Compassion

John keeps telling me I need to post.
I keep trying to decide what to say.

I have a post started.  The Aftermath II.
A continuation of my struggle with post-partum depression.
It needs to be said.
It will be said.
But not right now.

Right now I need something lighter, softer, kinder.
Something I found in Analee.

Before Analee started school she got a father's blessing.  In it she was told that she would need to learn how to be compassionate towards the other kids.
You see, Analee might not understand her classmates for a few reasons.

1) She loves learning - and is naturally good at it.  She eats it up.
Example-I used to make math worksheets for her, nothing special just addition and subtraction problems in whatever notebook she brought me.  But when Gideon was born I found my hands, literally, full.  I wasn't able to write up a worksheet for her whenever she wanted, so what did she do?  She made them herself.  Cute little boxes for the answers and all.  Not everyone learns quickly and not everyone likes it so much.

2) Analee has masterful control over her emotions.  She always has.  She can mask disappointment and sometimes even switch from sad to happy in mere seconds...frankly, that can be tough for most of us.  She is the epitome of composure.  In fact, most of the time I have to poke and prod to make sure I'm not overlooking some emotion in there-and often I am.  Then put her in a room with other 5 year olds who may not be so self-controlled.

In fact, in the first week or so would comment to us that this kid wasn't acting the way she should or that kid wasn't coloring inside the lines-he was scribbling, you shouldn't do that.  At first we'd try to temper these somewhat accusatory comments about other kids (it really is okay if someone scribbles on their paper).  I could tell that she just didn't comprehend why someone would behave differently from her.  Soon after she stopped accusing and started asking - why did this kid not listen to the teacher or why did that kid make a bad choice.

One day she told me a little boy had been crying and she went over to him.  Are you proud of me for sitting next to him and asking if he was okay? 

Today John picked her up from school.  When she got in the car he said he could see the wheels in her head turning (aren't those cool moments?).
Daddy, why does such n' such boy act mean sometimes and nice sometimes?
She went on to tell John some of the mean things the boy did.  John asked her if she told the teacher.
No, I don't think he was that bad.

I have to say, I'm really proud of her for that.  People (especially kids, but all of us are guilty) get caught up in 'fairness', which is oftentimes translated as mercy for me and justice for everyone else.  I mean, how often do we get annoyed by someone driving too fast or too slow or one thing they said just one time. We excuse ourselves saying "I'm tired" or "I've been really stressed", but rarely do we give others the benefit of the doubt.  Truly, think of the last time you were shocked or annoyed or offended, did you think of how the other person was feeling?  If you're like me, the answer was no. 

And yet, my 5 year old is started to learn differently.  She put aside her need for rules and fairness in exchange for compassion.  I am seriously touched by her emotional generosity and hope to become as generous. 


Am I proud of you?  Yes, my dear, very, very proud.


 

Long enough!

This post is for pictures of Babe going to school for the first time.

Before that, though, an update on our schooling situation.  We're going to stick with public schools for the time being, but we're also going to supplement with out own teaching (as the public school isn't teaching her anything at this point).  Anika wrote a letter to the school outlining our problems with the way things were handled, and hopefully we can change the policy accordingly.  Even if it's a paper given to parents before the first day of school that they can choose to sign to give permission for any type of check on kids' health (which we would have gladly signed), we hope to get parent permission to be a part of BVCPS's future.

On to the pictures!

OK, so there are technically two first days.  You read about the false start.  That's the upper pictures.  The lower ones are her actual first day. 

Two Stories Meet

The end of Analee's beginning story and the start of Bub's overlap.
You see, Analee was only 5 weeks old when Bub was conceived.

Nursing was horrible.
Lots of pain.
Lots of bleeding.
Lots of crying.      Mine and hers.

When she was about 4 weeks old I couldn't nurse more than maybe a minute, literally.  It was so excruciating.  I had started pumping, which hurt but not nearly as bad.  It cut down on the pain, and therefore my crying, but Analee was still having a tough time.
I was 'nursing' and pumping all day and my supply didn't budge.  We traveled to visit family.  Our last stop was Nebraska, where my parents live.  About then I realized that my milk was not enough.

I had never been an advocate for nursing or anything and didn't feel too strongly about it, but suddenly I felt like a failure as a mother.  I couldn't even feed my baby.  I was shocked by how important this suddenly was to me.  I didn't know what to do when my dad suggested I go talk to my mom.  I had one of those "oh, yeah!" moments and went to confide in my mother
My mom is amazing.  She is supportive and loving and understands how to respond to all the crazy hormone-ed emotions.  After reminding me that she had totally been there, this was the jist of what she said:

Giving your child formula is feeding her.
You love her enough to give her what she needs-even if it's not from you. 
That is not failing.
That is loving.
That is being a good mother.

We got some formula.

Theoretically I was nursing too, but really it was a combo of pumping and formula.
Nursing was still extremely painful and the opportunity to not be in a boatload of pain every hour was not one I could pass up.
And yes, every hour-or more sometimes.  Not only was it painful but my supply was low.  Pumping all day and drinking all day and whatever else I tried didn't help. 
Eventually we found out why.
A few weeks later we realized I was pregnant.
A few months later...say, nine-ish...we realized I had been dealing with depression.

But one bit at a time.
I'll admit, though it's still hard to, when I found out I was pregnant I cried.

When you have a baby you always say that's it's all worth it.  You tell your war birth story with zeal and with pride gaze down at your little one.  "It was all worth it."  "I'd do it again."
I said that.
And I meant it.
But I didn't realize what it meant.

I want to say-right now, four and a half years later, I'm glad that little guy came just when he did.
In fact, I know he came exactly when he was supposed to.
But that doesn't mean it was easy.

I can't remember most of that pregnancy.  Most of that year.  It's all dark.
I wish I could, for everyone who was in them, but I can't.  I'm sorry for that. 
Perhaps, eventually, it will come to me.

But at 35 weeks we drove to the hospital.
 

The Dad's Side of Babe's Birth.

So now that my wife has finished her Babe story, let me give my abbreviated one.

We had been trying to get pregnant from Day 1.  In fact, we were in La La Land just after we got hitched, going wherever anybody wanted to take a picture of us, when Anika's dad brusquely asked "don't you two have a room somewhere?"  Yeah, OK, Dad, we'll go there.  We'd talked about kids before, and both wanted them, but to have Anika's dad tell us to go was a bit of a shock.  It was the moment between sex being forbidden and sex being acceptable or even desired.  Dad's great with changes like that.  I'm OK.  Anika's a bit of a wus.

Four months later, I think she was freaking out.  Her mom got pregnant right away, and she figured it'd be easy.  Luckily, the Lord knows us pretty well.  He was right, again.  Her memory of me finding out that we were pregnant is pretty accurate.  A few of us knew she was pregnant before the test said so.  I don't know how to explain it, but my wife is just different when she's pregnant.  I know almost right away.  This was one of those times.  So yes, I did burst into the apartment after washing cars, and I saw the test, and I was excited, but I was also terrified.

You see, I grew up with a single mother.  She took me and ran from an abusive husband when I was a baby, and though she'd gotten married again when I was a teen, it was a short marriage.  So I'd never had any real father figure around me until I was a teen, and instead of it being my stepfather, it was a friend from church that didn't have kids younger than me.  So I'd never really been around kids.  I thought for sure I'd drop Analee and break her.

9 months later, and I'm starting to wonder if this baby will ever come.  Finally, on the day of my wife's inducement, my brother- and sister-in-law helped me with my paper route (one of them threw up along the way), and I got home quick enough to get my wife to the hospital at 6 AM.  ...and then we sat and waited.  Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked.  My wife had needles in her, so I sat quiet and bored as I waited and waited and waited.  Through a "What Not to Wear" marathon.

ALL.  DAY.  LONG. 

For lunch, I left to get some food.  Best.  Break.  EVER!  Wendy's frosties > What Not to Wear.  Seriously.

At around 5, the party started.  You hear a lot about how wives feel in the delivery room, but not much about husbands.  Let me tell you the husband side of the story.  Being a husband who can do nothing to help his wife is just about the worst position a man can ever see.  There are only so many times a wife can hear "can I help in any way?" before she wants to punch a husband in the face.  Likewise, I only continued asking because I never got an answer!

Labor was...well...labor.  Two steps forward for every one and a half steps back.  I remember Analee's head popping through (almost literally), and then the doctor telling my wife to stop pushing.  Her face gave a look of "Does not compute, divide by zero" as one could tell that her body wanted to push, still.  Finally, Analee was out.  Anika and I had talked about how the whole post-birth thing would go.  She would take a nap (she sure as heck deserved one!), and I would follow the baby.  Well at Stonewall Jackson Hospital, there really is no "follow the baby."  She stayed in our room.  And Anika didn't take a nap.  You could see the Oxytocin hit and her arms flew out and she said something along the lines of "gimme my baby!"

Me, being the knucklehead that I am, said something along the lines of "are you ready for #2?"  I wasn't the most favored person in that room that day.  (But I wasn't far from being accurate, as you'll find later if you don't already know.)  Such is the life of a new father.

She's Born (I Promise!)

Re-cap: I showed up at the hospital at 6am for an induction and got an (heavenly) epidural at about 11.
I had been slowly progressing (centimeter-wise) until about 3pm.  I was at 8cm (out of 10) but my body stopped.  My doctor sat down to talk with me.  I had stalled for a little over an hour at this point.  He explained that stalling isn't a bad thing, in fact normally it's no big deal-except that I was already at 8cm.  My body was practically ready to go and just stopped, kinda sudden like.  In his experience, when that happens it's usually because something is wrong and your body wants it to be right before the baby comes out (i.e. the cord is wrapped around the baby).
We went over my family history again and he decided to give it more time (going 'by the book' would call for a c-section).  He gave me an hour.
45 minutes into that hour I was at 9cm, then 10.
At this point I'd like to say that not all epidurals are created equal.  It would be nice, but I understand that there are lots of variables.  You are, after all, sticking a giant needle into someone's spine-it's not exact.  But combine that with the leaking (meds going onto my bed instead of in my back) and the epidural didn't help much when it came to the pushing.
I was not a fan of the pushing.
I asked John how long it took-he said hours.
I'm guessing two hours.

Two Hours.

I don't know how long other ladies push, but 2 hours is not cool.
If you pushed longer than that then you should probably be exalted right now.

In all the haze I do (vaguely) remember an odd conversation I had round about that time.
My mom, trying to lighten the mood, points out that this is what I always want, right-being center stage?
I made some comment about not remembering the audition and wanting to switch parts with somebody.  When no one took me up on the offer I asked if I could read the script, as I didn't seem to have one.
The doctor got a kick out of it.
Sometimes I wonder what kinds of things people usually say when they're in labor.
I chose to have the mirror up and even had someone put a towel over the tv because I could see myself in the reflection.  I didn't say it, but I remember when I was asked if I wanted the mirror down (so I could watch her come out) my shocked brain spat "I've got to feel this and you want me to see it too?!".  (For the record "it" refers to the pain, not my daughter!)  Funny, though, the moment the doctor said he could see her my whole head shot up, looking for that mirror (or really, a glimpse of my daughter).  Thankfully a wise hand carefully angled the mirror just as I looked up.

Now, we learn in anatomy (and sometimes in family and child development classes) that the largest shot of oxytocin a woman will get is released just as her baby is born.  I can attest that that is true (at least the first time around).  I could tell you the exact moment when it came.  A chemical switch flipped and extreme pain became extreme joy.
I thought I would want my little one to be cleaned up a bit before I got her.  Work that hard and she might as well be cute, right?  With that switch it didn't matter.  I found myself reaching down, calling out "my baby!".  It didn't matter what she looked like and frankly, I don't remember.  What mattered was that we were each exactly where we were supposed to be.

Friday, July 13th.  7:20pm (ish).  7lbs 14oz of sweetness.

I have to admit, come about 7pm we thought it would be really fun to have the numbers line up.
date: 7/13, time: 7:13, weight: 7lbs 13oz.
We were close.

Oh-another shout out to the awesomeness of my doctor.  My mom told me this bit after the fact (since I was a little distracted at the time).
When Babe's head came out the cord was wrapped around her neck (she was okay, perhaps because her hand was stuck between her neck and the cord).  One of the nurses started to tell me, but the doctor very quickly stopped her.  He smoothly unwrapped it, checked her and encouraged me to keep pushing.
So, two things.  First, remember when I stalled at 8cm?  Well, looks like that was probably why.  And second, can you imagine the panic I would go into if I knew that the cord was around her neck?  She wasn't even out of me yet, I needed to finish what I was doing and they needed to make sure she was okay before I was given news like that.
I love my doctor.  Smart, compassionate, good sense of humor-the guy is awesome:)

One last factoid before we close the story-both Babe and Gideon were born on Friday the 13th.
I'm feeling pretty lucky.
Pretty blessed.

The Start of Babe...Part 2

I think we left off in July.
With the swelling.
And the itching.

It was nearing the end of the pregnancy when we moved from the apartment to a house a few blocks down.
The process was horrific.  Let's just leave it at that.
 
But, a few weeks later, my whole family came out!
It was fun and crazy and I'm still in LOVE with the breakfast hash my dad made:)
Let me tell you something.  Growing up we had plenty of stories about dad's cooking.  It wasn't that he wasn't good at it, but when you combine his military background with a greater appreciation for spice than us little kids had, well, we didn't always see eye to eye regarding what we would call "good" meals.  So I was pleasantly surprised when I thought his hash was delicious (I'm still kind of a wuss when it comes to spice-just ask John).  I guess I shouldn't have been, though.  He is the one who taught me how to make scrambled eggs.  And I make some pretty good scrambled eggs, if I do say so myself.
Anywho, it was fun and we had a birthday party for my little brother.  Being 5 his excitement was contagious and I almost forgot that this baby still wasn't out.  Almost.

Her original due date was July 4th (!)...then it was moved to July 7th (meh)...and we induced on July 13th.  By then my dad had already gone home, which makes me sad.  I wish I had had the confidence to say-no, I'd like to induce now.  But I understand the doctor's desire to let my body do it's own thing.
My body, however, wanted to take a little too long (at two weeks post-partum all sorts of bad things can start happening, I know lots of ladies are against inducement and don't like how it affects the mother-but, put simply, I'm more than happy to take a hit for my kid).


The night before I go in I'm seriously psyching myself out. Can't sleep, I'm throwing up.  And, of course, because of the inducement, I couldn't eat anything after midnight.  So by the time I stopped throwing up I couldn't eat.  My poor mom, trying to help me discovers that my 3 year old sister is throwing up, too.
If anyone is wondering, John had a paper route, so he got some needed sleep and was gone for the early morning hours.
Despite it all we got to the hospital at 6am.  By 7 (I think) the paperwork and the IVs were set up.
Funny thing, though, as a nurse was setting up the band to monitor contractions she started looking curious.
"Are you feeling anything right now?"
"No."
"Well, you're having a contraction.  A big one."
After the fact, I was talking to my mom and she thinks I had started into labor the night before.  I was nauseated, my back hurt and was apparently having contractions before any actual 'induction' took place.  Looking back, I don't doubt it. 
Within the next hour we started pitocin and, according to the monitor, it did it's job.  Then the doctor broke my water.  Then it hurt.
Totally didn't feel ANYTHING until my water broke.  Then I REALLY felt it.
By 11am I got an epidural.

Yes.

Back story-for several years prior to getting married I had been training as a classical vocalist.  Let me tell you, I was ready to perform an aria right then and there to the glories of epidurals! 
It wasn't perfect, though.  Along the way (you know, rolling back and forth, trying to get 'comfortable') the tube had become undone, so the epidural wasn't fully effective.  However, it was still pretty heavenly and I'm glad I got it.
I have to qualify.  Getting the epidural was horrendous.
Horrendous.
Sort of unique-but I got the local anesthetic (the "bee sting") and the epidural itself 5 times.
You read that right.

I got that combo 5 times.

 Hospital rules said John couldn't be in there.  We heard it was because some dad fainted during his wife's epidural and getting injured but as everyone was focused on his wife he didn't get medical care immediately and he sued.  Or maybe that's just a pretend example.  Anyways...
When John found out he was furious.  To this day he says if he ever sees that guy again he'll knock him out (Ha!  Get it?  Knock out the anesthesiologist?  Huh?)  Oh well, clearly John is more mad about it than I am.

Regardless, I was glad that I could breath again.
But that didn't mean things just sped along.  Nope.  We waited.
I didn't mind too much, though.  I wasn't in extreme pain and there was a What Not To Wear marathon on tv!  John still doesn't get why I enjoy the show, but that's okay.  Plus, I was the only person in the maternity ward, so when the nurses didn't have anything else to do they came in and hung out and watched with me!

The day stayed at pretty much that pace until 5pm-ish...

The Start of Babe...a Little Late

John keeps telling me I need to post.
So I will.
Even if it's a little late.

Babe's pregnancy/birth story.

See, I told you it was late.
But in the end I figure she'll enjoy it the same even if I didn't post it days after it happened right?  I mean, she's only just now starting to read, so, it's not like she's been scrolling through this blog wondering why I didn't post this before.

John and I were wanting to get pregnant.  Like, we should have bought stock in pregnancy tests.  It seemed I was constantly peeing on little white sticks.
One month I decided to stop.  The anticipation, the disappointment-it was too much emotion for me to handle month after month.  It was, of course, that month that it seemed person after person looked at me stating "you're pregnant".  Despite my insistence that I wasn't, one of my friends (and John) wouldn't buy it.  So much so, that she drags me (and John and her husband) to her apartment to use one of her pregnancy tests.

It was negative.

See?  I wasn't pregnant.  I was never pregnant.

We had only been married about 5 months.  Yeah, I was impatient.

Meanwhile, John and I had a paper route.  Wake up at 3am, drive around, throw papers.  It was actually fun, we'd each take a side of the street and race to see who could make it back to the car first.  We enjoyed the time working together.  Well, one morning I was feeling a bit sick.  We did the route but we didn't race.  Then I'd ask John to take this street.  Then that street.  Bit by John filled in for what I couldn't seem to do.  Not so happily.  He was getting fairly annoyed (and sarcastic).  "Yeah, sure, and you only happen to get sick in the mornings!"

You see where this is going, right?  It's pretty obvious in retrospect but for some reason we were both pretty clueless.

When I finally started to catch on I took a test when John was at work (one of our other jobs-washing cars, I believe). 

YES!

I left the test on the bathroom sink and paced around the apartment until John got home.  Thinking, near daydreaming, about how I would tell him.  I'm pregnant.  We're pregnant.  You're going to be a father.  Hi, dad.  When I hear the door knob turn.
And he barrels past me-he needs to go to the bathroom.
Yep, not only was it totally not daydreamy at all...but I also left the test by the sink.
He knows.
And I didn't even get to try to be cutesy or sentimental.
He comes out, straight-faced.
"You saw it?"
"Yep."
::pause::
::smile::
::hug::
"Well I already knew you were pregnant."

Yeah, yeah.  Thanks, honey:)

So we finally got clued in as to why I mysteriously was sick during the paper route and John took it over.  The morning sickness got pretty bad.  If I didn't get steak then I would throw up all day long-no joke.  If I did get steak then I'd only throw up until 2pm.  Again, no joke.  Poor John tried making them at home, too, but it didn't work.  So when we could we ate at Applebee's.  I'd eat half at the restaurant and save the other half for morning so I could limit the...expulsions. (Is there any polite way to say that?)
And again, poor John, that gave him a lot of cleaning to do.  You see, walking gave me motion sickness and despite the bathroom's close proximity to our bedroom, I never made it.  Literally, I never threw up in the toilet.  We had garbage cans strategically placed throughout the apartment.
When it got to the point that I was starting to loose weight (not too much, but starting) I told my doctor.
In my defense, I just assumed that everyone got that sick.  I mean, almost all pregnant women I had met complained about morning sickness.
Needless to say, I got on some anti-nausea medicine and that significantly reduced the intensity.

Most people take a lot of preggo pictures, especially with their first.  With a TON of nausea the first half and crazy weight gain the second, this is one of the few pictures of me pregnant with Babe.  I was about halfway through at this point.

The other major preggo symptom I had was this obnoxious rash.  It was right at the end.  The last month or so.  I had gained about 50lbs, it was June/July so I was even more swollen then I might have been otherwise, and then I get a rash.  We're talking bright red hives.  That's right.  On top of an extra 50lbs and swollen hands and feet and (probably) face I also was bright red with creepy bumps all over.  Try to picture that.  On second thought, no, please don't.  It was bad enough that when people would come over I'd go to another room and John would explain to them how I looked before I came in.  I like to think it was so they didn't think I was contagious.  It was probably just so they could temper their initial reaction.
My doctor told me that sometimes we react to the pregnancy and all the hormones.  Other than trying to keep me comfortable there wasn't much he could do.  Actually, at one appointment he did tell me that he had a magic solution.  It would solve everything.  The swelling, the rash-I'd probably even lose some weight!  Magic solution.  It was called "Labor".  I got a good laugh out of that one (let me tell you, it's way fun having a doctor you can laugh with).

That overview brings us up to the end of the pregnancy.  I think I'll save the birth for another post:)

Update on us.

So I've been bothering my wife to write more in our blog.  She is hesitating for some reason.  So I'll do my best to fill the void.

Our girl turned 5 in July, and got a violin for her birthday.  A kid one.  Little did I know that there were sizes even smaller than the one we got for her!  Luckily for us, the strings teacher at the university happens to have contacts and a daughter.  Through his contacts, he found the right sized violin for Analee, and through his daughter, we're getting her some violin lessons.  Now all I need is to get a job so I can afford violin lessons and ballet lessons, and I think we're set with her.  She starts school soon, and is really excited about it, but I'm really not.  She's ready to start 1st grade, so I wonder if she'll get really bored in kindergarten.  I hope not.

I almost got a job at the 3rd-best school in the nation (BASIS Scottsdale, which is 5th in another metric), but finished 2nd in that race.  I wanted that one, too.  I got a call at 9 PM one night, but it came from the 480 area code (imagine that!).  I have a friend with a 480 number and didn't get past the area code, thinking it was him and that I was sleeping (until the phone rang), so I didn't want to answer it.  (My good wife, after the incident, said "his house is on fire, but you're tired.  You did the right thing."  Sarcastic little girl, isn't she?)  The next morning as I woke up at 2:40, I checked my phone.  There was a message.  So I listened.  It was BASIS, calling to say that they were very interested in me.  I'd turned in that application months ago!  So I waited until noon (!) to call Scottsdale.  In the mean time, my wife and I looked at housing in the area and school options for Analee and how long it'd take to get there and what we'd do with all of our accumulated stuff.  By lunch, I'd walked 10,000 steps, which is usually my entire day's output.  So I called and John Hillis, the school's head, said that he'd like to interview me in a couple of hours.  So more waiting.  You know how when you're waiting for something, time seems to almost stop?  Yeah.  Those two hours took forever.  Finally, the interview came.  Have you ever had one of those interviews that you know you just nailed it?  Yeah, that was it.  I nailed it.  I knew I did.  I nailed the interview so much, in fact, that I knew it'd come down to me and the interview after me.  That's how much I rocked that interview.  Mr. Hillis told me that they were rather rushed, so he'd try to get back to me that night.  More waiting.  Great.  Finally, I went to bed at about 9 PM.  My wife stayed up until midnight repeatedly checking my email.  At about 1:45 AM (so they were up late, even on West Coast standards), I finally got an email telling me that I finished 2nd in the race.  It wasn't unexpected, but still deflated me for a couple of hours.  I got the email at 2:40 when I woke up, and by 9 AM, I was back to being happy.  I'll get a job when the Lord wants me to.  I am applying everywhere, and will get a job on His time, not mine.  So I'm fine with not getting a teaching job this time.

That said, here's what I don't get.  Assuming the top 3 schools in the nation each have 3 history teachers, and I finished just outside the 3rd school, I'm the 10th best teacher in the nation, right?  (We all know I'm not, but bear with me.)  Why couldn't I get a call from Detroit (where I applied) or anywhere else in the nation?  Detroit's schools...  well, they aren't the best.  ...and yet, they wouldn't give me the time of day.  Weird, right?

Nevertheless, I'm happily continuing my search.  I'll be a full-time teacher yet.  When I am, I'm sure you'll read about it here.

~J.