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

MOPS

This weekend, I had the honor of speaking at a meeting for MOPS, an organization for moms with kids ages birth to kindergarten. It was such an amazing experience! I had a great time there and everyone was so welcoming. Special thanks to Hannah for asking me to come! A few people asked me to share what I spoke about here, so this is me, doing what you want. Enjoy.

And if you thought this post was going to be about cleaning...No. I don't clean.

Let me ask you a question: What do a dictionary, my favorite pair of boots, and a box of baby wipes have in common? They are all heavier than my son was when he was born.

On February 22, 2013, I woke up to what I expected to be an ordinary day. The first thing I did was shower and shave my legs, which should have been a sign that this day was going to be a weird one, but I didn't think much of it at the time. I was 26 weeks pregnant with my first child and was heading to my monthly check-up at the OB's office. We knew were having a boy, and we knew we were naming him Joshua Michael. Michael, after both our dads and my husband, and Joshua, because that is one Biblical dude you don't want to mess with.

I drove to my appointment, hoping it wouldn't take too long so I wouldn't miss too much work. I was saving up my vacation days for maternity leave that I was supposed to start in June and didn't want to waste any time. Plus I had leftover chicken fingers in the car that I was planning to eat on the way to work because that's how I roll. However, Joshua had other plans. After I arrived at my appointment and had been examined, the nurse realized that I was developing pre-eclampsia, a condition that is dangerous for both pregnant mothers and unborn babies. She sent me to the local hospital. I called my husband on the way there, trying to act like it was no big deal and that he should only come if he reeeaaally wanted to. He really did, so he and my mom met me there.

When I got there I was more annoyed than anything. I knew everything would be fine and I just wanted to get to work. And my chicken fingers. But everything wasn't fine. They checked on Josh and realized he was barely moving, he was too small, and he wouldn't respond to anything. So I was sent to another hospital, one that specialized in helping premature babies. At this hospital, they found that not only was Josh small and unresponsive, he was rapidly growing worse. A doctor came in and did an ultrasound and explained to us that it seemed like the umbilical cord was not giving Josh the nutrition he needed - basically, it was only working about half the time. They said I would have to stay in the hospital and they would need to check on him every day for a while. I didn't understand part of the scan and asked the doctor to show me again. And while he was explaining it to me, he noticed that now the umbilical cord had stopped working altogether. Unless Josh was born that night, he would not survive more than a few hours.

Have you ever gone down the steps and missed the very last stair? It's so surprising, so unpredictable, and a jolt of fear goes through you that is so deep and sudden that it takes you a minute to recover, even though you are okay. That's what I felt like. When they told me Joshua would be born that night, it felt like I was missing stair after stair and no one could catch me.

I was rushed to the operating room for an emergency c-section. It was so surreal. I felt like I was watching my life on a movie screen, like I wasn't really even part of it. At 7:08 in the evening, my son Joshua was born. He weighed one pound, seven ounces, and was 12.5 inches long. He was smaller than this Beanie Baby. I could have fit him in my shoe. But the doctors advised against that. The doctor brought him to me, told me I could give him a kiss, and then took him away to the NICU, where they would work for hours to save him.

My son was in the hospital for 115 days. He had dozens of blood transfusions, was on a ventilator for several weeks, and had a level two brain bleed. During his time in the NICU, he developed a blood infection, had both of his lungs collapse multiple times, and stopped breathing on several occasions. I didn’t get to hold him until he was two weeks old. It was a terrible, difficult time in our lives. But God is good, and on June 17, when he was four months old, we finally brought our boy home. Today he weighs eighteen pounds, is trying to walk, and has the biggest ears I have ever seen.

The first few months with Joshua at home are still sort of a blur. He needed to see a pulmonologist, a cardiologist, a physical therapist, an audiologist, an optometrist, and basically any other doctor that ends in “ist.” He was on oxygen at all times and we had to cart his tank and monitors with us wherever we went. And let me tell you, there is no graceful way to unload an oxygen tank from a minivan. None. Don’t even try it. Just accept that you will look ridiculous and move on.

At night, Josh had to be hooked up to a machine that monitored his heart rate and oxygen levels. My husband and I were regularly heard asking each other if we had remembered to plug the baby in. It was stressful, but we didn’t know any other way. We just did what we needed to so Josh would be happy and healthy. And after a while we fell into a routine that, while not exactly easy, was at least doable.

When Josh first came home, my husband and I decided we would wait for several years before discussing any more children, if we even decided to have another one at all. That was the plan that we thought we best for our family. But have you ever heard the saying "We plan and God laughs"? Well, God is still laughing over what happened next. When Joshua was barely seven months old, we found out that we were expecting our second child. We were floored. I took about twenty tests just to make sure I hadn't gotten it wrong. It turns out it's pretty difficult to mess up peeing on a stick and we determined I was indeed pregnant.

I was not excited. This was not our plan. At this point, Josh was still on supplemental oxygen and monitors and saw a specialist of some kind about once a week. I had been laid off from my job just before Josh came home and we had moved in with my parents. We were barely keeping our heads above water. Long story short, another child was not ideal for us at the time.

I know I sound cold. I promise I'm nicer to my kids when I talk to them. Most of the time. But I was panicked. With Joshua, everything had gone wrong. What if the same thing happened again? What if this baby was born even earlier? What if she needed oxygen and specialists and was sick? I didn't think I had it in me to do all of that again. Everyone around me told me God had it under control, and I knew that He did, but I still worried about what that meant for my family.

We found out we were having a girl this time. After a fairly uneventful pregnancy, our daughter Jenna was born on May 29 of this year. She was perfectly healthy and we were able to come home after only a few days in the hospital. Just like with Joshua, I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.

But Jenna also kind of scared me. Not like she was scary-looking or hid in my closet at night with a Freddie Kruger mask; just that she was so totally, completely…normal. There was no monitor attached to her so I could check her heart rate. She didn't need to see any specialists and had no breathing problems. My entire experience with babies until Jenna was born had consisted of hospitals and cardiologists and oxygen tanks and physical therapists. To be able to take her with me to the grocery store, to not have to worry if someone got too close to her at church, to put her to bed without taping a little monitor to her foot - this was all brand new territory for us.

And then the comparisons began. I want to state first that I love my kids equally. I am so proud of both of them. Josh has a pretty significant developmental delay but he works really hard to catch up. And Jenna smells like strawberries, which I appreciate. But it was hard not to separate my children into a "failure" and "success" category. I never realized how behind Joshua was until I saw what Jenna could do. When she grabbed for a toy at two months - something Josh hadn't done until he was almost a year old - I called my husband and told him our daughter was a genius. I tried not to compare, but with every milestone that Jenna met, I would mentally put her in the "success" column and then wait for Josh to do something so I could put him the success column, too.

And after a while, I started to resent Joshua. I know. I am the mother of the year. I was just so tired of dealing with everything. I was tired of explaining our lives to people. I was tired of smiling politely while people informed me that my son was a little small for his age, and they wondered if I was concerned about it. I was tired of working so hard for the tiniest victories that other people got to take for granted.

Are you familiar with Debbie Downer from Saturday Night Live? She was a character that always brought down the mood of whatever room she was in. Any time someone would say something happy or encouraging, Debbie would counter it with something incredibly depressing and ridiculous. Her statements were accompanied by a sound effect that went something like wahhhh, wahhhhhhhh.

I always loved the Debbie Downer skits. But even though the skits were funny and not meant to be taken seriously, it felt like Debbie Downer was following my family, waiting for something good to happen so she could bring us all down again. With every issue Joshua faced, I heard the wahhhh, wahhhh in the back of my mind. He finally started babbling! Yay! Except he should be saying at least ten words by now so we should focus on that. Wahhh, wahhh. He finally learned to hold his own bottle! Wow! Except by now he is supposed to be using sippy cups and we need to take the bottles away. Wahhhh, wahhh. You get the picture. I was so frustrated that he was still behind after all of his hard work, and I started to be angry with him for not catching up faster. And then I compared him and Jenna more and more, to the point where I would write down when Jenna reached milestones just so I could compare to when Josh met the same milestones. It was like a I was keeping a scorecard of my children’s accomplishments.

It took me a while to realize that I was even doing it. And then it took me even longer to realize why I was doing it. Why did I feel the need to compare my children? They are so different in so many ways it would be like comparing an ostrich to an alligator.  I knew that comparing was pointless and would ultimately only hurt me and my kids, but I still felt the need to keep score. I think a lot of us are familiar with that feeling. As moms, we are constantly surrounded by people who are judging our choices and making us feel like we can't even blink without causing permanent damage to our child's psyche. Just look at the arguments between mothers, more fondly known as the mommy wars. We argue about eeeeeeverything. Whether it's where our babies sleep or what kind of surface they will poop on, we find a way to make sure that everyone knows how wrong their choices are. And when we run out of things to argue about, we rehash the original arguments over and over again.

Isn’t that crazy? Just look at how angry we get with people we barely know. Half the time it’s people we have only talked to on the internet. And I am as guilty as the next person of getting sucked into a good cloth versus disposable diaper debate. It’s funny because before I became a mother, I swore to myself I wouldn’t get worked up about stuff like this. I only had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. But I was sure I could rise above such petty and insignificant arguments.

And then 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 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. And the next thing you know, you’re typing in all capital letters on Facebook to some idiot who thinks that people who use strollers are turning their kids into serial killers while your husband begs you to just walk away from the computer because you’re starting to turn red and the children are scared.

Don’t pretend it hasn’t happened to you. None of us are immune to the mommy wars. It sneaks up on you suddenly, usually over something you didn’t even realize you cared that much about. I remember one time I was in a debate on Facebook over the cry it out method of sleep training. I was halfway through typing a really long paragraph when I suddenly wondered why in the world I gave two flips about which sleep training method a stranger from Canada was using. I couldn’t think of a good answer, and it dawned on me that maybe I was arguing just for the heck it.

Which brings me back to my original question: Why? Why do we do this? Why do I compare myself to other mothers? Why do I worry about what my friends think of the way I raise my children? Why am I online at three in the morning making some poor girl cry because we disagree on which brand of formula is best?

I thought about this for a long time. I felt like the answer was right under my nose but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. And then it came to me: Guilt.

I don’t know about you, but I have never been less confident in any decision I’ve made than I am in the decisions I make as a parent. Every little choice causes me to worry. For example, my son has recently gotten into the charming habit of throwing his sippy cup off his tray, a past time I’m sure many of you are familiar with. Every time he does this, I wonder what I should do next. It’s like my brain suddenly kicks into overdrive with all the possible responses I can give and the possible consequences they can have. If I get angry at him for throwing his cup, he’ll know it’s bad and he will stop. And then he will resent me for yelling at him and never be able to make friends and he won’t do well in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could ignore him when he throws his cup and he will see that misbehaving does not get him attention. And then he might try even harder to get my attention because he feels so ignored and he will start lighting dog poo on fire and leaving it on people’s doorsteps and then he will vandalize the school gym and won’t get into a good college and have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could pick the cup up and give it back to him, showing him that he has a second chance to do the right thing. And then he will probably learn that none of his actions have consequences and he will never learn manners and will disrespect his teachers in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

See what I mean? I know this struggle is something we all deal with. It’s silly but it’s also serious. My kids are so young that right now I have ultimate control over their lives. I decide what they wear, what they eat, where they go, who they see. And while the control freak part of me likes having that security, the worrying part of me finds it overwhelming and terrifying. I am far from perfect. And honestly I find myself wondering why in the world God would give me two children, one of whom requires a lot of special attention.

And because I feel so unworthy and unable to make these decisions, I look to other mothers to see how they are handling it. That’s how the comparisons begin. I see that Sally Smith is using cloth diapers and I read about how they’re better for the environment and better for babies’ skin and I start to feel really guilty because my own poor kids are in disposable diapers and if I am going to use those I may as well just dress my kids in garbage bags because it’s basically the same thing. And then I start to resent Sally because who is she to tell me how to diaper my kids? My kids are very happy in their disposable diapers and they have pictures of Mickey Mouse and Big Bird on them and those guys have educational shows so I am educating my kids by putting them in disposable diapers. And before I know it I hate Sally Smith for her judgmental ways and for making me doubt myself and for her stupid opinions on her stupid diapers.

That might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said. In the scenario I just described, no one judged me. No one tried to make me feel guilty. It was my own guilt, my own insecurity, that turned a simple observation into an argument.

And please hear me - I am not trying to shame you or blame you for feeling bad when someone judges you. I know that some people are just itching for a fight and go to great lengths to make others feel bad. I know there are bullies in the world who just want to hurt other people and more likely than not, we’ve all run across at least one.

I just think that mothers are easy targets because we are already constantly second-guessing ourselves. And that’s truly where I think the mommy wars come from. The worry that we are not enough for our children, and the guilt over not giving them our best. Even the bullies that have hurt you or told you you’re a terrible mother because of a choice you made - I would bet that they are feeling pretty lost and insecure themselves and just want reassurance that they are doing okay with their own kids.

But I’ve got some good news. It won’t sound like good news at first, but trust me; it’s good news.

We are not enough. And sometimes we won’t be our best. But we serve someone who is always enough and who only gives His best. It isn’t up to us to be perfect. God has promised us that though we will mess up, He will be there to guide us back on the right path.

That can be a scary thought. But it can also be a relieving one. It isn’t up to me to be the best mom on the planet. I don’t have to worry that because I made the wrong decision my child will be permanently unhappy. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t it so amazing to know that the very creator of the universe is investing His time into our children, and that he is allowing us to be part of that?

Don’t get me wrong - I am not giving you permission to stop raising your kids. When little Timmy asks you for some breakfast, I am not suggesting that you stay in bed and tell him that God will be along to butter his toast in a few minutes. God has placed with us the task of raising our children and teaching them and loving them. But he didn’t just drop these kids off on our porches and run away. He is there with us, protecting us, redirecting us, showing us that though we are still sinners He still desires us.

When Hannah asked me to speak today, at first I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think I had much of a story to tell. But over the last few weeks God has shown me so much truth that has set me free. I still struggle. I am still tempted to keep a scorecard for my kids. But now that I know the reasons behind it, it’s not so scary to deal with. I am able to enjoy my family more and rest in God’s promise of redemption for me as a mother, daughter, sister, and so much more.

And now I can compare my kids in a much more wonderful way: I can look at their different personalities and gifts, not as a way to decide who is doing better, but as a way to celebrate their unique identities. My son Josh is a thinker, like his father. He never does anything without deliberate consideration and planning. But he likes to giggle. And he loves people. He would sell me online in a heartbeat if someone gave him a hug and a pop tart. He likes to pretend but he is too excited to keep it up for very long so any games of pretend usually dissolve into giggles pretty fast. He is my strong boy, a living example of the way God works all things together for good. My daughter Jenna, though only five months old, is already much more of a drama queen. She feels every emotion with all of the power her little body can muster. She is impulsive and moves from toy to toy, trying to gather all of them in her hand at once. She is slower to give a smile but once she does, it’s always worth the wait. She is my passionate girl, a living example of God’s faithfulness to His people.

Those are the comparisons I want to focus on. Those are the things I want to remember in twenty years when my kids are in school (or living in a refrigerator box) and I am reflecting on their lives. Those are the things I want them to remember when they have their own kids and struggle with wondering if they are doing a good job raising them.

I will make mistakes. You will make mistakes. It’s inevitable. But I can sleep easier tonight knowing that our Heavenly Father makes no mistakes, and that He loves my kids even more than I do.

Lock Lock Chain Chain

When Daniel and I were dating, I was on this quest to make his nieces and nephews like me. They tend to like everyone so this wasn't hard but I was determined to be the best aunt ever. So when Christmas came around and we wanted to give his nieces and nephews a gift, I was trying to think of something that would be good for a variety of ages.

"What about stop blocks?!" I said. "Kids love stop blocks!" And before Daniel could even raise both of his eyebrows, I realized my mistake.

In my family, Legos are called stop blocks. I don't know why. All I know is that my sister Mandy started calling them stop blocks when she was little and it stuck. My parents just let us live in a world where the actual names of toys meant nothing. Since my sister also had a doll named Nobody, maybe they figured it was best to just let her figure things out on her own and subsequently misinform her siblings. I don't know.

What I do know is that I had just called Legos, an item so popular that there are entire stores and theme parks centered around it, a name that made absolutely no sense to anyone but my family. And Daniel's eyebrows were getting higher and higher.

I tried to explain. But it was too late. The damage was done. Our relationship was a little rockier after that. And we wound up getting the kids something non-Lego related.

You think I would have learned my lesson about revealing weird childhood secrets. But no. Just a few weeks ago, when Daniel and I were on vacation with my family, it happened again.

We were all sitting in the pool, including my nephew, Peyton, who was just over 8 weeks old at the time. My sister (yes, the stop block creator) was trying to dip Peyton's toes in the pool but he was having none of it and was getting fussy. Can't blame the kid. So then I spoke up:

"Maybe when he's older he'll like playing Lock Lock Chain Chain."

I had done it again. Daniel turned to look at me. "What in the world is Lock Lock Chain Chain?"

Here's the deal with this game: When I was little, I loved for my dad to chase me around the pool pretending to be a bad guy. He would catch me and say he was going to eat me for dinner. (Hang in there; it gets weirder.) When he caught me, he would take me over to a ladder and pretend to secure me to it with a lock and chain. In order to do this, he had to say, "Lock lock chain chain..." as he pretended to make me his prisoner.

But it didn't stop there. Locks and chains were not enough to hold me so I would always escape. Honestly, it was like my dad wasn't even trying. So when my dad would catch me again, he would add things to the security process to keep me there. It would turn into "Lock lock, chain chain, nail nail, hammer hammer, glue glue..." And, yes, everything was said twice, like some kind of very specific obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Trying to explain this to Daniel went a little something like this: "My dad used to chase me and tie me up. Well, not really. I mean, I wanted him to. Wait, back up. We would go swimming. Not like just to play this game but if we were already in the pool we would usually play it. He would chase me and pretend he was going to boil me in a pot and eat me with ketchup. It sounds worse than it is."

Daniel's face now had the expression of someone who had just seen a naked clown juggling babies on an ice rink.

"Did you just say ketchup??"

Apparently, other children did not play this game. Apparently, it was "creepy." Apparently, pretending to be a serial killer with your children is not something every parent promotes.

But look at us! We turned out great!

Okay, so... maybe don't play Lock Lock Chain Chain with your kids.

Hello

Last year I decided to post while on Lortab - I am nothing if not a good decision-maker.

I'm sorry to say I fell off the wagon again. On Saturday night my back muscles began to spasm, leaving me in tears and everlasting sorrow. Also a lot of whining. I went to the doctor and he gave me a happy muscle relaxer. You'd think I'd be familiar with every narcotic out there considering my family's recent history. Alas, no.

Hey, I just used the word alas while on a muscle relaxer. Look at me go.

ANYway, I thought I would bring you another drug-induced post so you can show it to your children to warn them away from doing drugs and/or spasming their muscles. No idea if spasming is a word. If it is, you have to bring me a cookie. If it isn't, you have to bring me a cookie. I don't care about the word as long as I get a cookie out of it.

Recently I was going through old pictures on my phone and found some fun things, including documentation of my dad's burgeoning stripper career.  I have continued my quest of clearing out my phone and stumbled across a few other great items. For instance...

'allo.

That is my cat, Batman. In the words of Ferris Bueller, he is a righteous dude. Except for every picture I have of him makes him look like he is possessed by Satan and/or Michael Jackson. This is one of many attempts to take a nice picture so I can complete my status as crazy cat lady and put a picture of my pets on my wall. Maybe if I put it next to a picture of Nick Nolte this photo won't look so shocking. 

Don't worry - this one wasn't in my phone.

Another great picture I found in my phone was this one:

A couple of weeks ago, I got an email from the future. It was sent to me on August 31st at 12:03 pm, but said September 1st instead. It was weird. And for a few minutes my mind ran through all of the possibilities that some time-traveling terrorist was sending me scary messages that contained things like, "At this time tomorrow someone will jump out and scare you. Also they will spill syrup on you and you will not be able to get it off for days. Muahahaaaaa." I was ready to send this picture to the police and request protection.

But this message was blank and Daniel pointed out it was either from a different time zone or their computer was just messed up. He is such a killjoy. But he so cute I don't even care. 

And the very favorite picture I found so far was one that not only sums up mine and Daniel's personalities, but our friendships and marriage as well. Enjoy. 

"Join us."

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.

As promised

Well, I said I was going to write a book. And 18,000 words later, it's sort of happening. So I've decided to let you tell me how awesome I am critique me by posting an excerpt:

Duncan Gilmore, Duke of Eldaria, was not an attractive man. He was well-aware of this – it wasn’t exactly a secret to him, or to his wife, or to anyone else in the kingdom for that matter. He was more or less used to it now and paid no attention to the whispers of adults and stares of children that followed him every time he walked through the streets of Eldaria. He did think it might have been fairer if he could have been blessed with brains in lieu of good looks, but no – his big brother Maxwell had gotten both. Duncan had always been a straight-D student; his report cards always contained notes like Duncan tries his best, and Everyone learns differently, and, on one occasion, just a drawing of a smiling tree with no words on the report card at all.

            Duncan felt like he had tried his best, and that he really did learn differently, but his parents were less inclined to be so understanding. They had tried over and over to get him to make better grades, to go on dates, to brush his hair once in a while. But none of it had worked, and eventually they paid him no attention at all. Maxwell was the one they needed to worry about – he was going to be king, after all, and a great one at that. So while Maxwell was being pampered and groomed, Duncan was watching from afar, – sometimes literally – his feelings of discontent seething inside him until he was filled with hatred for his family.        

            About ten years ago, he had decided his life needed a change. He deserved to be king, not Maxwell. Sure, he wasn’t as qualified for the job as Maxwell, and would likely make a terrible king, but the people wanted a leader who was one of them, an everyman, not some perfect-looking guy who used words like “indubitably.”  Duncan had no idea what that word meant, but Maxwell used it as if it was going out of style: “If we don’t attack at dawn, we will indubitably perish,” “This is indubitably the best apple pie I have ever had,” “Duncan, you had better stop setting traps for the livestock or you will indubitably be grounded.” It had driven Duncan nuts. But of course their parents had loved it. They thought Maxwell was so smart for knowing such a big word, and had even given him a blue ribbon to hang on his bulletin board in his room as a reward. It took all of Duncan’s willpower not to rip the ribbon in half every time he saw it.

Looking back now, Duncan could see that the ribbon was really the last straw. Duncan had once managed to spell three new words and invent a torture device in one week, and did he get a ribbon? No, he had gotten sent to the school counselor.

Tired of being treated so unfairly for so many years, he had finally devised a plot: He hired mercenaries to break into the palace and kidnap his parents in the dead of night. They mercenaries had only one rule to follow – to make sure his parents never returned to Eldaria. In hindsight, Duncan realized he should have set a few more rules, as the mercenaries returned and said they dropped off his parents at an unknown, far away island, but they had forgotten which island and didn’t mark it on a map or even write down any visible landmarks to help identify the path they had taken.  For all Duncan knew, the island was right off the coast and his parents were making their way back at this very moment. But he tried not to think about that.

            The second part of his plan had been to take care of his brother in a similar fashion – he told the mercenaries to find the driest, most lifeless place in the known world and take Maxwell there, and – after marking the location carefully on a map – leave him there forever, without so much as a drop of water to sustain him. Unfortunately, once his parents were kidnapped and it was clear they weren’t coming back, Eldaria had crowned Maxwell as their king. As a result, the security team for Maxwell nearly doubled, and though the mercenaries tried on three separate occasions, they were never able to kidnap the new king. Duncan’s lack of forethought seemed to smack him in the face when he realized he probably should have had Maxwell kidnapped first, and then his parents, or possibly have them kidnapped simultaneously, so that Duncan would have been the only choice left for the crown. He tried to compensate for his stupidity by making a few half-hearted attempts to have Maxwell kidnapped over the years, but none of them were ever successful, and eventually he stopped trying altogether.

            Until recently. Mere weeks ago he had thought of the greatest plan to ever be planned in the history of planning. It would require careful scheduling, some bribery, and a lot of patience, but Duncan was determined not to fail again. It had come to him in the dead of night, as he lay sleeping next to Benjamina, his tabby cat, in their room in the palace basement.

            “I’ve finally got it” he told the cat, who had jumped off the bed in fear. “Don’t look at me like that, Mina. I’m sorry for waking you. But listen to my idea!”

            Benjamina hissed at him.

            “Okay, so we want to rule the kingdom, right? And the only way to do that is if all the other heirs are dead or missing, right?” Benjamina didn’t respond. “Trust me, that’s how it works,” he continued, pacing back and forth in front of his bed. “Getting to my brother would be nearly impossible – the security detail alone could stop a small army, not to mention all the other guards in the hallways and whatnot. But what about the Prince?”

            Benjamina purred and lay down on the floor.

            “Yes, Mina, I know he has a security detail, too. But I also know that he sneaks away from his guards on a regular basis – clearly there are a few holes in the security.  If we are careful and keep an eye on him, we can catch him unawares and kidnap him! And I know what you’re thinking – my plan only takes care of the boy, and not Maxwell. But Maxwell and Trudy will be so distraught over their missing son that they will gratefully accept when I offer to take on the role, just temporarily of course, until they feel better about the whole losing their son thing. Then, once Eldaria crowns me as their King, I will banish my brother forever!” He punctuated his thought with a fist in the air, as if inspiring a room full of invisible troops before battle.

            The tabby yawned and rolled over, apparently unimpressed with Duncan’s idea.

            “It’ll work, Benjamina. You’ll see! All I have to do is find those mercenaries again… I hope I saved their address.” He had rifled through his desk drawers until he had found the contact information he sought, and wrote the mercenaries a letter on the spot.

            Now, three weeks later, he was biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Planning a kidnapping was tricky, he’d learned – you needed enough people there so you wouldn’t stand out as the only suspect, but not so many that they got in your way as you tried to wrestle a grown man in a potato sack out of his room and onto a horse. Of course, Duncan himself wouldn’t be doing the kidnapping, but he didn’t want the mercenaries to get caught, either – it would be too easy to trace it back to him. Besides, he had gotten their services at a discount this time and he hated to waste a good bargain.

            The judging for the queen’s annual crocheting contest was to take place that evening – perhaps after the excitement from the contest died down, the palace wouldn’t be so crowded and he could set his plan in motion. The mercenaries were on call for the entire week, which was costing him a fortune, but Duncan considered it a small price to pay for ultimate power. The idea that it could be achieved as early as that evening was so exciting that he allowed himself one small giggle. No one was around to hear it except Benjamina, and she didn’t mind.

            As he giggled he turned to face his mirror, and, standing as regally as possible, placed upon his head the paper crown he had made many years ago, complete with bits of fabric that he had laboriously cut to look like jewels. The crown fit him perfectly, and he grabbed a purple blanket off his bed and swung it around his shoulders. The effect was undeniably fabulous.  He stood a little taller and imagined the crowds cheering for him at his coronation ceremony. His Majesty King Duncan Gilmore of Eldaria. It had a nice ring to it. 


Soooo... what do you think? Be honest. But remember I cry easily. But don't hold back. But try to start and finish with nice things. 

I'm scaaaaaaaaaaared

Okay, this post makes me a little nervous. Not because I am going to write something controversial about religion or politics - that's my next post - but because I am committing myself to something and I am already thinking of ways to back out.

For a long time, I have wanted to write a book. I don't plan on this book making me famous or rich (although I wouldn't complain if it did); I've just always wanted to do it. I've written a lot of stories that have beginnings and middles and kinda sorta endings, but this time I really want to write a book. So I'm going to, or at least I am going to try. There. I said it. No going back.

Like I said, I write a lot, but no one ever exactly reads it. Which is mostly because I keep it hidden and secured like the Hope Diamond. But this time, I've actually let three whole people read my story so far. They didn't become violently ill, so I've decided it's worth a shot. 

Okay. It's said. I can't unsay it. Unless I delete it all... NO. Okay. Sorry about that. Posting now.