situation, shoot the bad guy. There is not a better plan. But Sylvester accepts the challenge and puts his guns away. Are you kidding me? You had a gun. You had TWO guns. But no, what are guns and a surefire victory compared to a possible chance of simultaneous victory and manliness? I started out rooting for you, Sylvester, because you are the good guy and heaven only knows you could use a few friends who aren't serial killers. But I wash my hands of you now. May the many unknown children you likely have be smarter than you.

As predicted, Sylvester and JCVD tumble for a few rounds before Sylvester finally finds some kind of chain (does your local airport not keep death chains in its hangars? Odd.) and uses it to beat the stuffing out of JCVD. Why are chains okay but guns are unfair? WHO WROTE THIS.

Sylvester finally delivers some poetic line about revenge and The New Kid and swords before killing JCVD and walking away like a boss in slo-mo.

Then they all go home. True story.

Can't make it to the movies? No worries. This little gem will be in the Redbox faster than you can say "Chuck Norris doesn't sleep. He waits."

Two girls and a Native American walk into a cabin...

I have written before about the many virtues of Berry College.  Tonight, as BFF Jen and I were making plans for yet another Mountain Day adventure, a story popped into my head that I realized I had been remiss in sharing with all eight of my fans. So enjoy:

A few years ago, BFF Jen and I decided to go visit Berry - but not for Mountain Day. No, this time we went off the cuff, if you will - and I think you will - and decided to visit in March. Besides going on a non-Mountain Day day, it was also SNOWING as we left for our beloved alma mater. This should have been a sign that our visit was going to be a little nontraditional. But we ignored the warnings.

Say it with me: Dun. Dun. Dunnnnnnnnnn. 

When we arrived at Berry, we found the cabin we were going to stay in. Liz, the super-de-duper check-in gal, said we were the only ones staying in the cabin, even though it could easily hold seven or eight people. We dropped off our stuff in our room and then left for the day, catching up with friends and praying to Martha at her grave. 

When we returned that night, we saw a truck parked outside of the cabin. The porch light was on as well. Then BFF Jen and I had what is possibly the dumbest conversation known to man:

Her: Do you think someone is in there?

Me: I don't know. We could ask the check-in gal.

Her: The check-in office is closed. 

Me: Oh.

Her: So should we go in?

Me: Sure. 

And off we went, wandering into a pitch-black cabin on the most remote part of campus with the distinct possibility of running into a serial killer occupying our cabin. Just a day in the life for us. 

BFF Jen had a plan, though. And if Mrs. BFF Jen's Mom is reading this, I am really, really sorry. Jen decided she would hold open the door while I called out in the hallway to see if someone answered. If a serial killer or even just a regular killer answered, we wouldn't have to waste time opening the door to get out. Brilliant. 

After a couple of "HELLOOOOOOS?" we heard a scraping sound - coming from the room next to ours. Before we could put our award-winning plan into motion, there appeared before us a man that I can only describe as Cloud Dancing from Dr. Quinn meets Chief Powhatan from Pocahontas. 

"'Sup."

He had long, flowing silver hair down to his waist, was half-naked, and looked completely surprised to see us.

"Hello, there," the man said. "Are you staying here, too?" 

I think we managed to nod.

"Okay, great. Well, goodnight." And with that, he turned around, went back up the stairs, and after a few seconds we heard his door shut. Alrighty, then.

Then BFF Jen and I had possibly the second dumbest conversation known to man:

Her: What should we do?

Me: ...ask the check-in gal?

Her: THE OFFICE IS CLOSED, KRISTEN. 

Me: Right, got it. 

Her: So, should we stay here?

Me: Sure.

Ah, but this time we had an even better plan: teamwork. BFF Jen isn't my BFF for nothing - between the two of us there is an understanding that when one of us makes a dumb decision, the other one stands by her come hell or high water. Or strange Native American men. So we put our new and improved plan into place. 

First, we each stood guard while the other one brushed her teeth and used the only restroom, located in the hallway. To get the visual, you have to picture BFF Jen - she is by far the tiniest fully-grown human being I have ever known. And then you have me, the very picture of strength and speed. Together, we made the worst superhero team the world would ever see. But we are nothing if not dedicated and eachstood outside the bathroom door with my tiny can of hot pink (breast cancer awareness, baby!) mace, ready to spray and then run at the slightest provocation.

Eventually we made it into our room. Now that we were inside, how did we keep the man out? He probably had a chainsaw and/or a sword that could cut through the lock. But that didn't matter, because the door didn't lock. Are. You. Kidding me. 

This might be a problem for some people, but not for us - we just adapted to the situation. BFF Jen and I proceeded to stack every single piece of furniture in that room against the door. Nightstands, chairs, wobbly table-thing that had no clear purpose; you name it, we stacked it. 

But we didn't stop there - we set our suitcases against the pile of 1980s furniture to ensure that, in the event the evil murderer made it through the furniture barrier, we would hear our suitcases fall to the floor and would wake up in time to escape. How we thought we could get past a grown man and a 4-foot stack of furniture, I don't know. Clearly event planning is not in either of our futures. 

And, just in case we had to resort to force, we carefully selected some weapons to keep by us on the only nightstand that was bolted to the wall: the pink mace, Jen's curling iron, and my hair straightener. I remember telling BFF Jen, "It heats up in just sixty seconds." Because a good plan is all about how quickly your weapons will heat up. 

Finally, after a long couple of hours listening for noises, we went to sleep. And lo and behold, the next morning we were completely alive! Victory! As we began to dismantle our barrier, I heard footsteps on the floor and froze. 

"Good morning!" the man called through the door. I wanted to open it to be polite, but the furniture was a lot harder to move without the adrenaline rush. "Sorry if I scared you!" he added.

"Oh... that's okay!" I shouted back. "Sorry... we got scared!"

"No problem... I work here," he continued, as if silently pleading me not to call the police and ruin his day. "I know the college president."

"Hey, cool. Me, too." That was really all I could think of at the time.

"Well... anyway, I'm going now. Enjoy your stay." And he was gone, probably glad to be rid of us. Who could blame him?

So, kids, here's the moral of the story: Don't be a moron. And don't go into dark places with strangers. But if you absolutely, positively have to, look for furniture and break out the hair accessories. Works every time.

TSA

I recently got promoted at work. I was a semi-grown up and now I am a REAL grown up. Neat, huh? I agree. Part of being a real grown up is that I will need to travel some for work. To ease me into this slowly, they sent me on the first trip with another real grown up, whom I shall call C-Dizzle.

C-Dizzle is a master at the travel game, so I just did what she did and followed her around. Literally, I followed her around the airport like a puppy. She kept trying to say things to me and I would try to catch up really fast to be next to her instead of behind her. ANYway, we got to the security check point and got separated. I tried to stick with her, I really did. But when the burly security man says "YOU GO THERE" and points to the opposite line of your travel buddy, you do not argue.

So I go to the other line and put my bag, shoes, kidneys, etc. on the belt. Then I am directed to the Temple of Doom. Yes - I got sent, for the very first time, to the body scanner.

This is the part of the blog where you should click here and press the blue button (make sure your sound is up) to understand the full horror I was experiencing.

I do not like the body scanners. Even after they fixed them so they can't see you in your underwear, I have had an unnatural fear of these for years. If Daniel and I fly somewhere, he volunteers for the body scanner so he won't have to talk me down from the proverbial ledge for the entire flight.

But I was very good and went through it. And I got stopped. Dang it all.

"What do you have in your back left pocket?" the very tall TSA lady asked me. I do have to say I was impressed with the accuracy. I wanted to tell her so but I felt like that wasn't the time. I might write a letter, though.

HOWEVER, I would have to include in my letter the rest of the incident...

"Oh, it's my license. I just had to show it for the first checkpoint and there was no time to put it in my bag," I said, cheerfully but not too cheerfully just in case this lady didn't care for pep. Then I took it out of my pocket and the lady jumped a little. Maybe I was supposed to let her do it?

She then told me she was going to have to pat me down. Erghhhhh, no. But she was already doing it, lightly brushing my left cheek with the back of her hand. My butt proved satisfactory (it always does) and I thought I was done. Oh, how naive I was. She made me raise my left hand above my head and she brushed her fingers down my arm and side. It tickled. I giggled. Apparently giggling is unacceptable to the TSA because she glared at me.

Then came the strangest part of all: She started poking her fingers through my ponytail. I know my hair is thick but is it really bad enough that I could hide a weapon in there? Because if so, she just gave me a great idea. She tugged on my ponytail and was finally satisfied that my CVS-brand ponytail holder was, in fact, docile.

She yelled "I NEED HANDS" in no particular direction and told me to go stand in front of another lady. This one at least smiled as she wiped my hands down with something. I realized she was checking for gun-powder residue and other explosive stuff. And this is where I truly started to panic.

See, my husband Daniel is a gunsmith. A gunsmith who likes to (safely) experiment with how to make things blow up. This means that any given day of the week I am putting away guns, chemicals of unknown origin, pointy objects covered in black stuff, and tubes of something science-y. And so my thought process went like this: Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Should I tell her before she even runs the test? No, no, that would look too suspicious. But what if it turns up something? What if I can't remember what Daniel was playing with the other day? Was it magnesium? Marbles? Mangos? Something. Something with explosives. And he had me practice shooting the pistol... would there still be GPR on my hands? Is that even a possibility? Do people still use gun powder? It seems kind of old-fashioned. Maybe it's just a phrase. Maybe they just call it that beca - 


"Uh, ma'am?"

I tuned back in to the TSA lady to see her staring at me.

"You can go."

Oh. Well, good.

Stupid body scanners.

Come and Worship

I, Kristen "The Great One" Eleveld, have a confession to make: I don't like singing praise and worship songs. That's right. I said it. I said and I meant it and I'm here to represent it unless it made you mad.

It's not the praising or the worshiping that I dislike. I just don't really get into singing. I feel bad about that because every good Baptist is supposed to sing (but not dance). But I missed the gene somehow. I'm not what you would call a "good" singer or "talented" or "someone who does anything but mouths the words most of the time." I mean, I'm not Scuttle. I'm just not Ariel.

Don't look at me; I've got nothing to do with this.

But any time I try to explain this to anyone, I get the Look of Abject Horror. You know the one: Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, sharp intake of breath. Occasionally their hands go to their hips, or, worse, their chest (which in Southern means, "Ohhhh... I'll pray for you."). They sometimes take a step back. A head shake is almost always present. The top three responses are as follows:

1) "Oh, but you're such a good singer!" I'm not saying I'm good or bad. I just don't happen to like it regardless. I am also good at algebra. But I don't do it for fun.

2) "But it's praise and worship. The songs are about God. How can you not like them?" If not liking a song about God is enough to get me in trouble, well, then, don't get me started on 104.7 The Fish (The Fish Atlanta dot coooommmmmmm). It's not the content of the song. It's the singing.

3) "Maybe if you thought about it this way, you would get something out of it." Ahh, so I just need to rethink my strategy. ... ... ... ...nope, still don't like it. Look, it isn't what I am singing or why I am singing or how I am singing. It isn't the praise and worship team or the song choice or the key. I just don't enjoy singing as a form of worship.

Some people will never get that. It's hard for "music people" to get that while I can listen to the words of the song and believe them and worship in my own way, I just don't like to sing that much.

I'm not a total heathen. I get a ton out of other forms of worship - writing, reading my Bible, dramas. For some reason, the writing and the dramas tend to get left by the wayside. Not on purpose and not out of malice. But it's never the praise and worship time that gets left out of church weekends. It's not usually the band that has to worry if all their hard work is for nothing. I hope I'm not sounding judgmental because that is not my intention at all. I just think there needs to be a balance. I think the kids who want to be in the youth program who can't sing should still feel like they can still be a part of something. I want to be able to read the words on the screen or in the hymnal and worship through the lyrics in my own way, even if I am mouthing the words. I want to be able to tell someone I get more out of watching skits than I do from listening to music without getting one of these:

Bless your heart. 

I am definitely all for people who love to worship through singing. My BFF Jen loves to worship that way. My sister-in-law is all about singing and I know she gets so much from it. Sometimes I wish I did, too. But I am content with worshiping in many of the other ways that are just as wonderful to God.

So how about you? Singing or no singing? No judgment either way. Unless you're wrong.