Kasen Robert Volpe's Birth

He came not quite how I expected. I’d spent weeks getting everything ready for my homebirth.  Italia was born at home and we planned the same for this little one.  I’d primped and prepped my bathroom, typed up birth prompts for Brenan, had my birth kit, extra towels, specials snacks, and so much more all organised and waiting.  I was not afraid to give birth again.  Giving birth at home again was the one thing I had been consistently excited about and looking forward to the entire pregnancy, no matter what my feelings at the moment were on having another kid.  However, I WAS terrified of ending up at the hospital with a male doctor who was a stranger to me amidst a room full of other strangers in the event of a transfer during the birth.  I wrote up a concise preference list for just such an occasion, as well as a list of things that would need to be packed in a hospital bag. I fully understood that you couldn’t plan a birth and so a hard fast birth plan was absurd, and instead opted for countless contingency “preferences.”

40 weeks

Forty weeks came and went.  I wasn’t slightly surprised or put out.  I had fully expected to watch my guess date come and go and would have been quite shocked and annoyed if my baby dared to make an appearance before my 39th week.  I was 41 weeks and 6 days when I went for my prenatal on Friday March 18th. My baby had been unusually active that morning and early afternoon so both Nancy (my midwife) and I were not expecting to find his heartbeat to be dangerously low.  It returned to a healthy range eventually, but it was slow to come back up despite the fact he was moving lots. An active baby with a dangerously low heartbeat was a big red flag for a baby in distress and my midwife Nancy even offered to call an ambulance to take me to the hospital.  Since his heartbeat was back to normal we opted to drive ourselves (my mom, dad and Tali were there) because then we could choose the hospital we wanted instead of going to the closest one.  I remained under the impression that we were simply going for a non-stress test and that if everything checked out I would be on my way home afterwards.  I had zero intentions of staying at the hospital for an induction if I didn’t have to.

Brenan made it to the hospital before us, as we had been waiting for Nancy to call the hospital midwives and give them a heads up we were on our way.  He got us checked in, and because of my belief that we were simply there for a non-stress test, we kept trying to tell them we didn’t need to be fully checked in yet, that we weren’t staying if everything checked out fine.  We’d just had an NST two days before and everything was perfect and I fully expected to find the same again.

We left my parents and Tali in the waiting room and were taken to our room.  We sat there waiting for Nancy to arrive.  Brenan looked around and said what I was thinking “I don’t want to give birth here.”  The room was cold and uncomfortable: sterile.  With Tali it was when I waited for my rhogam shot in a room very similar that I decided I couldn’t give birth in a hospital.  “I know he’s fine,”  I told Brenan, “I’m just scared that out of precaution I’ll lose the birth I want and it will be for no reason at all.”

A nurse came in and asked me to change into the hospital gown.  “I’d rather leave my clothes on,”  I told her.  “Um, ok, I guess that’s fine,” she responded.  “I’m not staying here,”  I said back, “We’re just here for the NST.”  Why did everyone think we were staying?!

I was hooked up to the continuous fetal monitoring and once again we were left alone.  Where was Nancy?  The heartbeat, as far as I could tell, continued to look fine.  I could feel him move every now and then.  My baby was healthy, he was fine, I was fine.  What were we doing here?  I desperately wanted them to bring in the ultrasound machine, tell me he looked good, and rush home.  I longed to go home.  Why did we leave my parents and Tali in the waiting room?  I wished they were there in the room with us.  Brenan went out into the hall to see if he could find anyone to give us a heads up on how much longer we would be there.  When he came back he said the on call midwife, our nurse, the on call OB and Nancy were all talking out there.  Shortly after they all came in and proceeded to tell us why they were so concerned.  It wasn’t only the extremely low heartbeat, but that while I had been there on the monitor, the heartbeat often went through periods of little variation, which was also bad. Nancy made it sound as though she would respect my wish to still have a homebirth, and would happily be there as my care provider, but that what she’d witnessed today was likely to happen more often during labor and if it happened during the birth it would mean a hospital transfer.  She told me how wonderful the oncall CNM and OB were, that this was her dream transfer scenario and we likely would not be so lucky in the event of an emergency transfer.

We asked questions concerning our preferences if we choose to stay at the hospital.  Could I forgo the IV?  Yes, but since I had opted out of GBS testing the pediatrician wouldn’t sign out our baby for at least 48 hours after the birth if I didn’t get antibiotics (we considered just leaving right after the birth anyways, as we could do that, but then our insurance wouldn’t cover things in the event of leaving against a doctor’s recommendation). How long would this particular midwife and OB be on call?  Until monday? Great.  This was a relief as the OB was female and so far I felt comfortable with her.  How would we go about doing the induction? I liked their responses to this as they seemed to want to avoid pitocin at all costs and were really hoping that just sweeping my membranes would get things going.  In the event of pitocin, they said they would prefer to just give me a small dose and turn it off.  They wanted to induce me as “natural” and intervention free as an induction could possibly be.  Could Tali be in the room the whole time?  Yes? Awesome. Tali had been beyond excited to watch the birth and made sure Nancy knew in advance that she wanted to “cut the placenta.”  We wanted delayed cord clamping, would they be respectful of that? “Yes, it was their standard practice.”

Our many questions asked and answered, everyone left the room to give Brenan and I time to talk.  Brenan sat on the bed and put his arms around me and we clung to one another and cried, grieving for the birth we so desperately wanted but knew was no longer our best option.

Our tears shed, we both agreed that if we left the hospital we would spend the remainder of the pregnancy in fear and that fear was not something we wanted in our birth.  This was not going to be our ideal birth, but it seemed that everything was in place for us to have the best hospital birth we could have hoped for and that we would make the most of it.

We called everyone back in and let them know our decision. We swept my membranes and in doing so, found that I was already nicely primed for induction at three centimeters dilated, 60% effaced with a nice low baby.  They put in my IV for the antibiotics, and once I had my first dose they unhooked me and left it as a saline lock.  I asked if they had something I could wrap around the tube in my arm so I wouldn’t feel like it was going to snag on things, but more importantly, so I didn’t have to look at it.  I was informed that they didn’t even have an ace bandage for me, thankfully, Nancy had one in her car.  My parents and Tali came in and we chatted while I bounced on an exercise ball and felt some consistent early surges, though they were just what I had been experiencing every night for several weeks.  My parents left to pack our hospital bag and to get us all food.  Food which I’d been informed by the nurse relaying the midwife’s orders that I shouldn’t eat.  I rebelliously enjoyed the food anyways.  The continuous fetal monitoring was touchy, not only did it restrict my movements because I felt tied down but they also kept getting jostled out of place, or even when I’d been sitting perfectly still, they still lost the heartbeat.  I wanted them gone, and yet the whole reason we stayed in the hospital was so we could keep a close eye on his heartbeat and so I put up with them.

It was nearly nine O’clock PM and Tali needed to get to bed.  She clung to me and cried, “I want to stay with you mom!”  I wanted her to stay too, but she needed sleep.  “I promise you can come back first thing in the morning” I said.  She still whimpered and clung desperately to my body.  “Are you scared to leave me here in this strange place?” I asked her.  She nodded her head yes.  “I know it seems scary,” I told her, “but this is a nice place where they are going to take good care of me and Bertie.” (Bertie was what she had been calling the baby for most the pregnancy). This finally calmed her down a bit, and brenan walked her and my parents out to the car.

When he returned we decided to release my water and insert an internal fetal monitor, hoping that would track the heart better and therefor help me to have more movement.  Very soon after his heart plummeted again.  They had me on hands and knees, put oxygen to my face, the room began to fill with people as we waited several long minutes for his heart to return to a healthy range.  This, despite being a little scary, made me feel a bit happier about our choice to stay at the hospital.  I was pleased to see there really was a REAL reason for us to be there and that what we had seen at my prenatal appointment hadn’t been a fluke.  Part of me blamed breaking my water “early” as the source of the distress, but I also rationed that if that alone, without any surges was stressing my baby out, then it was a really good thing we would be in the hospital during the intense surges of active birth.

Within a couple hours I was surging great on my own and it was clear pitocin would not be necessary. However, we continued to see the really low heartbeat that was slow to recover.  They hooked me back up to the IV in order to give me more fluids to replace what had been lost by breaking my water.  This seemed to help and the heart dipped less often, though each time the nurses would come in and have me change position, usualy right when I’d finally found some comfort.  A new position always made his heart return to a healthy range. I had great care providers who were genuinely trying to do everything in their power to give me a vaginal birth, as intervention free as possible, they were patient and so long as his heartbeat came back up within a minute (still rather slow) and wasn't going down after every surge they didn't have any problem with my continuing to labor and try for a vaginal birth. This continued to be a comfort and relief after each “episode” as I kept expecting the OB to come in with the CNM and tell me they thought a speedy delivery via c-section was the best way to go.  That never happened though.  It was somewhere between midnight and one am that I gave up on the idea of getting any sleep and climbed out of bed to manage my ever strengthening surges.  I kept thinking of them as “expansions” and breathed into my belly, making space for my uterus to grow.

I only had about three (maybe four) hours of intense laboring where most everything blurred together with a few vivid memories that stand out.  For the first hour or so, Brenan obediently squeezed pressure points in my hands and feet during each surge.  “Does that help with the contraction” the nurse asked curiously after one surge.  “Oh yes,” I said “some people think the pressure points hurt, but it distracts them from the discomfort of the surge, but I think it feels really good and it calms me.” I was surprised she hadn’t seen anyone using pressure points before.

I kept wishing I was at home and didn't have the fetal monitors on my belly and the IV in my arm and desperately longed for my circle of friends back in Utah.  I had missed my sisterhood so much over the past couple months and there were points during my birth where that became a desperate longing.  Whenever things got really hard it was because my head would go to that place of wishing for a different room in a different state with different people. Then I'd hear Brenan's voice.  He was my VIP, the most important person that mattered to me and he was all I truly needed in that birth room with me.  He was always there telling me how awesome I was doing and I would latch on to it and vocally say out loud "I can do this" "I'm doing awesome!" "I'm opening!" And Brenan would repeat everything I said and I clung to his body and his voice like my life depended on it.  There were times that I’d ask for something and he’d start to go get it and I’d cry out in panic “but don’t leave me!” and Nancy would come to the rescue, bringing me whatever it was I needed while allowing Brenan to remain plastered to me.

Despite it being hard, the few times people mentioned pain I would think "pain isn't right. What I'm feeling isn't pain. What I'm feeling is my body getting really really big and my muscles working really hard and I'm desperately tired and wanting a break from this marathon." Pain didn't ever feel like the right word because to me pain is my brain getting the signal "something is wrong," but I never felt like something was "wrong." In the face of the dips, I was never worried about Bertie and I was never worried about my body, I was just worried about having to throw all my birth preferences out the window and finding myself recovering from a c-section. I told Brenan and Nancy several times “I’m just so tired.  I’m really tired and all I want is a few minutes to sleep.”  My body was working so hard and it made every part of my body fiercely, hysterically tired.

As things got harder I also understood what all the signs meant. I realised the pooping and the puking and the chills meant I was nearing the end, and the one time I vocalized the desire "I don't want to do this anymore" I instantly felt better because I knew that meant things were almost over. Soon after saying that, I found myself on the exercise ball leaning on Brenan's knees getting a nice little break from my surges.  I was ready and just waiting for the waves to begin again and my body would begin pushing this baby out all on its own.  Relief settled over me and excitement danced along the edges of my consciousness. Soon enough I was raising my butt off the ball and grunting and moaning down my little boy. It really does feel so good to push with the surges. My uterus was this rubber band I was stretching and expanding to capacity and pushing was me finally letting go and allowing the built up momentum and energy to do its thing.

I felt his head descending into the birth path and took the next break between surges to quickly move to a quasi squat/hands-and-knees position on the bed and for the first time in a couple hours I felt truly comfortable and excited. My birth hormone cocktail flooded me and even with only having pushed through one or two surges I knew I only had a couple more to go and he would pop out. Someone held a warm compress to my perineum.  “What are they doing?” I thought, and then remembered I’d failed to go over with them my preference that no one touch my perineum whether it be to help me stretch, or because they were helping maneuver the baby out.  I wanted me and my baby to do it completely alone. However, the compress and having that warmth to push towards felt very grounding and I found myself grateful to whoever was holding it there.  Baby flew under my tailbone and I swear I heard a “pop” from it. After that he came pretty fast. How many surges and pushes, I'm not sure but it all happened in a matter of minutes. When I knew he was crowning I adjusted my position so I could see between my legs and watch everything. I couldn’t see what everyone else was doing, but felt someone was tugging on my baby.  “Please don’t pull on him” I called out.  I pushed again, and still, I felt as though he was being tugged on.  “NOOOOOOOO” I grunted out with one last push, and by “NOOOOOOOO” I really meant “please get your hands the hell away from my baby”  (I think they unwrapped his Cord while he was still half in me and that was the “tugging” I felt, not them actually pulling on the baby). I hadn’t wanted them touching me or him while I was pushing, but that annoyance all went away for the moment as I began to roll into a seated upright position as quickly as possible so I could receive the new baby being held out to me. My little boy was placed right on my chest. He gasped a little and soon a cry filled the room. What was happening around me didn't matter after that.  I had my baby in my arms and my husband's arms around me as we cooed and talked to our gooey baby.

We were mostly left alone after that. Our birth attendants checked mine and baby's vitals all while we sat and nursed. He latched on nearly immediately and nursed like a champ for about two hours before we ever weighed and measured him.  Brenan patiently waited all that time before finally asking “when can I have a turn holding him?”  We both lamented that Tali had not been there, and he expressed his desire to be home, cuddling in our own bed instead of being squished together on the hospital bed.  Our hospital birth had gone pretty well. I had very few complaints and yet we both still longed for our home and the gentler, more private birth we had experienced with Tali.  In truth, Brenan and I rocked our hospital birth, and my “labor” had no moments of “pain” like I remember from my first birth (when I had to lie down and have pressure removed from my cervix to help the swollen lip go away).  I was much more mentally “prepared” and yet far more lonely.  I missed my mom and Tali who were always meant to have been at the birth and I missed my friends.

He had APGAR scores of eight and nine and is a perfectly healthy baby.  We still don’t know for sure what was causing our baby distress in the womb. He was born with the cord wrapped around his neck twice (nuchal cords are quite common and generally not cause for alarm) and around his armpit.  Because a change of position always brought his heartbeat back up, we can only guess that the way the cord was wrapped around his arm was causing it to get pinched from time to time, but we really don’t know.

There’s a part of me that wants to rewrite my birth in a more positive light.  We had a great hospital experience.  I liked our nurse, I liked our midwife, I liked our OB.  Brenan was phenomenal and kept me from feeling like I was drowning in my own body, always keeping me anchored to him.  Nancy was with us  as a counselor we knew and trusted, or an extra set of comforting hands, every minute that she wasn’t putting together make-shift heating pads out of waterlogged absorbent pads, or fetching whatever else it might be I decided I needed.  There were so many good things about our birth, and yet it continues to be bogged down in my memory with disappointment.

One moment remains a purely happy one, and that's the moment I held my little guy in my arms for the first time and the two hours that followed.  A healthy mom and baby are not all that really matter, the whole birth matters and it’s OK that I’m disappointed, but I’ll concede, those first two are the most important.  It’s that first meeting that I play over and over again in my head and the rest of the birth fades in my memory as that moment remains crystal clear.

***The name.  We spent 9 months trying to find the right name.  Brenan and I could not agree on ANYTHING.  Part of the problem was that I had promised Brenan years before that “Robert” could be one of the names for our first born son. Robert is Brenan’s middle name, his Dad’s first name, and goes way back in his family.  It’s also a family name on my side of the family, and likely a family name for just about every family as it has held strong in the top 100 babies name list for CENTURIES.  If you haven’t guessed, I’m not a big fan of “common” names even if I do like the name itself.  Because of various issues I had with the one name I’d already conceded to, I was especially picky about whatever the other name, the name we would actually call our son, would be.  Tali, and most all of us, had been calling him “Bertie” for the majority of the pregnancy because “Bertie” was the one nickname that came from “Robert” that I really liked and Tali glommed on to it.  We went through countless names.  Brenan seemed ever determined to give our child a name like “Guiarto Roberto Luige Volpe” a name which I wholeheartedly agreed to, provided our child was born with a mustache.  I, personally was a fan of Celtic and Norse names, my favorite being names such as “Faelen” or “Bjorn.”  Around 41 weeks Brenan said “What about Kasen?” I was thrown back to my younger years in which there was a garden bed at the end of our driveway where I had named all the plants (mostly trees and bushes) my favorite names.  Most of their names I’ve forgotten but i do remember “Alliddiah” the japanese maple, and “Kasen” who I believe was some sort of small pine tree.  I’d named the tree Kasen because I adored my big brother Kasey but didn’t want the tree to have his EXACT same name.  That name remained a favorite of mine through most my life and for some reason, it had completely flown my mind for the entire length of my pregnancy.  “Actually, I LOVE that name, and always have,” I told Brenan.   It was the first name that had felt ‘right’ to both of us and it only took us 41 weeks to agree upon it!  The order of the names….that remained up in the air until we actually had family meeting our new baby in the hospital, and we finally decided upon Kasen Robert Volpe.  At home, he continues to be Bertie 90% of the time, but that’s OUR special name for him, the rest of you can lovingly call him Kasen.

Not all Who Wander are Lost

It's that time again.  It's been several months since I've been raw and vulnerable in the public online world.  It's hard, and it's refreshing.  It means everyone knows everything and no one has to beat around the bush trying to get the inside scoop on Shannon and I get to avoid awkward conversations.  Deep breath...

During the last session of the LDS General Conference I was in the room for this talk.  It stirred a lot of mixed emotions in me.  Many of you most likely know that I no longer consider myself a member of the LDS faith though I've chosen to leave my name on the records of the Church out of respect for my husband, knowing how a request to have my name removed would effect him.  I share this so that you may know I am one of the wandering sheep referred to in this talk.

Wow.  I appreciated and bristled at this talk for so many reasons, many of them one and the same.   I appreciated a general authority telling active members of the church to be loving and inclusive of those who choose to leave the church.  I hated being reminded that many people who choose to leave are ostracized by their families because they don't know how to show love to someone they believe is living in sin.  I also cringed as he detailed how nice and inclusive they all were to his sister for reasons I can't quite express.  Perhaps I felt he was describing these things to pat himself on the back, as if to say "I know its hard to love those who choose to leave the fold, but LOOK I managed to be kind to a sinner and so can you."  Perhaps it was the influx of emails, Facebook messages, etc, from people I haven't associated with in years just wanting to say hi, knowing good and well that they were writing to me because of this conference talk. I'm sure they were all coming from a well intentioned place, but it hurts to feel like people are only reaching out because they want to "be good missionaries,"  and can then check off "talk to the lost sheep" from their To-Do list.

All this being so, I was grateful that those less lucky than I, who have had a fence erected against them because they choose to wander and explore, have someone speaking out in their favor; admonishing their loved ones to still include them.  Because we darn well should be included! Our faith should have nothing to do with whether or not we are invited to important family gatherings, or whether or not we can still be friends.  Just because I'm not sure there even is a God, and am pretty confident the LDS church is not the one true church (for reasons I prefer to keep private unless you wish to ask me about them with an open and loving mind, with no intention of trying to argue why I'm wrong) doesn't mean that we can't enjoy every other aspect of a fulfilling relationship that we enjoyed when I considered myself a part of your fold.  Thank-you Elder Nielson for making that clear, it was very much needed and it made it easier for me to live with the underlying implications of your talk.

Implying that we, the wandering sheep, are lost, living in miserable darkness, makes me feel as though you don't really understand us "lost sheep."  I feel as though you don't really care about my experience; so long as everyone is nice to my face, it's ok to go around talking to each other about how lost I am and device plans to draw me back to your way of thinking.  When you generalize Susan's experiences to be unanimously true for me too, I feel incredibly invalidated.  I feel like I then can't express how heavily I'm struggling with depression to my active member friends and family because they will think it's because I no longer have the spirit in my life, not that it could very well be because depression is something I've struggled with since I was fifteen (and still very much a good mormon girl), or that I just had yet another miscarriage, or that I'm living my life in limbo at the moment and I HATE limbo.  Nope, I clearly must be depressed because I no longer have the light of Christ in my life.

  I know this is what people think because this is what every General Conference talk about the "lost sheep" implies (or directly states) and because thats exactly what I used to think myself.  With every wave of depression I experienced, my go to was always to throw myself in to the church even more because thats what I had been taught to do all my life.  So long as I believe in Christ, say my prayers, read my scriptures, go to church, spread the gospel, etc, I WILL be happy.  So when happiness was not a part of my life I would begin obsessive scripture study and start preaching to my friends about how awesome the Book of Mormon is.  Sadly, it never worked.  The wave of depression would usually be chased away by the summer sun, NOT by scripture study.  Yes, some people when they leave the church go off the deep end, they turn to drugs and other dangerous things to find happiness.  These same people, and others who have never been a part of the church are able to finally leave such things behind because they find the church and make it a part of their lives.  Some people may not have been living "Crazy sinful lives" but still found deeper meaning to life in returning to active membership. Yay, this is fantastic!  But please, don't turn it around and use it to say that without the church we are all lost and unhappy, or that the LDS church is a good thing for everyone, because it's not.

Various aspects of the church often made my depression worse, various teachings of the church often went against what my own heart and personal conscience were telling me was/is right.  To many people feel trapped because they have to choose between a life of lonely celibacy within the church, barred from certain callings because of their sexual orientation, and living a life outside of the church, potentially ostracized from their loved friends and family.  There are many more stories out there.  Many people who have struggled through infinitely harder things than I and found that leaving the church was the only way for them to fully breathe.  While countless people have only known happiness within the church, there are countless people who have only known happiness by having the courage to stand up and say "this church is not right for me" and then do their best to gracefully walk away.

Please, don't minimize our experiences.  Don't assume we've left out of laziness or because someone in the ward, or an apostle in general conference offended us.  The truth is, many of us know leaving the church will be a hard, often lonely path.  We know leaving the church means being the child wept over in prayer, the one talked about in stake conference, the one the home teachers make an extra effort to "bring back," and always being thought of as the "lost" despite feeling more found than we ever have before.  We know leaving the church means letting go of one rod and having to scramble to find a new place to plant our feet.  Leaving the church is pretty damn scary and HARD.  Most all of us would give anything to be happy in the church because staying in the church is EASY., at least when compared to the alternative.  It's so much easier to keep doing and believing what I've believed all my life: what everyone near and dear to me believes and does. Stop telling me I'm choosing the easy road by leaving.  It was NOT easy.

It's not easy knowing my husband fears he'll live in an afterlife without me, but chooses to make the best of this life all the same.  It's not easy knowing my family talks about the lack of "spirit" in the house I work so hard to make a home.  It's not easy learning to be ok with this life possibly being the only life I have; wrapping my mind around the finality of death.  It's not easy being told by family exactly why they feel I don't belong at a sibling's wedding, and then missing the actual wedding all together because I'm not allowed in. It's not easy trying to find a NEW reason for this life.  It's not easy finding myself in a world where everything I've ever been raised to believe feels hallow and empty and having to find something new to burn the fire within.  I would happily believe that there is a magical afterlife where everything is ok because Jesus died for our sins, I really would if I could.  Please have the courtesy to believe me when I say I have truly tried, and then honor my journey and my current life experiences.  I don't think any less of people who choose to be a part of the LDS church, I don't belittle your experiences and I try very hard not to belittle your beliefs even when I truly believe you are wrong (as I'm sure you often feel about me). So please, do me the same courtesy.  All our experiences are valid.  Lets honor each and every journey we are all on and enjoy the adventure that is life.

I have left the fold, and I am wandering, but as J.R.R. Tolkien so wisely put "Not all who wander are lost."

Focus on breathing

A few days ago a friend shared THIS blog post. The jist of it is that her number one piece of parenting advice is "Don't kill the baby."  I'm not going to lie, my first year of motherhood was easy. I slid in to motherhood like it was MADE for me.   I enjoyed every minute of it.  I missed having some purpose outside of the house but still thoroughly enjoyed my life IN the home.  I was ready to have another baby almost instantly. Around the time little Tali was 18 months I preceded to have one miscarriage after another. A year and a half later I've grieved a LOT and found my self in a space where I'm not even sure I want the child I have at times, let alone another.  I still feel an unbelievable amount of pain over my miscarriages, my second one most of all, I also harbor a large amount of guilt for thanking the universe every day that I only have one kid to tend too.   Brenan tells me I focus to much on the negative and not enough on the positive. He's probably right. But it's hard to see the positive when each day feels as though I'm trapped in a cage submerged in icy water and escape  is no where to be found. When simply getting out of bed in the morning is only the begining of a waterfall of extremely hard things you will do that day (such as; not screaming at the child that you'll come when you're done cleaning up the cereal they accidentally spilled all over the entire house, resisting the urge to lock the child in the bedroom for 6 hours so that you can lay with a pillow over your head and breath in silence, not punching your child in the face when they inadvertently cause you a surprising amount of physical pain for the 7th time in one hour, and miraculously managing to remain calm while explaining to said child for the tenth time that they can NOT shove sticks in to the power outlets even if she does need to hang her necklace on it), it's understandable that even the gooey kisses bring a delayed and painful smile to my face.  Lace all of this with mild depression and it will become damn near impossible to look on the bright side, even when I'm more naturally a "bright-side" kind of person.



That blog was a breath of fresh air because it came from a mother who "gets" it.   She stood up and admitted that no matter how Pinterest perfect your life is (or isn't) the best accomplishment you can have as a parent is and always will be that you kept that child and YOURSELF alive!  Sometimes that's all you can manage. Sometimes you need to hide in a dark closet while your kid wanders the house calling your name and just BREATHE for an hour and hope nothing bad happens while pretending to not exist.


"Sometimes all you can do is stand and breathe"

My very being is glued to the floor.  

The three year old pulls at my arm

How long have I been laying here?

"Mom mom mom mom mom come on mom"

Not long enough.  I close my eyes tighter.

Maybe it will think I'm dead and move on.

"Mom! Mom! Get up mom! Lemme show you!"

I try to visualize standing. 

Standing. How does one do that?

I stretch my hands wide and wiggle my fingers.

They work. I shouldn't be surprised that they work.

"Mom, mom, mom why you laying there mom?"

My lids flutter open.  There's a smiling chocolate covered face hanging over me

I choke back the scream trying to claw its way out of my throat

Breath. Focus on sitting up. Breath. You can do this.

"MOM! I'm waiting mom! Put your shoes on mom!"

Sitting is easy, breath, count to three, stand

That wasn't hard, I can move, my body works

"Yaaaaaay! Le'me show you now mom"

My fingers are yanked and my body follows

One foot, then the other.

Breath in. 

Breath Out.

Sacred Spaces

Your sacred space is where you can find yourself again and again. -- Joseph Campbell

Life is busy and LOUD and hectic.  It's very easy to be lost in the chaos and forget the importance of finding silence.  We all need refuges.  They allow us to recenter ourselves, remember who we are, whats important, and give us the energy to truly live each moment.

I strive to make our home one of these safe havens, not only for me, but for everyone who finds themselves under our roof.  I like to think I do a pretty good job.  However, I've tried to take things a step further and not only make my home a safe space, but also one of sacred spaces.

A while back I created a personal altar in my living room to serve as such a space.  It's on the wall right next to my rocking chair where I can almost always be found sitting if I''m in the living room.
It is my sacred space where I can breath and find me again.  I've done a lot of healing in the space as I experienced one miscarriage after another.  Occasionally I remove and add items.  The altar experience change as I change.
Much more recently I set out to make mine and Brenan's bedroom a sacred space.  After all, it's where I hope to conceive, and even birth our next child.  I'm no interior designer and I think it still needs a few finishing touches, but I'm pleased with how it turned out.

The view as you walk in

I find myself drawn to my bedroom far more than I ever was before.  It is a room where my soul and body can come to rest. A room worthy of bringing new life in to this world.

After such a process, I have a few tips for anyone wanting to create their own sacred spaces whether it be an altar or an entire room.

1) Decide what you need from a sacred space.  Does it need to be a place for meditation, yoga, or a visual affirmation?  Is there a particular theme you'd like your space to have?  Example: my living room altar was created to help me heal and move on (as much as anyone can) from my miscarriages.  It had a place for incense, painting I had done while meditating on my grief, and other mementos that hold great symbolism for me.  I choose to place it in an area I could see often through out my day and next to my favorite seat in the house.

2) Use what you have.   The base can be anything, a shelf, dresser, side table, or an entire room.  There's no need to run out and spend money buying new things for your space. More often than not, we already have important symbolic items scattered around our house, tucked away in drawers and boxes.  This is an opportunity to bring them out to be a constant source of positive energy.  Other times altar pieces can be items you created your self, this allows them to have more personal meaning.  About half of everything on my personal altar was created by me, the other half were items I already had, or that have come to me through healing circles, as gifts, or I've found in nature.  However, there are a few things that I've bought because when I picked them up my spirit refused to be separated, or because I specifically went out looking for such an item for it's symbolism.  My point is, no matter your financial situation, you CAN create a sacred space.

3) Simple is almost always better.  Our lives are already so crazy, it's nice to take the craziness out of our sacred space by airing on the side of minimalism.

4) Your sacred space should be a reflection of YOU and any one else the space is meant for.  Don't add something to it simply because it's pretty, add something because it serves a specific purpose for your grounding, healing, etc, whatever it is you need to have happen in your space. Example:  As you may have noticed I have a lot of books.  They have been a blanket of safety for me as long as I can remember, so naturally, they are an important element in my sacred bedroom space.  However, my bedroom also needs to be a sacred space for the man I share it with, and so I tried to include things that were reflections of him as well.  The shelf to the left of the bed is dedicated entirely to his things, and he also has things included among my book shelves.  In the end, a space was created that can be sacred for both of us.

5) Once your sacred space is created, consciously take the time to actually use the space. Don't allow it to fade in to the background of everything else in the hope.  Take the time to breath deeply and meditate in your space for at least five minutes every day.  No matter how busy we are, we can always find five minutes.


Where is your sacred space?
If you don't already have one, I hope I've given you some ideas and you'll have one soon!

Four Lost Babies: F***ing Miscarriages

I wrote this for Brenan a few weeks ago so that he could understand where I'm at.  It was meant to be personal and private.  I choose to share it now so that others who have felt this pain might know that they are not alone, and for those who may not have experienced this but wish to be able to understand loved ones who have.

I don't really want more kids, not really. I'd love to birth at least one more baby, but grow it and raise it, I don't know if I'll ever be ready for that again. I already have 5 children, my family is plenty big, and yet so very lonesome and small.
I was tentatively ready for my second child. I felt his presence several days before his Daddy and I rejoiced over a positive pregnancy test. But despite our joy, I felt restrained, and told Brenan we should wait to tell people. The next day I tested again...5 times and only two came out positive. My stomach sank. Part of me wanted to convince myself it was just because it was early, but the rest of me knew: this child wasn't here to stay. I didn't cry when he left, but there was a dull ache in my heart that still hasn't gone away.
After his passing, I chased after children. I NEEDED another baby like I needed to breathe . I was ready in every way that I could be ready. Come October I got that feeling again, I felt a precious little baby girl merge with my soul. A few days later I took the leap and peed on a stick: it was positive and we were so happy. I'd already had one miscarriage and so surely I had no reason to fear with this one. Once again, we held off on the news, but a week later with pregnancy ailments setting in and excitement that made us feel like we would explode if we kept it in any longer, we decided to share the news with our immediate family. Three days later I had some light spotting in the morning. I told myself spotting is normal in pregnancy and went about my day like things were normal, but fear creeped in. The next day blood still spotted my panty liner, and it was getting heavier. I sobbed all through the night. I knew my little girl was leaving and there was nothing I could do to save her. For weeks and months after I would be overcome by debilitating sobs that took control of my entire being. Two lost children. Two nameless babies I would never hold in my arms, two lives that no one knew about, and no one mourned.
After this pain, I gave up hope of ever holding one of my own babies ever again. I knew two miscarriages didn't mean anything so final, but the deep carnal part of my soul spoke otherwise, and so when I felt the spirit of my 4th baby I braced myself for the inevitable. I started bleeding within hours of the positive test and told no one. "It's just a regular period" I tried to lie to myself.
But it didn't stop me from wanting to spew hate in to the universe. I cringed at any mention of trying for another kid. But what kind of good Mormon wife and mother would I be if I stopped at one living child? So I trudged on. Until last month when I became overwhelmed with the fear of another miscarriage. I felt certain that if I didn't actively prevent pregnancy that month I would become pregnant, and I WOULD lose yet another sweet child. I expressed my fears and my desires and they were brushed aside until finally I choose to ignore them myself.
Then that feeling came, I knew I was pregnant as once again I felt the presence of a precious spirit. I remember the exact moment we said hello as I drove to a girls night outing. I began smiling. I've always enjoyed feeling my children's presence.  It's so very real. But as I smiled and recognized what was, It was all I could do to keep the waves of fear and grief locked away. A little over a week later I was several days late with my very punctual menstrual cycle when heavy cramping and bleeding set in. It could only mean one thing. I couldn't hold back the flood of emotions any longer.
I HATED this!!! I screamed profanities in to my tear soaked pillow as my one living child sat by my side, looking on with sad and questioning eyes. I KNEW this was going to happen, and I resented my husband for not letting me prevent it, while simultaneously desperately wishing he was there to wrap me in his arms.
My friends came to my aid though, taking me out to dinner and staying up late with me in my living room talking about anything and everything but babies and fucking miscarriages. But when two am came with their hugs and goodbyes, I crawled in to bed and was greeted by debilitating grief once again.
Then morning came, and I felt like I had regained just enough strength to survive the day, and I was met with more crippling news. I went numb. Silent tears leaked from my eyes off and on for most the day, but I honestly didn't feel much of anything. My emotions had involuntarily been whisked away, but whenever they showed signs of sneaking back in I fought hard to banish them once again. I didn't want to feel.
Brenan came home and I wanted more than anything to just forget my sorrow and leave my mourning behind.  But whenever Brenan pulled me in to his arms I would feel myself sinking in to the comfort and then instantly recoil as waves of fury and grief rocketed through my body.
After several days of hiding from emotions, I allowed some of the sorrow and anger to stay with me, I let it slowly seep in and I cried silently through out the night and woke with red-rimmed eyes.
Both our parents were in town for Brenan's graduation and so we put on happy faces. I didn't visibly withdraw from family through out the day because it WAS a special weekend for everyone.  Brenan and Travis (his brother) were graduating.  I didn't want to spoil it despite the fact I was dying inside . I also didn't want to have to explain anything to anyone.

That week was awful, that week was unbearable!  I died that week and yet today I'm still breathing, today I still manage to find joy.  Grief and misery, and suffocating sorrow over my lost children still pounce on me fairly regularly, but mostly I find myself wrestling with other struggles. Like the overwhelming coldness I feel towards any and all babies. My intense relief at NOT having a newborn right now and having no signs of one any time soon. I honestly like my life a lot right now. I really like our earthly family of three, though I ache to hold the four that will never call me mommy in this lifetime. I'm a mother to five, yet the world will only recognize the one. I always wanted at least five, perhaps that's why more and more I feel like I'm done.
I have my five.  I don't want to experience the roller coaster of having and then losing yet another. I feel their presence so intensely that it would be impossible not to be overwhelmed with grief when their short lives are over. It's a blessing and a horrible burden. A burden that I will break under if I have to experience yet another miscarriage any time soon.
Words of comfort make me feel as though the wind has been knocked out of me. Don't fucking tell me God will send me a baby when I'm ready for it. You might as well say "you're not ready for a baby so God let yours die." Don't fucking tell me this will make me stronger. Don't fucking tell me everything will work out in the end. Don't fucking tell me there's a reason for everything and it's all part of God's plan. What I need is someone to wrap me in their arms and tell me life is shit and unfair and weep from the depths of their soul as I do the same.
I'm not ready to move on, and even when I am the pain will always be there. I need it to always be there because it's all I have left of my 4 lost babies.

Objectification: it hurts me, it hurts my child, it's a silent poison to all of us.

I've been spending a lot of time recently wondering what kind of world Italia is going to grow up in.  I can't even begin to imagine what technology is going to be like when she's my age, what state our economy will be in, who will be running the political field, etc.  However, what I find myself dwelling on most, is how she will be effected by her female genitals.

Our country has come so far in the past 100 years.  Women can vote, own property, run multi-million dollar companies, and do so much more in so many ways.  Yet, in the past few years I've become more and more aware of one area where women are suffering greatly: female objectification.  To objectify a person means that they are made to appear as an inanimate object.  When it comes to women, there is almost always a sexual aspect to this.  Marketing, movies, TV shows, they are all full of female sexual objectification in which women appear as nothing more than dehumanized sexual "things" to be acted upon.  If female objectification is a new concept to you, or you simply want to learn more about it, this article is great at explaining how to recognize it.

Our culture is flooded in female objectification, and I'm terrified at the thought of my sweet little girl being one of its victims.  It's so pervasive that few people see the damage it causes, but those that understand the dangers of sexual objectification know that it goes hand in hand with rape culture (read this for an explanation of what rape culture is).  We are so used to seeing this objectification that when I point it out, people rarely understand why it is so disturbing.  One example that comes to mind is the Fast and the Furious movies.  They are wildly entertaining, and yet, it's littered with "sexy" women that add absolutely nothing to the story, never even speaking, they are there purely to provide visual pleasure for the heterosexual male viewers.  After watching the newest of these movies with several men, I mentioned that this movie seemed to objectify women even more than the previous ones, and while they very readily agreed with me, they failed to see why this was an issue I was concerned about.  They didn't understand that the more they see women as sexual objects in the media, the more likely they are to view the women they encounter as sexual objects.  

It's hard for even the best of people not to be effected by near constant exposure to these images.  One example of this that has long been a thorn in my side is how men and women a like feel the need to comment on whether or not an actress is "hot" or "ugly."  Apparently it is unacceptable in our culture for an actress to play a leading role if they are not at least an "8."  Yes, girls like to giggle over the sexy actors as well, I'll admit, I drool over Thor every chance I get, BUT I'm not in the least bit bothered by watching a movie staring an actor such as Jack Black, or Adam Sandler.  They have their own quirky, endearing qualities that make them attractive in their own rights.  So why is it that whenever Drew Barrymore (an actress that I personally love) comes up in conversation, without fail, some boy feels the need to speak negatively of her looks as though that somehow plays a role in determining how good an actress she is?  Female Sexual Objectification is the culprit.  The media has taught us that women are to be viewed first and foremost as sexual objects, therefore an actress MUST be visually sexually gratifying to be a good actress.  This means that if you're not down right "gorgeous" by cultural standards and you dream of being an actress, you better be happy with only ever being cast as the comedic relief.  But I'm not worried about this objectification because I think it will hurt Tali's future acting career, I have much more leering concerns.

This objectification effects every women.  Why do women feel the need to waste hours of their life remaining hair-free every where but their head?  Female Sexual Objectification.  Why do women waste thousands of dollars and countless hours covering up their natural beauty with foundations, bronzers, highlighters and blush?  Female Sexual Objectification.  We have been taught our whole lives that we need to be "pretty."  We try so hard to fit ourselves into this very narrow mold of how we believe we're supposed to look.  Hairy legs are not "sexy," blond eye lashes do not make for "flirty" eyes and if you glow in the dark you better be hitting the tanning bed the first chance you get!  How comfortable you feel in those skinny jeans does not matter so long as they make your butt look perky.  How much it hurts when you get that bikini wax is insignificant so long as it makes your partner happy.  I hope the absurdity of these last statements is wildly obvious.  What women want and feel IS important, far more important than how we will be sexually percieved. Doing something uncomfortable, or down right painful for the soul purpose of "improving" our appearance is wrong, Yet here we are.  You'd be hard pressed to find a girl that had never done something they didn't like for no other reason than wanting to be sexier.  You'd be hard pressed to find a girl that wasn't doing something they didn't like for the soul purpose of being "prettier" every day of her life.  We are so used to it that we've convinced ourselves that we don't mind, that we'er doing it for "us" (not the boy we flirt with in gym class, or the one we call husband).

Yet, even this is not what troubles me most about our objectifying culture. What keeps me up at night is the teenage boys that molest a female peer and come out as the "victims" in the media because they're future football careers are ruined.  Meanwhile the girl who's seeking justice for the horrible violation done to her body is the slut that was asking for it.  When a woman is made in to an object, things are done TO her. Objects are meant to be used and discarded. Objects are not people, they're tools.  Objects have no rights.  Women are NOT objects.  My daughter is a PERSON and she deserves to grow up in a world where that fact is not  undermined in the slightest. That world does not exist.  That world may never exist.

Women will never stop being objects so long as individuals continuely refuse to see it as a problem.  Recognize this poison. Acknowledge it. Demand change from those around you and slowly, women will become people again.

Tea, GLORIOUS tea! Female Tea blend recipe included

     

I have become OBSESSED with tea!  It used to be I choked it down when I was pregnant and I just HAD to drink raspberry leaf tea, because, well, that's what you do when you're pregnant. Besides that, I'd only ever attempted to drink tea on scattered occasions because it was the free, non-coffee option in the waiting room. However, I have since changed my tune.  I have a shelf overflowing in pre-packaged blends and loose leaf herbs, a cute tea-pot I painted myself along with a down right gorgeous tea-cozy that my dear Friend Rachel Jackson made for me, various tea balls and strainers, and my go-to tea-cup.

Side-note, Rachel needle felted the stages of a flower growing from a seed to maturity around my cozy. Talented Woman!

         It was actually Rachel that really got me loving tea when she came over at a time she knew I was in sorrow, mourning a heartbreaking miscarriage (the most recent of several) and brewed me a cup of what I can only describe as a tea that speaks to my soul. For the blend, check out her blog. The next day I went out and bought all the supplies to make the tea myself and drank several cups every day for nearly a month, at which point I began to branch out. The key, I've found is chocolate. Some people (silly people) have cream pitchers and sugar bowls, but not me. I have hot chocolate mix and rich chocolate almond milk.  I always, AWAYS cut my tea with one or the other, save for the rare occasion that I simply mix in a scoop of honey.
    Today was another turning point for me and it all began with Good Earth (for some crazy outrageous reason) no longer carrying my go-to Female Toner tea by traditional medicinals.  I usually go through a box (or two or five..) of Female Toner a month.  Good Earth's failure was quite distressing as I had no intention of going anywhere else before Christmas that would have my tea in stock. While crying in distress (ok, wandering in annoyance) I happened to notice they finally had some loose Leaf red raspberry leaf in stock which gave me a glorious idea to blend my own female tea. I knew the basic ingredients of the Traditional Medicinals brand and began grabbing every loose herb I could find that I knew was good for female reproductive health and relaxation.

 When I got home, I mixed it all together and came up with a tea far tastier than any medicinal blend I've ever had (I say "medicinal," because, let's face it, you really can't beat cinnamon apple chai for flavor...). Rachel was over this afternoon and as we usually do, I put on a pot of tea.  She graciously tested my blend and applauded my prowess. Due to my need to gloat and share I have written up the recipe for you to all make and enjoy yourselves.  And don't forget to mix in some chocolate almond milk!



RECIPE:
1/2 cp raspberry leaf
1/3 cp peppermint
1/4 cp lavender
1/4 cp chamomile
1/4 cp nettle
1/4 cp ginger root
2 tbls rose hip
2 tbl licorice root

Mix well and store in air-tight container
Brew ten minutes before serving
1 tbls= 1 serving

Your blend should look something like this:

The extra nice thing about this tea in comparison to Female Toner is it not only tastes better, but is much more cost effective as well! I spent around $20 (the cost of 4 boxes of FT) and got about 6 months worth of tea! (That's drinking at least one pot a day).