Our Unschooling Update: Two Years Later

I've been rereading old blog posts and stumbled on this gem.....Unschooling, A-H .  Written exactly two years ago, I hit the nail on the head about our current homeschool status.

Or lack of.

Or exactly like we like it.

I'm not a huge fan of the term "unschooling".  It seems irresponsible.  Like I don't care what my kids are learning or as though I am not invested in their future of little people growing into big people.  

And that obviously isn't the case.  If I didn't care, I wouldn't be biting my tongue, taming my temper and constantly examining my behavior to make sure I am modeling the behavior I want to see mirrored.

However it is safe to say I am utterly disenfranchised with mainstream education.  Been there.  Done that.  I was unimpressed as a teacher peering from the inside and I am equally unimpressed as a parent peering from the outside.

As I said two years ago, I don't claim to know what the future holds.  But right now my kids are amazing little sponges and impress me to no end with their knowledge of the natural world and developments in their literacy and math skills with only tiny amounts of direct instruction and none of the cute little activities I pin onto my homeschool Pinterest board.  

Much like when I felt protective over the very big decision to switch to a homebirth midwife at 35 weeks pregnant with Liza, I am a bit sensitive over our decision to defy the norm and allow our kids to learn in a no expectations and unstructured kind of way.

So if we run into each other at the grocery story and you ask about our first year of homeschooling, I will probably laugh a nervous little laugh and say that nothing has really changed in our day and my kids just play all day.  A couple of months ago, I might have even said that we will start "real" homeschool next year when Henry is six.

I lied.

That much I know for sure.

My Heathens and Church

I frequently refer to my kids as heathens.  All in good jest.  Or in brutal honesty.  Maybe a bit of both?  With a daddy who scorns organized religion and a mama who is a cradle Catholic but feels vomicious at the thought of emotionally and financially supporting a church who does not call the police for child abusers to be arrested, it is easy to say we are not church going people.

However, we have our own brand of spirituality at our house and my "church" is a long lived tradition of listening to Bob Marley at top volume on Sunday mornings.  So when I realized it was 10am and I had been up for hours without listening to Bob Marley I got a bit panicky and made a huge exclamation about missing church.....which led to Henry saying he wanted to go to church.....which led to a very quick explanation that I was actually just talking about blaring Bob Marley.....which led to a confused look on the kid's face......which led to a quick offer to take him to church if he wanted to go.

The child has exclusively worn shorts since the weather has turned chilly.  When I said he had to wear pants for the walk to church he hightailed it to his room and put on the first pair of pants he saw.

Excited is an understatement.

No surprise that Liza was immediately excited about attending church.  Her excitement was visible through her willingness to brush her hair without any drama or postponement.

Right on time we walked one block to the Catholic Church.
The kids dunked their entire arms in the holy water and we took our seats.
End of the pew.
Back row.
We lasted one song and half of a prayer.

On the walk home Liza picked up a yellow ginkgo biloba leaf and proclaimed it her "magic leaf".

"How was church?"

Henry said church was great.
Liza said her magic leaf didn't work because she couldn't fly.
And I said I was glad to be home to finally listen to my Bob Marley.

By The Numbers

12.........hours of sleep for me last night.  That is what happens when you get in bed at 6:45pm.

163.......sad feelings for Ollie's stuffy little baby nose last night.

1...........little baby sniffle I've heard since we got out of bed.

3...........different baby carriers I have used today and it isn't even lunch time.

19.........requests for Henry to stop interrupting the librarian during story time.  His non-sequiters were making me crazy!

3,574.....requests for Liza to stop yelling at me.  I might have even yelled my request a few times.  Ineffective, yes.

63..........thoughts that crossed my mind today about how nice it would be to not worry about money.

63...........thoughts of feeling grateful that we have good food to eat and a healthy family.

27............reminders from Liza that we need to go to the co-op to buy honey as I've been writing this for the past 5 minutes.

10,983.....wishes that I could break my no cartoons during the week rule and veg out to My Little Ponies for the rest of the day.  Too bad, the rule was already broken yesterday at their grandparents' house.

3..............children.

1..............tired mama.

Ollie and Empathy

July.  Mississippi. 36 weeks pregnant.  I was over being pregnant, over feeling hormonal, over my body aching, over my children getting on my nerves, over my abundant desire to eat out every night.  I was over it.  41 weeks?  Oh yeah, I was totally and utterly over it.  

And very understanding of why an elective induction is appealing in late stages of pregnancy.  Let's just get it over with, shall we?  Homebirths and midwives are not conducive to getting the show started before every hormone is perfectly in sync but I day and night dreamed about cranking up the artificial hormones and turning my prodromal labor into some effective, baby bringing contractions.

^ From a woman who has great disdain for elective inductions.  

Then the back labor.  I hear women talking about back labor.  But I didn't get it. Oh yes, now I understand back labor.  And it is a bitch.  As was that raw abrasion on my back from Taylor's counter pressure with his palm.

^ From a woman who has been rather flippant about labor pains in the past.

And with intense emotions and intense back labor marches in Ollie....otherwise known as "high palate and mild posterior tongue tie boy".  I now understand why women give up on breastfeeding -- the pain of a crappy latch, the horrors of recurrent plugged ducts, the internal self doubt of whether or not your baby is getting enough, the googling for answers that just leads to more stress.  Thanks to breastfeeding my first two babies for a total of 3.5 years and having a wide circle of breastfeeding support, Ollie and I pushed through and things are significantly better at this point.  But I think of women crying with their babies at night because their breasts hurt and everyone in their life says just give the baby a bottle.  It is a common story and I feel blessed that it isn't my story.

^ From a woman who might not have reached out for help with her first baby.

Ollie. He is my little empathy giver.  

To TV or not to TV?

Many moons ago I wrote about why we don't have a TV and why I think children's programming is basically the devil incarnate.

Then Liza stopped napping at 18 months.  I had a 3.5 year old and an 18 month old.  Napless.

Then I got pregnant.
First trimester.

Then I miscarried.
Then I fell in the pit of despair.

Then I felt better.

Then I got pregnant again.
First trimester.
Second trimester.
Third trimester.
Immediate postpartum.

Basically, life happened and we watched Netflix.  Lots of Netflix.  The rule was always we only watch from 1-3.  However, my kids can't tell time and there is a pregnancy clause allowing for extra toon time on account of my need to nap on the couch.

My silly little list of 10 things all about me on Facebook mentioned that my kids haven't watched cartoons in a week and it makes me feel like Super Mom.

Because Mary Beth asked:

It all started with 2 bratty acting little children at the park.  Not playing, just bothering people.  Big kids.  Little kids.  Parents.  Me.  Each other.  They were bothering everybody.

On the ride home, Henry blamed Alvin and the Chipmunks for the poor choices he made that day.

Fine!  No more cartoons!!!!!  *Tears of disbelief*

I stuck to it....even though day 2 of the detox was the worst....let me say it myself:  Hallelujah!  My kids are playing much more imaginatively, not nearly as much screaming and fighting and everyone is more amenable to helping around the house.

I've always said that their work is to play.  And now they are hard at work 100% of the day.  Including a rest time which is incrementally longer every day.  And it all makes me feel very homeschooly and I like that feeling.

Except, you know, for today.  A rainy Sunday is surely worth two full-length Disney movies?

Yes, we thought so too.

Zephyr. Ollie. Zephyr.

We didn't find out Ollie's sex at our (one and only) ultrasound at 20 weeks and by 40 weeks I was convinced he was a girl.   I was in utter shock when Liza lifted the blanket and announced our baby had a big penis.  In reality, she was looking at his over sized, hormone inflated testicles but still, our girl announced we had a boy.  Because obviously, I gestate long with girls since Liza and our presumed baby girl were both born at 41 weeks and 2 days and Henry was born at 40 weeks and 2 days.  And obviously, my belly had the look of a girl.  And don't forget the woman that witched me and read my palm at the country buffet who also agreed our baby was a girl.

Baby boy was nameless for 48 hours.

During this time:  My body felt like it had been hit by a truck.  My colostrum was transitioning to mature milk in a glorious manner leaving my breasts feeling like bags of wet cement.  The kids were acting crazy.  It was harder than I imagined having a baby boy rather than a baby girl.  We were ready to be home but I was anxious about the 4 hour drive.  Needless to say, things were feeling a bit unsettled.

The baby needed a name.  Everything would feel better if the baby just had a name.

The 2nd night of Ollie's life, I decided his name was either Zephyr or Ollie.  Ollie came out of left field.  I honestly wasn't even thinking about Oliver being a family name.  Ollie just seemed right and I liked it.  Zephyr was my much sought after hippie name for my tie-dyed baby born on a hippie commune.  "Late spring and early summer breezes."

Henry, Liza, Ollie.
Henry, Liza, Zephyr.

Taylor chose Ollie.  Oliver Pace Dearman.  I was confused about why Oliver was my son's name.  I didn't even like the name.  But it was his name.  I couldn't deny it.

But now I get it.

My Aunt Betty died in a horribly tragic way right around Ollie's due date after we been at The Farm for about 2 weeks. We decided not to attend the funeral and I coped with the tragedy by compartmentalizing and focusing on our impending peaceful homebirth.

After we named Ollie, I remembered Betty's dog is named Oliver and I liked that.

Then, just a few weeks ago, my mom told me that Betty named her dog Oliver because she always loved the name Oliver for a baby boy but her husband didnt' like the name for their sons.  So naturally, she named her dog Oliver.

Betty and I were never particularly close.  But I think of her everyday and I absolutely believe she is the reason Ollie is Ollie rather than Zephyr.

And when I am empty nesting and needing a little dog to snug in my lap, I can always name him Zephyr and think of Betty.

Shall I blog again?

Back by popular demand.....me and my opinionated views.

It's been a while.  A long while.  I feel the need to explain....basically, blogs started to annoy me.  Not mine, of course, because I love my view points and vantages but why would I read other people's ramblings when I could read research and lovely anecdotes about birth?  Then my camera crapped out.  Or I say it crapped out but I have put zero effort into making it functional and beautiful.  And who wants to read my opinions without looking at my beautiful children?  Or rather.  Why would I want you to read my opinions if I didn't get at least a few comments about my beautiful children?  More like it.

So.  Here I am.  Blogging again?  It would be appropriate since I get in bed every night at 7:30 with Ollie.  Literally, my children and I all have the same bedtime.  It is a major highlight of my day.  I don't even watch Vampire Diaries in my bed.  I pat Ollie on the back because I love him and I want to touch him 24 hours a day, I BookFace and I read birthy news.  Loads of fun.  Yes.

For the curious.  Family cloth is non-existent.  Pretty sure we just tried out that so I could blog about it.

For the past year I used a squirt of Dr. Bronner's liquid peppermint soap as toothpaste.  Now I am using Ipsab Tooth Powder.  Laurin, that bit of info is just for you.  I know you want to know these things.

And last but not least, I can no longer see and my feet are a half size bigger.  Thank you, children.

Will I be back tomorrow?  If recent history repeats itself, the answer is no.  If distant history repeat itself, I will need to talk about Ollie and talk about how my little free thinkers are firmly convinced they can do whatever the hell they want to do all day long.  And how they are pretty much right.

Ollie's Perfect Birth

We arrived at The Farm on July 22, 2013.  I was 39 weeks pregnant to the day and hopeful we would soon meet our baby.  The first week was spent excitedly exploring The Farm, meeting like-minded people at the swimming hole, getting to know the midwife whose basement apartment we were staying in, playing board games with the kids and enjoying non-stop time together as a family of 4.

The 39th week passed.  The 40th week passed.  We were still enjoying ourselves but my husband, Taylor, and I found ourselves very much ready to be at home with a newborn in our arms rather than playing the endless game of waiting for labor to start.  Baby was not in optimal fetal position and my nightly bouts of prodromal labor complete with an aching back and hips had me doing all I could to help baby rotate out of the posterior position as fast as possible.  I spent my days doing the tricks of the trade to help baby rotate to the anterior position as I meditated and practiced deep breathing on the words “calm, safe, open, low, down, baby” and constantly visualized my perineum stretching in anticipation of my first birth without a painful 2nd degree tear.

The eighth day past my estimated due date was spent aimlessly wandering around Wal-Mart shopping for an impromptu birthday celebration for our daughter Liza’s 3rd birthday the next day.  We were happy to find the “blue scooter” she desperately wanted and I was feeling bummed that it seemed likely our baby would be born on his big sister’s birthday.  After all, they already shared the due date of July 29 so it didn’t seem too outlandish to think this baby would also hold out until August 7th to be born.

That night I organized her little pile of 3rd birthday presents on the kitchen table and prayed I wouldn’t still be pregnant for our son Henry’s 5th birthday on August 17th.

After a half-hearted attempt to watch an episode of “Are You Being Served?” and not understanding the most basic jokes, I went to sleep hoping I would wake up perkier for Liza’s special day.  I slept very fitfully that night, getting up to pee no less than a dozen times and noticing a contracted but painless belly each time I got out of bed.  At 4:00 am, my tossing and turning woke up Liza and after getting her settled and back asleep I got out of bed at 4:30 am and laid down on the couch in the living room.  I was 100% sure I was in labor as both of my previous labors started the exact same way and quickly progressed but my doula brain never stops working and I reminded myself to rest as this was early labor and I needed to save my energy.

At 5:00 am on the dot, I got off the couch and turned on my “Birth on The Farm” playlist we had worked on since arriving 2.5 weeks earlier.  Every song on the 8 hour playlist is a favorite and specifically chosen because it gave me a sense of calm and control.  The music started and I experimented with what felt best as my labor grew stronger with every contraction.  I paced the floor, leaned over the counter, dropped to all 4s and swayed my hips as I consciously enjoyed laboring alone knowing my instinct had been correct all along and our baby would be born after a very short labor.

Even with the ever-increasing power of my contractions I felt completely safe and trusted I would know exactly when I needed to wake up my husband and call my midwife.  After the first contraction that emitted a deep, low breath and required complete surrender to the powerful sensations, I knew the time had come to assemble my birth team.  

At 5:10 am I woke up my husband with a quiet “I’m in labor” and gave him time to get up as I called my midwife, Stacie.  I told her “I think I’m in labor” and then quickly changed to “I’m in labor” as she told me that it would take her an hour to get to our house on The Farm and to wake up Sharon, the midwife who lived upstairs, if we needed her.  Considering one of our main reasons for birthing at The Farm were concerns about a precipitous labor and an accidental unassisted birth, remembering Sharon asleep upstairs and her 30 years of midwifery experience was a wonderful thing.  

As we had planned, Taylor began picking up toys, folding clothes and making sure things were organized around the house.  I was still laboring on my own, enjoying finally being in labor and doula-ing myself with reminders about the signs of progress during labor.  I could tell by my breathing and low tones that labor was moving right along and at that point, I was easily handling my back labor by leaning over on the coffee table and swaying my hips during each contraction.  My doula brain reminded my laboring brain that baby would likely rotate on it’s own with an active labor and I had no need to fear a posterior birth even with the intense back labor I was experiencing.

I was hungry and ate a fried egg on toast I had to shove in my mouth and chugged a huge glass of water because I salted it during a contraction and it was disgustingly salty. But I knew that if I didn’t eat something soon I would be turned off by food and my hungry belly was telling me to eat!

Stacie and her apprentice, Laura, arrived at 6:15am and the strength of my contractions increased almost immediately.  I told Stacie I felt nauseous but was scared to throw up because it would make my contractions stronger.  She told me that would be a good thing which I knew perfectly well but I still chose to hold back the vomit because I wasn’t ready for the next phase of labor.  

Then I needed Taylor to rub my back.  Hard.  I needed him to put down his coffee, stop folding clothes, stop busying himself with the list of things I had created to keep him busy during early labor....and I needed him to know exactly what I wanted without me having to say a word.  Obviously that didn’t go  well and I ended up being very bossy about where he needed to sit, how he needed to look at me and how I needed him to affirm me.  I made a comment about being “pissy” to Stacie when she asked how I was doing and I tried to laugh about it because I knew I was being ridiculous but laughter wasn’t happening at that point.

Then things get hazy.

I needed to pee and thought I might finally have the notorious clearing of the bowels that typically occurs during early labor but as with my reluctance to vomit, I had no desire to willingly propel myself to more intense contractions.  I reminded myself that emptying my bladder was important to help reduce immediate postpartum bleeding I had experienced with my first two births.  I remember sitting on the toilet with my tippy toes on the floor desperately trying not to sink too deep into the toilet and encourage stronger contractions.

I took one step out of the bathroom and dropped to the floor in hard labor.  My back labor was intense intense intense and I instinctively went into the “polar bear” with my chest and belly on the ground, knees spread wide and butt in the air.  I have no idea how long I labored like this but my moans got lower and LOWER and louder and LOUDER.  

Transition was here although that word never crossed my mind.  This is what I remember during that point of labor....no specific order.

- Looking up at Stacie and telling her I needed her.  She got on the ground and I grabbed her hands as she reminded me I was doing exactly what I needed to do.

- Taylor became an amazing labor partner and told me all the things I needed to hear without me having to say a word.

- I asked how much longer it would take knowing perfectly well that it wouldn’t be too much longer with the way I was moaning but I really wanted somebody to tell me it was almost over.  Somebody asked if I wanted my dilation checked and Stacie spoke up and said I had already declined an exam and didn’t want to be checked.  Then she pulled my panties down a bit and checked for “the purple line” on my natal cleft.  She said it showed I was about 7cm.  I was not happy with that number and very glad I didn’t have an uncomfortable hand up my vagina to give the information.  I asked her to show Taylor the purple line and as expected, he didn’t see a thing but my butt crack.    

-Stacie asked if I could take off my underwear and I told her just to cut it off because I couldn’t move to take it off.  Taylor had spent the previous week sharpening every knife in the house so cutting off my underwear with the sharpest knife available seemed like the right idea to him.

- Henry woke up!  I heard Taylor tell him that I was in labor and our baby would be born soon.  He was so so so excited and years of preparing him to witness a homebirth immediately showed.  He knew exactly what was going on and never showed an ounce of fear or anxiety about his mama rocking on the floor with her butt in the air moaning as loudly and deeply as she possibly could.  He echoed everybody’s affirmations and told me I was doing a wonderful job.  I don’t think anybody in the room will ever forget my precious little boy saying “You can do this, Mama!  You did it with me and with Liza and you can do it with our baby!”.  

- Liza stayed asleep even though I was two feet from her bedroom door and I was LOUD!

At some point, Stacie asked if I could stand up and allow gravity to bring my baby down.  I feel sure I resisted but I soon found myself standing up holding on to Taylor’s neck and looked around to see myself surrounded by four women....two Certified Professional Midwives and two apprentices...all who birthed their babies naturally at home.  It was powerful knowing they were there to help assist me through this birth and seeing them gave me a renewed energy.  A strong female presence of women experienced in birth was a top priority during my pregnancy and even with back to back contractions, I felt the power of their support.   Taylor pointed out that one of my favorite Bob Dylan songs was playing and told me I was safe.  I repeated “I am safe” over and over again as I labored holding onto his neck....and contorted his body into the most horribly uncomfortable positions possible.  He experienced his own labor pains!

As soon as I began to feel pushy I also felt dizzy and lightheaded.  During Liza’s birth, I blamed too hot water in the birth tub for my dizziness when I began to feel pushy but maybe it’s just the way my body reacts to that certain feeling of needing to push a bowling ball out of my butt.    Stacie guided me to the bathroom to sit on the toilet and labor sitting down but that didn’t last long and we quickly moved to the couch for me to lay down.  A midwife, Sharon, said “Ahh, now that’s the waddle of a woman who has a baby between her legs” as I walked across the room to the couch.  Hearing that made me realize the end was near!  

I laid on my left side  and grabbed the back of the couch as the apprentices rolled me over to cover the couch with chux pads.  With the next pushy contraction I felt a stream of fluid and asked if I was bleeding or if it was my bag of waters.  After learning that it was my waters, I asked if there was meconium present and was quickly reassured everything was clear with no meconium present.  My doula brain turned on and I reminded myself that side-lying is an excellent way to facilitate a slow, patient pushing phase with lots of hands on support to minimize the risk of tearing.  I braced my left leg on Sharon and Laura, an apprentice, lifted my right leg with Taylor sitting by my head holding my hand. Liza had woken up at some point and she and Henry were sitting in another apprentice’s lap in a chair near the foot of the couch and I was glad they were in a good position to watch their baby being born.

This pregnancy centered around mentally preparing myself to push only with contractions, pant through crowning and not suffer through another painful 2nd degree tear.  My months of consciously telling myself that I would push slowly with my contractions and my recent weeks of intense visualizations of my perineum stretching stretching stretching became my reality as I let my body bare down without actively pushing and when I felt his head crown I panted heavily during the next contraction.  The only time I purposely pushed was when Stacie said “ok, now push out your baby”.  

And then it was done.  My baby was here at 7:55 am -- 3.5 hours after labor began.  Midwife Sharon quickly made the observation that we likely would have had an unassisted birth had we stayed home in Mississippi and she was right.  My instincts about a short labor were exactly right.

After the cord was limp and white, Henry cut the cord as he had excitedly planned for the past 6 months and Liza lifted the baby blanket and announced we had a boy with a “look at his big penis!”.  

Even with controlled pushing I had a first degree tear needing 3 internal stitches and a short running stitch on my perineum.  The consensus was that I wouldn't have torn if he hadn't had a compound presentation with a hand by his cheek and his other hand trapped under his cord which was wrapped around his torso.  His awkward hand placement explained his persistent posterior position during late pregnancy and late rotation during labor.

I’ll be honest.  I didn’t even see the wet little thing on my chest at first.  I was just so happy.  Happy the months and especially those final weeks of anticipation were over.  Happy his labor was short and straightforward.  Happy his birth was so much better than his sister’s homebirth because of all the emotional support from having 4 women present.  Happy I didn’t hemorrhage all over the couch.  Happy I didn’t have a bad tear.  Happy the time away from home to birth at The Farm was 100% worthwhile to bring my baby into this world in the safest way possible for me and my family.  

48 hours later that wet little thing was named Oliver Pace Dearman.  Just like his birth, he is 100% perfect!

Our 4th of July.

Morning of the fourth, I put on my red, white and blue dress and proclaimed it my American outfit.

My children chose orange, green and tie-dye and proclaimed it their American outfit.

Apparently, we have not instilled much patriotism.

They had no clue.

The morning was spent playing in the baby pool.

Dinner was an indoor picnic of bratwurst, garden picked butter beans, lemonade and a chocolate cake per Henry's request.

Then we went for a walk in the cemetery.

You guessed it.

Liza quickly face planted and needed her daddy's hand.

You guessed it again.

She peed on her dress.

Naked.

In the cemetery.

This one turns four next month.

And, yes. his hair is long.

A year's worth of growth will do that.

He wants to grow his out to his toes.

And, he doesn't even know about Rapunzel.

The walk in the cemetery ended when the need for baby wipes arose and they were still at home.

Yep.

You guessed it.

On Budgets and Booties:

Two things are consuming my mind this weekend:

1.  Our budget.  We are back to budgeting because when you are poor, you can't buy everything you want and you can't do everything you want to do.  Even when all you really want to buy is enough fruit to keep your kids happy for an entire week and buy cheap (cheap) cheap stuff from the thrift store.  Especially when the saddest thing that has ever happened in your life costs almost $300 in medical bills and you pay your bills in full without dipping into savings.  I promise I don't dwell on that sad event constantly in real life, it just keeps coming up on OMML.  This month is tight and even though our kids still have plenty of fresh, locally grown fruit from the farmer's market, I wish we could have more.  And, even though I cheated and charged $6 to the debit card at the thrift store because I didn't have any cash and I desperately wanted a pair of brand spanking new jeans that fit perfectly and a book I've been itching to read, I wish I could have dug through the clothes racks until I found brand new Ann Taylor Loft sweaters like I always do.

But, I can't. 

And, I won't.

Because I finally have the insight to know that this budget is more than paying bills and saving our pennies.  It is about delayed gratification -- something I hope my kids have at an early age after learning about the "Marshmallow Test for Success" -- and knowing that I don't need stuff to make me happy.  

And truth by told, maybe less stuff will make me happy.  After all, I am paying for yoga with the monies from selling unsused stuff around the house.  My biggest complaint about our house has always been the horrible kitchen storage space and these days I have more than enough room since selling off everything I don't use. 

 That's nice.  

I can complain about the budget but at least I don't have to complain about the lack of storage space anymore.  

2.  Liza has been out of diapers for 3 days.  She has only peed in the potty 3 times.  Like her much beloved pup-pups, she prefers the grass.  Can't blame her since she watches big brother pee outside all day, every day.  But, she's not a boy so it's not quite as convenient for her.  Good thing we love little girl dresses and I am laid back about things like this.

I keep telling myself that she will find the potty in due time.  And, then I tell myself again.  And, again.  And, then I tell myself that it will happen when she is ready and this is an amazing first step at 22.5 months old.  And, then I remind myself to breathe.  

Just breathe.  

And clean up the pee.  

I could be blogging about...

I haven't been blogging much.  My evenings are filled with emailing doula clients, working on my doula certification, reading birth research and blogs and oh yeah, mindlessly zoning out on Facebook.

Things will happen during the day and I think -- hmm, a few months ago, I would have blogged about this.

But, alas, no blogging is done.

Still not taking many pictures of my kids.  My camera is frustrating me and I get a case of "the wants" every time I take it out and it doesn't perform as well as I think it should.

But, I really want to thank all of my readers for being my outlet when life was hard post-miscarriage.  Blogging was my quiet place, my peace and my solace when my brain was in overload and I couldn't sort out my emotions.  I am in a good place now and honestly can't fathom the thought of pregnancy and a third baby.  Twinges of sadness and loss strike when I hear about newly discovered pregnancies and a part of me feels like every pregnancy is doomed like mine was.  But, then I think of the million of birth stories I read and all the birth videos I watch and it's hard to balance all those babies with the fact that I feel like pregnancy is a loss cause.

So....I didn't intend to write about miscarriage.....but, you know, this is my happy place and apparently this is what I want to talk about.

Maybe one of these days I'll get back to writing about all this ridiculous amount of baking I've been doing and how I've mastered the food processor for all my mixing, creaming and beating needs.

Or I could write about how Henry is a full-fledge devotee to Netflix.  Or not.  Because then I would have to take back that post about how my kids don't want television.  What?  It doesn't count when it's on the computer?  Great!

And, birth.  I can always write about birth.  I could write a bit about how I'm much more tempered on my opinions regarding birth.  Or not.  Because then I might have to take back all those highly opinionated birth posts from a while back.  But, yeah.  I still think those thoughts but I realize that some things might be better left in my brain.  Or not.  Because I still think elective induction is pretty crappy.

Liza.  She would be easy to write about.  She is one cute little cookie.  Even when she is hysterically throwing herself on the floor because I scooted her chair 6 inches too far to the left.  Or because I won't let her walk backwards on the kitchen counter.  Or because I stop her from trying to climb onto the sun canopy of the stroller while in mid-walk.

Or that I FINALLY left the BlogHer network.  It was an honor to be included because a lot of my favorite blogs are a part of BlogHer but let's get real.  I have been a mouthpiece for a bunch of crappy products I would never ever ever use and I got paid squat.  Diddly squat.  Buh-bye.

I do suppose there isn't much left to add to the "greening my life" page though.  Except when I turn that bulk box of baking soda into washing soda in my very own oven.  That will definitely deserve a blog post.

Here I am blogging about blogging....

Does that count?

Changing Perceptions on Birth

I'm a birth junky.  I like the physical reality of giving birth -- the role of hormones, the position of the baby, contractions, dilation, pushing positions, impact of care providers and support teams, statistics on cesareans and epidurals, history of birth in America.
I like it all.
It's my drug.

But, my doula work has shifted my feelings on birth.  Visiting with families about their pregnancy and birth plans and finally witnessing my first doula baby's birth has given me insight into the very personal nature of bringing a baby earthside.

The physical reality of labor isn't what matters to a woman in labor.  I'm glad to know how the motherbaby functions to give birth but what matters to the birthing couple is the feeling of support, respect , informed consent and open lines of communication.

I'm still learning this doula role but with each consultation and with each prenatal appointment, I see constants:  the need to understand hospital interventions before the possible need arises and reassurance their decisions will be respected by hospital staff.

The need to not feel a loss of control in the hospital machine, in the laboring woman's body and mind and in the emotions of the partner is paramount to having positive thoughts regarding your birth.

This could just one big fat plug for my doula business, Southern Nurture Birth Services, but it's not.  Of course, if you are local I don't mind if you get in touch with me about availability for your due date and setting up a consultation.

But, that's not what this is about.  Although more business would be nice.  It's about a woman's right to feel in control of the birth of her baby she has been growing for the past 40+ weeks.  It's about a woman's right to listen to her intuition and make decisions she feels are right.

This lesson was reinforced even more a few days ago when a friend elected for a repeat cesarean in lieu of her planned VBAC.  She got to choose the terms of the surgical birth and she has no regrets.  It was a great reminder for me that birth is more the mechanics of pushing a baby out.  When Mondria isn't busy with a toddler, a newborn, tandem nursing, changing 2 sets of cloth diapers and doing everything else a mama has to do she is going to share her story on Our Messy Messy Life.

Stay tuned....

Secret Life of (un)Schooling

Homeschool has been on my mind a lot lately.  I vacillate between going crazy with my children underfoot, being thankful we can live frugally enough to keep me at home, wishing Mississippi would stop being the bane of my existence and allow unvaccinated children to attend daycare and school and being so flipping excited at the prospect of watching my children flourish under our guidance and love.

Yes.

It's a lot of work keeping up with all those conflicting thoughts and emotions.

But no matter if our unschool plans work out or not, you can't stop the teacher in me from coming out all.day.long.  Henry is very well-versed in the natural science world of our backyard and astounds me with his comprehension of books we read.  

He refuses to say his ABC's and has little interest in identifying numbers and letters but the kid can break down the life cycle of a moth, knows exactly what plants needs to thrive, explains that baby animals that come out of eggs don't drink mama's milk but babies that are born drink mama's milk and has a firm grasp on categorizing animals into herbivore or carnivore status.  

Tonight's post-bath activity involved him wearing my cowboy boots and his cowboy hat and using my robe's belt as his lasso to drag the rocking horse into a "safe, dark place so she can have her babies".  He proceeded to rearrange the furniture so she could rest behind a chair in a dark corner and I watched as he lifted up to her tail and the announce "there is another baby!".  We could only leave for our walk once I proclaimed his job was done -- the mama was healthy and comfortable and the babies were drinking their milk.

So yeah, we are doing our little unschool thing which involves us doing whatever we want to do and knowing that our kids' lives are enriched by it all.  Our biggest little's 4th birthday is just around the corner so we are firmly planted in "preschool" mode but I can't fathom our attitude changing about homeschooling our children anytime soon. 

Of course, I can't fathom Mississippi law to change anytime soon.  Or moving our of state anytime soon.  So here we sit.

Sitting like a mama bird on her little clay eggs.

Just doing our thing.

Duality of Dealing With Loss

Two friends and I talked about my miscarriage at a "let's have drinks" get-together a few days ago.  Maybe it was the irreverent atmosphere of the bar, the fact that my one beer was long finished implying that everyone else had moved on to subsequent drinks or maybe it's just because I have really amazing friends but this conversation was completely different than any other concerning my miscarriage.

One friend told how her mother had two miscarriages and the way her mother spoke of those losses was so positive that even as an adult with children of her own, she has a hard time remembering miscarriages are emotionally difficult for women.  

Another friend speculated that our culture's obsession with abortion and pro-life vs. pro-choice debates has created an environment making it even harder to overcome the emotional burdens of miscarriage.  During Mississippi's Personhood Amendment debacle, we were asked to decide if we believe life starts at conception.  Everybody in my circle, including myself, agreed that yes, life starts at conception.  Of course, I did *not* vote for the Personhood Amendment for a vast number of reasons but that doesn't change the fact that for months the hottest topic in my state was the discussion of whether or not life begins at conception.  And, that's just my local little tip of the iceberg.

We talked about how I really am doing okay.  How I believe my baby was not compatible with life.  How I believe everything is for a purpose.  Perhaps Baby Tomas's purpose was to teach me compassion.  Maybe not.  At this point, his purpose isn't clear and maybe it never will be.  But, his short little life certainly had a purpose.

And as strange as it seemed to say out loud, it felt really good to talk about how our loss has been immensely freeing for me.  No more physical hardships of pregnancy, no more worrying about how I would take care of a newborn and still give my very needy children the attention they desperately crave, no more rushing through my doula certification just to put everything on hold for a year with a new baby, no more worries about money.  The list goes on and on.

The duality of being thankful for the benefits of a miscarriage while at the same time mourning the loss of what could have been -- a beautiful round belly, a peaceful homebirth surrounded by my family and women who love me, a precious newborn, first steps, first words -- is a tribute to the spirit of life, especially the life of Baby Tomas.  

And for those of you who are dealing with these conflicting emotions and the aftermath of infant loss, I found this speech a huge inspiration for peace in my heart.  Spoken at a "Spirit Babies Ceremony" on the winter solstice in San Francisco in which women came together to honor babies lost through abortion, miscarriage and stillbirth on the longest night of the year, I hope it will grant you the same peace and perspective it gave me.  

And now I am off to do non-pregnant activities....like mentally plan a Spirit Babies ceremony in my own little town, prepare for my first doula birth, and obsess over how excited I am to attend a CAPPA Childbirth Educator course this fall. 

And, I really am okay with that. 

Not My Words.

Excuse This House

Some houses try to hide the fact, that children shelter there. 

Ours boasts of it quite openly, The signs are everywhere!

For smears are on the windows, Little smudges on the doors,

I should apologize I guess, For toys strewn on the floor,

But I sat down with the children, And we played and laughed and read,

And if the doorbell does not shine, Their eyes will shine instead.

For when at times I'm forced to choose
The one job or the other
I want to be a housewife-
But first I'll be a Mother.
--Unknown

YuYu Makes Her Debut

Lulu or 'YuYu' as she calls her self is 21 months old.

Her favorite things are:
kissing
saying "no, Heidi!"
nursing, nursing, nursing, nursing!
brushing her teeth
making sure you do whatever she wants you to do
telling me that the chickens need all "dirty" food that falls on the ground
making art
taking walks in the stroller
pitching fits in the grocery store because she wants to walk instead of ride
playing in the parked car
carrying a purse or whatever bag is on hand that she can call a "purse"
counting 1-2-3 and 8-9-10
crying because the only words she knows to 'Ring Around the Rosie' is "ashes ashes"

I still get comments about how beautiful she is everywhere we go.
And, like my mom always said, being beautiful isn't everything but is sure does help.

Ending the Endless Snacks.

As I predicted, writing the details of our loss dramatically cleared my brain of the internal whirl of the past week and a half.  Thank you so much for the kind words on all of my sad sad posts.  What little I've read about grief said that some people are internal grievers and others are external grievers.  Apparently I'm external.  It feels good to share and it feels good to know I have prayers, positive thoughts and lots of love and light heading my direction.  I need it all and it is much appreciated.

This weekend was a big fat disaster filled with lots of tears, snotty runny noses and bad attitudes from every corner of the house.  I woke up this morning with a sore throat but I was determined to break the ugly little cycle my family has become accustomed to.

Today was day 1 of my new life with two toddlers.  Just two toddlers.  And nothing else to focus on during the day.  Just my toddlers.  And having fun.  And not going crazy.  Emphasis on the 'not going crazy'.  Pretty sure that's my current goal in life.

Since Henry was a wee little bossy boy, I've considered having meal times, snack times and ending the endless grazing.  I figured that if I was ever going to do it, today would be the day to start.  My children need reigning in after a solid 1.5 weeks of crappy parenting on my end and a previous 5 weeks of lazy pregnant parenting.

So, I did it.  And, it worked!  They didn't beg for snacks all day.  We went to the park and they actually played rather than focusing on their snacks.  And more than anything...they ate meals.  Real meals.  Breakfast.  Lunch.  Dinner.

Surely I'm not the only mama who understands how momentous this is?
Seriously.

This is what I did:

1.  I made Henry and Liza a breakfast plate.  Their plates were essentially the same but a little different. Henry had toast with jelly, orange slices, almonds, and a slice of avocado.  Liza's plate had a peanut butter tortilla roll-up, orange slices, walnuts and a slice of avocado.  Liza and I share eggs every morning so I knew I could count on that as well.  They ate and then we covered up the leftovers with a napkin and left the plate on the table.  When they asked for a snack, I reminded them they could finish their breakfast plate.  Both kids nibbled a bit more but it was apparent they really weren't hungry.  They just enjoy new snacks.

2. Around 9:45, I gave the breakfast scraps to the chickens and the kids ate a snack of a slice of cake we baked on Sunday and shared a piece of fruit.

3.  Requests for more snacks were refused with the promise of lunch at noon.

4.  Lunch consisted of tuna fish on crackers, olives and a piece of cheese.  And, they ate their whole lunch!  Well, enough of it for me to be happy.  Seriously.  My kids are snackers.  This was huge for them to eat a proper meal.  I kept the olives and cheese leftovers out until about 3.

5.  At 3, they ate another piece of cake -- must finish this cake soon!! -- and a few slices of orange.

6.  And, then they ate supper at 5:30.  They.Ate.Supper.

Amongst other notable events of the day, I pushed through endless activities the kids enjoyed but dulled my brain to the max and resisted the urge to move to the next activity that I would find more interesting.   I can't be the only mother with a shorter attention span than my children....can I?

All in all, it was a great day.  A normal day.  A pre-pregnancy day.

With the added bonus that I wasn't preparing and barely cleaning up after an endless parade of snacks.

Now if I can just get little Lulu nightweaned, life might be even better than it was......before I got pregnant.....and miscarried.

My Story of Loss - pt. 2

I need to write this out for my sanity even though my emotions are still saying no.  My brain has begged to get these words out since the day I miscarried but the task has seemed too daunting.  I'm feeling so much closer to being myself and I know this is an important part of my healing.


The afternoon of my "missed abortion" diagnosis was spent at the hospital getting bloodwork for my RhoGam shot and at the Women's Clinic waiting for the hospital to fax over the results of the bloodwork so I could actually get the injection.  I sat there for hours in a total daze thinking about my first doula client's prenatal appointment scheduled for that night and writing down everything I would need to discuss because I knew better than to trust my brain to remember any thing important.

Finally got back home and we broke the news to Henry.  He was confused.  Sad.  And wanted to get back to watching his cartoon.......the Netflix crutch began that morning.....

I wrapped my brain around no longer being pregnant.  Waiting to miscarry.  Hoping it would happen fast.  Obsessing over my achey back.  Thankful for my healthy babies.  Identifying the heavy feeling in my uterus and realizing it wasn't a pregnant feeling.  It was a miscarriage feeling.

A sweet friend brought dinner over.  We chatted. I felt normal.

The next morning, I woke up a wreck.  My back was aching.  I didn't know what to think.  Mr. Messy decided to go to work and I enlisted my babysitting co-op to find a friend to keep my kids that morning.  My instinct said the physical act of the miscarriage would happen that morning but I was so confused.

Lost.  Tired.  Sad.

As soon as the kids were gone and the house was quiet, I turned on our Mother India playlist and listened to the Hanuman and Shiva chants over and over again.  My back cramps were becoming more intense and I was starting to bleed heavier.

I googled "waiting for a miscarriage" and immediately realized googling was not healthy at this point.

So I waited.  I knew it was coming.  I chatted on Facebook.  I waited.  I cramped.  I bled.

Eventually, the cramps had me pacing the house.  I pushed the thoughts of pacing the house during Liza's birth to a far dark corner of my brain.

Bleeding.  Heavier.  Heavier.  Made sure I had my phone with me wherever I walked in the house because hemorrhage horror stories floated through my brain.

So thirsty.

Rocking on the toilet.  Cramping.  Bleeding.  Freezing cold even though I was wearing a sweatshirt.  Wanting to puke but the trash can was full of dirty nighttime disposable diapers so I held it back.

Cramping.  Bleeding.  So thirsty.

Finally.  A clot passed.  Big.  Apple sized.

Cramping.  Bleeding.

Second clot passed.  Not as big.  Plum sized.

Immediate relief.

Praying it was over.  Completely unsure of what to expect.

--------------

And that was it.  I had a miscarriage.  I was no longer pregnant and I was no longer carrying my dead baby.

I bled for 7 days and had a few more cramping episodes but nothing serious.

My body did what it needed to do.

Now.

Just sadness.  Lots of sadness and feelings of being overwhelmed with the normal pace of my life.

And tired.  So tired.

10 Unicorn Farts:

1. This is honestly the first time I've grieved a death in my life.  I'm 30.  Quite a nice run if I say so myself.

2.  People don't want to hear about your grief.  They say they do.  But, they don't.  These posts about my sadness are barely getting any hits whereas my "big news" post got many more hits than my average.  As a blogger quite enamored with the number trends of my blog posts, this fascinates me yet it's completely understandable.  I don't want to hear about your bad news.  I want to read your birth stories, read your healthy redo recipe of a chocolate cake, hell, I even want to see your new haircut.  But, read about your sadness and your grief?  No, thank you.

3.  Too bad my life is full of sadness and grief right now.

4.  I won't lie.  I think I'm doing pretty good.  Even with kids that won't stay healthy, we've been getting dressed and doing our normal things.  Still many more cartoons that I'm comfortable with but I'm slowly easing out of the Netflix crutch.  I'm finally doing the last month's worth of laundry that has piled up and proven my family has entirely too many clothes.  I'm cooking real food for meals rather than just handing out apple slices and blueberries.

5.  But, I'm sad and hollow on the inside.  I can tell my hormones are still in flux.  I still prefer to zone out during the day and find myself getting unreasonably frustrated with my children.  I want to shut down but can't.  I'm too needed.

6.  My friend, Alisha, sent me this link to a site for bereaved parents.  Yesterday I finally gathered the courage to visit the site.  Their explanation of grief was a godsend.  It made me feel normal.  Cause, you know, this grieving business is new to me.

7.  I'll go ahead and throw it out there that I haven' taken pictures of my kids in 2 months.  Seems like that bit of news fits with this depressing theme.

8.  My Jessica Seinfeld's 'Deceptively Delicious' avocado chocolate chip cupcakes were delicious.  Avocado for the fat in lieu of oil.  Brilliant.

9.  #8 was my at my attempt at a normal blog post.  Pitiful attempt, yes.  Maybe next week will be my week to write about non-depressing things.  Maybe not.

10.  And, yes, this post's title was a total bait and switch.  Forgive me.  I'm a whore for blog hits and I'm  curious to see how a cheerful title will affect the numbers.

Too Many Thoughts

Today.
I took a shower.
Put on real clothes.
Dressed my kids in non-pajamas.
Did our normal Wednesday thing.
I didn't cry once.  Kept on thinking.
My worry list is much shorter now:
Milk drying up at 20 weeks.
Three carseats in a car.
Sleeping with two.
Too tired and hot.
Tandem nursing.
Jealous kids.

Too much.

Thinking.

My Story of Loss - pt. 1

On April 1, 2012, my suspected pregnancy was confirmed.  I had implantation bleeding on March 29 but my last cycle had started on February 22 so I was very confused about my irregular cycle and why I had negative tests for the past week but no period.  With great relief and a huge sense of joy, I looked at a few ovulation calendars online and chose December 10 as our estimated due date.  We were thrilled at the thought of a Christmas baby.

But, even that day, I had an unsettled feeling.  Anxiety.  A feeling of uncertainty.

Since I had tested positive on the earliest possible day, it took about 2 weeks to actually feel pregnant.  Those waves of nausea and the sense of falling asleep in my chair was a great relief because that unsettled feeling remained in the back of my head at all times.

Around 7 weeks pregnant and the day of our town's arts and crafts festival, Mr.  Messy decided it was time to start spreading our good news.  He told everyone we saw about our Christmas baby.  I was fine with that because I felt like my paranoia was just that but my unsettled feeling was growing stronger and stronger.

Around 8 weeks, I finally told Mr. Messy about my feelings.  He was very reassuring but the nagging thoughts lingered.

A few days before 9 weeks pregnant, I had the tiniest bit of pink spotting.  Even though I spotted with Liza and I know that first trimester spotting is normal, that spot on the toilet paper was enough for me.  I knew I was miscarrying.  I went into full-fledged depression mode -- taking to the bed, crying, letting Mr. Messy take care of the kids.  I lost it.

The next day, the spotting was the tiniest bit heavier.

The day after that, I had a streak of red.

Then, a gush of brown.

I pinned all my hopes on a sub-chorionic hemorrhage.  Not a great thing to hope for but I knew it was my only hope and my bleeding lined up perfectly with the symptoms.

But, my heart already knew the truth.
I knew we weren't going to have a Christmas baby.

On Wednesday, May 9, I called my OB and left a message with him nurse pretty much begging her to fit me in that day or do anything she could so I wouldn't have to see the on-call doctor who I don't trust to be respectful of my homebirth plans and my need to be an active participant in healthcare decisions.

Within an hour of my message, I was sitting at the Women's Clinic.  I told my OB, Dr. Cobb, about my bleeding and as soon as I said that I hadn't felt sick or had any pregnancy symptoms in a week, the look on his face said it all.  He asked what I wanted to do and I said that I wanted to check for a heartbeat and follow-up with an ultrasound if he didn't find a heartbeat.

10 minutes later I was in the ultrasound room.  I saw the sac.  I saw the baby.  No heartbeat.  No movement.  It was so obvious I didn't even ask the technician what she saw.  I watched her measure the sac at 7 weeks and 2 days.  Exactly 2 weeks prior.

Immediate grief.  But, also a strange sense of relief.  My heart already knew the bad news and now my brain saw for itself.

I really was at peace immediately.  This baby wasn't meant to be born.  At least I knew for certain now.

Dr. Cobb saw me a few minutes later.  He instinctively knew I wouldn't want a D&C unless it was medically warranted so we talked about the risk of infection and he told me that if I emotionally needed to be done with it all, he could schedule a D&C whenever I wanted.

I called my midwife a few hours later.  She told me what the physical aspect of the miscarriage would likely feel like and gave me firm instructions to call if I needed support or had questions about the bleeding.

To be continued.......

THE DAY I WENT VIRAL...or something like that

Since I've been nothing but doom and gloom for the past several days, I would like to share a funny story.  A true story.  A story that was quite embarrassing almost one year ago.  A story that is finally funny.

Last summer I wrote a guest blog for my friend Imogen at Alternative Mama.  She was looking for guest posts, I had a topic I wanted to write about so I ignored my kids for about an hour one morning and wrote out my thoughts on choosing to let Liza wean from my breast whenever she is ready.  No great revelation for my readers but it was perfect for Imogen's blog.  

But, there was a problem. At the end of my post, Imogen included a picture of, ahem, an unattractive woman sitting on an ugly couch with a cute toddler girl nursing her baby doll.  I fully approved of the toddler nursing her doll but I just couldn't get past the thought of people thinking I  sitting on that ugly floral couch.  Shallow.  Yes.

It really bothered me.

So, I assigned Mr. Messy to take a picture of me nursing Liza.  And, he didn't even cut my head off.  Amazing.  This picture was emailed to Imogen with a little note that I would loooove if she would remove the original "couch" picture and publish my post with a picture of me.

Problem solved.

Until.

This picture went viral.  

Okay.  You are right.

Viral, I was not.

But, it was as close as I have ever gotten to going viral and here is the Facebook thread to prove it. 

And, I was oh so very much embarrassed.  And, violated.  And, disturbed about what other people were doing to my images that were floating around the interwebz.

But, now I like it.  Still not sure who this guy is but I like it.  Or.  I'm okay with it.

*Apparently, Imogen switched my picture with a picture of a woman nursing twins.  I'm definitely okay with this as long as it's not that unfortunate floral couch picture.   

**And, this has been a much better day.  I actually slept last night and although my kids are sick with a fever and we are still watching endless cartoons, I don't feel like my world has been turned upside down anymore.  At least not at this moment.  Thank you for your thoughts and kind words.  They mean more than you could ever know.