Mommy Needs A Hug

I definitely did not realize that it had been almost two months since I posted my birth story. Really left you guys on the edge of your seats with that “to be continued.” Not really.

Before I start, I just want to thank everyone who has been continued readers since the beginning of this thing. It means a lot to me that I can connect with everyone and you can get a glimpse into the unfiltered portions of my “people pleaser” mentality. No matter how infrequent this has been a great way for me to practice writing skills, spark discussion, and get things off my chest that I wouldn’t otherwise because I feel like I have to be the good girl that sits quietly and gets walked all over. So I truly just want to thank you all for following along with my journey as it twists and turns in its ever-changing path of life and motherhood. Now that I have said that, let us proceed shall we. *Curtain closes. Lights dim. Act 2, Scene 1* I’m not funny (Please laugh. I’ll cry if you don’t).

Now where did I leave off?

Welp. A tiny person just exited my body for the fourth time. I’m alive. He’s alive. He’s just beautiful. I am riding the high of just giving birth and feeling pretty good despite it being the literal middle of the night. The nurse has helped me get into a chair because I just don’t want to be in the bed anymore. She also gave me a PB &J. I don’t have it in me to tell her that I hate jelly because the only other option was a ham sandwich and I hate ham more. Also its the middle of the night and I am not going to eat a ham sandwich in the middle of the night. I need to be fully cognizant if I am going to put myself and my sensory issues through that. I also haven’t eaten anything in hours and I need this. I can tell you a PB&J and ice water has never tasted so good as it did that night.

She told me not to get up out of the chair without her help, but I’m not any good with rules like that. I feel fine anyway and I really have to pee. So I stand up and I immediately regret it because blood gushes onto the floor in what seems like a ridiculous amount. I sit back down and we call the nurse in. She essentially tells me in a really nice way that I am an idiot and could have fallen down. We get past this whole thing and get moved to our room for the night. Its in a quiet little corner of the ward.

This is the most hilarious part of any hospital stay because Joe couldn’t figure out how to turn the chair into a bed so he just kind of slept with it half unfolded. This continued the first like three times he tried to do it so I just kept taking pictures of him every time he tried to sleep because it made me laugh. The loud ass squeaks from the chair just cracked me up for some reason and then him sleeping on a glorified ottoman was just *chefs kiss*. Now don’t you go judging me and say I’m an asshole cause that is just how we are and I would bet my left toe that he would have found it just as funny if it happened to me.

(A disclaimer, I don’t proofread this or fix it and Grammarly is already telling me I’m an illiterate piece of shit. The website is also telling me this is unreadable. So. Sorry. Take it or leave it.)

At some point I notice that the baby isn’t waking up and feeding like he should be. We go hours and he doesn’t wake up to eat. I think in the first 8 hours of life he ate for maybe 15 minutes. And that might be generous. They keep asking but he isn’t eating. Then it hits me that he hasn’t had a wet diaper or a poop yet. Weird. That’s a new one for us. I keep trying to put him on the boob but he won’t stay awake long enough to eat. I just decided at one point that he was going to be a formula baby and ask for bottles. Again, he isn’t really eating the bottles and what he does eat he’s throwing up. I bring it up to the nurses but they aren’t concerned yet so I’m not too concerned. I get some sleep since he’s sleeping.

They keep coming in to do fundal massages and check on us. As they do. Morning hits and we get eat and then go back to sleep. At some point they take him to do his blood test and bath and then bring him back.

They get his results and his bilirubin levels are high. Now I start panicking because they said they were pretty high and they were going to retest him again in a few hours and to just make sure he’s eating and peeing. He isn’t. He just won’t stay awake. They retest and his bilirubin levels are still high. At this point my mom is now texting me asking when we are going to come home as if I’m on a tropical vacation and I’m late. It hasn’t even been 24 hours. I tell her what’s going on but she tells me she has to go to work tomorrow. I’m spiraling into an angry rage at this point. How am I supposed to control a newborn’s bilirubin levels?! I’m sure I said something snarky about it not being 24 hours but I honestly can’t remember between my panic and seeing red. All I know is I was crying tears of rage about how I would never do that to my daughter but that’s neither here nor there.

24 hours hits and I don’t know how many blood tests and bilirubin tests they’ve done, but its too fucking many. I’m allowed to get discharged if I want, but he needs to stay. I decide that I’m going to stay with him. They decide the next day that he can go home because his levels have lowered enough, but he needs to get retested the following day at the local hospital for his bilirubin levels. This entire time my mom is pressing me to get home because she has to get to work the next day. I just keep getting more angry. Who does this to their kid? Especially one who just gave birth?

I talk to a social worker about my anxiety and she gives me a blanket that is now dubbed the “depression blanket” because I couldn’t see how this blanket was supposed to help anyone. It was a really nice blanket and I’m grateful for it but at the time it seemed ridiculous.

We head to the truck and Joe hurriedly installs the carseat that he didn’t get the chance to the day before because I was having a literal baby and we really slacked off on it. Don’t you worry your pretty little head because we made sure it was installed properly before we drove home. We get home and I am honestly furious at seeing my mother’s face at this point but I put on a smile and mingle. I should be grateful that she even came at all after the whole debacle before. She hangs out with the baby for a bit and tells me the things she did around the house. That I actually am grateful for. Then she wastes no time in packing up and leaving. The kids get home from school to meet their new baby brother and its the cutest thing. They’re sad that MomMom didn’t stay though. They wanted to see her again.

The next day comes and we go to the hospital to get the bilirubin levels retested. It is terrible to hear him scream but the nurses are nice.

We wait impatiently for the results to come back. Right before we leave for school pick up we get the call that his results are good and we all let out a sigh of relief. Thank god for small favors right? We get in the car and as we wait for pick up I get a call.

It’s the children’s hospital.

His newborn screening came back abnormal. His levels are conducive with PKU. I hear her say that if he gets treated now “he might even be able to go to college.” We need to go to the hospital immediately to get retested.

I’m now in tears in the car. Joe gets the kids, and the entire way to the hospital, I’m researching and crying. It could be a false positive, I hear myself saying. I convince myself it’s a false positive by the time we get there. I go into the ER. Alone. While Joe waits in the car with the kids. We wait for what seems like hours before we go back.

When we finally go back they give me some cans of a formula I’ve never seen before and tell me they have to put in an IV to get blood for a retest. I should just breastfeed as normal until I get the results.

So now I’m here in a diaper. Bleeding, crying, with sore nipples not knowing what comes next.

They come in and place the IV. I can’t even hold him. He is two days old. He is screaming and crying and all I can do is rub his head while the nurse tells me I’m doing great. I’m not. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. They get the blood and we are on the way home. Several hours. At night. After the worst day of my life.

We get the call the next day that he has PKU.

What comes now?

I’m supposed to be doing homework right now, but I have been thinking about writing this for a while. Like 5 months. Who knew that pursuing a Bachelors, having four kids, getting out of the military, getting the kids to summer school, transitioning to a stay-at-home mom, handling all the paperwork, doctor’s appointments, and finances would be so time-consuming? Oh! Not to mention a PKU diagnosis for the tiny little lad. I kid. I knew it would be busy but I secretly love it even when it’s stressful.

As you can guess by the title, this is going to be my birth story. So buckle in, and if you get weak hands when you hear about birth: scroll, scroll. (It has come to my attention that using the term “weak hands” may be something only I use. I use the term “weak hands” to describe that feeling you get when you hear or see something gross or when you’re sick or something and you have no grip. Like you can’t grab anything at all.) Here. We. Go.

Going into labor when I did could have been at a better time. That’s for sure. I was 4 days past my due date. I had gone to the OBGYN and to do a non-stress test that morning. We scheduled our induction for 3 days later. I got home from my appointments to Rose being really sick. She threw up several times on the floor every time I cleaned it up. Then she pooped her pants. Now, Rose has been potty trained ever since she discovered she did not like the feeling of having a wet butt so this was very bizarre. I took her temperature and she was feeling hot. We got some Tylenol in her and I immediately rushed to urgent care to get her checked out.

5:30PM. As we are walking into the urgent care I get a pain in my stomach and feel it. My stomach is tense but I chalk it up to being a Braxton Hicks and keep going. As we are sitting in the waiting room, I am getting HOT. Here I am thinking, “I hope I’m not sick too.” Then about 10 minutes go by and I have another contraction. Not super painful. Probably just another Braxton Hicks. We are called back into the room a bit later and at this time I get another contraction. I decide its time to time them. Sure enough I having contractions that last almost a minute every 10-12 minutes. They have us sitting in the room waiting for a strep, COVID, and flu test while Rose eats a popsicle because she has not eaten or drank pretty much all day.

The contractions are getting closer together. More like 8-10 minutes now. 6PM.

They tell us it’s a stomach bug and just to let her rest and relax. So we start heading out and there’s another contraction. Kind of stops me in my tracks. But we’re in a parking lot so I keep moving. When we get in the car I sit there for a few seconds before going home.

Back at home, I lay down in bed. 7:20PM. I tell Joe I am not feeling well. I am having contractions. I’m going to try and get some sleep and see if they stop. Spoiler alert: They don’t.

I start texting my mom that I think I am in labor if she could come to the house. We go back and forth for a while and she can’t come if I am not sure I am in labor so I wait it out a little longer to see.

My contractions keep getting closer together and more intense, but still manageable.

After several hours of trying to make sure I am in labor and trying to get someone there to watch the kids, I finally call it. I tell Joe that I have to go to the hospital. This is unmistakably labor. I have, after all, done this three times before.

So I drive myself to the hospital, about 30 minutes. 9PM. All the while just breathing through contractions and keeping my eyes on the road. I have come to terms with the fact that I will be giving birth without my husband here. He has to watch the kids.

When I get to the hospital I pull into the parking garage. Great. No spots on the first or second floor. Keep going. Breathe. Breathe. I finally find a spot. I don’t have anything with me but myself. I head over to the ER where I am ushered into a wheelchair. They are asking me questions while I breathe through contractions. Someone else is on the phone with labor and delivery.

Sitting outside the triage room waiting for a room number, I breathe. 9:38PM. Breathe. Breathe. This doesn’t hurt as bad as I remember. The nurse asks me why I have a thumbtack tattooed behind my ear as she wheels me to labor and delivery. “It was mostly to piss someone off,” I say.

Here we are. The labor and delivery triage room.

A nurse comes in and I get into the hospital gown and lay down. They hook me up to the monitors and do a COVID test. They get an IV placed and we are off to the races. Another nurse comes in a checks me a little while later.

I am 3 centimeters dilated with regular contractions every 4-5 minutes. It is now 10:10PM and it really sinks in that I am going to bring a human into this world without a support person there at all. It is just me. I am angry. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like. We made a plan. My mom would watch the kids. That was the plan. She would be available when I went into labor and she would watch the kids. Yet here we are. I am alone and they keep asking me if anyone else is coming. Nope. Just a baby. “My husband had to watch the kids.” I hear myself saying. This feels not real at all. My mom gets on the road shortly after because she felt bad. Now I am doing the math in my head. “If she gets there around midnight, 12:15 maybe, he can get here by 12:45 and still make it hopefully. This is going to take a while I am sure. 12:45 is plenty of time.”

They decide to admit me. 10:45PM. We are having this baby. I sit in my hospital bed breathing through contractions for about an hour, hour and a half. They got my negative COVID result back and I am good to get my epidural. The nurses keep saying I’m doing a great job and just to keep breathing through the contractions. Am I? Am I doing a good job? Hell yeah, I am! I am a warrior. Strongest person I know. The mind can trick you into doing and dealing with incredible things. They check me again right before the anesthesiologist comes in. 6 centimeters. It is about 11:15PM now.

The anesthesiologist walks in and he says, “You want an epidural?” Yes sir. Sure do. The anesthesiologist is about the nicest man ever. He turns around to try and give me privacy while I sit up. Those gowns sure do fly open.

Ok. Now it’s starting to hurt. Sitting up makes it awfully hard to breathe through the contractions.

He sets up the whole table and sterilizes it or whatever he does back there with his giant wheely cart of giant needles. I sign the consent forms. We do the whole “What are we here to do?” “Get an epidural.” thing. Good lord I do not remember an epidural hurting that much. I don’t think it ever has before. But I guess fourth times the charm.

The epidural is placed. He does the test dose and tapes me up. I get to lay back down and he hooks me up to the pump.

The midwife comes in after I get the epidural. We are around midnight now. 9 centimeters. She asks me the dreaded question of if anyone else is coming. I tell her that my mom just got to my house and my husband should be here in 30-40 minutes. She says that my waters are still intact and we will wait to break it until after my husband gets there.

I am feeling a lot of pressure. That familiar feeling of having to poop. But I know I don’t have to poop. The nurses know I don’t have to poop. So much pressure. I can still kind of feel right side but I kind of like it.

There’s some show on about making candy and the most popular candy in the world. Here I am having a candy history lesson and checking the time.

Joe had to stop for gas. I am panicking. He isn’t going to make it. There’s too much pressure. This baby is coming soon. I remember seeing the time hit 12:45AM and panicking. Then my epidural pump starts yelling at me. There’s air in the line. It is yelling at me.

Fuck. Now the heart rate monitor is going off too.

I anxiously wait for a nurse to come help me but no one comes. I press the call button and they come in. She calls the anesthesiologist and he offers a new pump, but the midwife tells me I am at 10 centimeters and I say I will just do without it. 1AM.

The midwife leaves and comes back in. They are going to break my water. 1:10AM. I’m panicking. Joe isn’t going to make it. They tell me that he is walking to the room now and they break my water. Immediate relief hits as he walks in and they rush around setting up the room around us.

Joe is holding my left foot. The nurse is holding my right. I get two good pushes in before amniotic fluid gushes into the midwife’s face. To be honest I am trying so hard not to laugh. Which seems crazy considering I’m crowning. Two more good pushes and the head is out. One more push. There he is. Our beautiful little boy. 1:19AM.

I half notice the midwife massaging my stomach and waiting for the placenta. I try to push it out. I have the baby now and can’t focus on anything else. He’s beautiful. Perfect.

I feel the relief of the placenta exiting my body.

The nurse says there is a laceration that won’t stop bleeding. The midwife says she isn’t concerned and I don’t need stitches. It’s just a very minor tear. I decide not to get it stitched. The nurse is still a little concerned trying to get it to stop. But it stops shortly after.

You would never believe me if I told you that the birth story was the least dramatic and stressful part of this, but it was.

To be continued.

Remember the Titans is one of my all time favorite movies. It has a strong message about the time period that I won’t ever forget. It has so many notable moments within the movie, while still bringing in comedy. But the quote in the title is the most relatable quote from the movie for me. I realize that not everything has to be related to my own life, particularly since this movie focuses on racism and I am a white girl born in the 90s. Just hear me out though because this quote echoes in my head. I hope you can see where I am going with this at some point. I am not trying to belittle the movie because I really do love the movie and all its messages.

My entire life I was made to feel like perfection was the only option. If I was not the best at what I was doing, it wasn’t good enough. Was this an attempt to be motivational? Maybe. But it wasn’t. All I wanted was for my parents to be proud of me, and nothing ever really seemed to get my father’s attention in the way I needed to be acknowledged. I needed to be perfect to get attention, and at this point in my life I don’t even think that would have done it. I strove for perfection anyway.

When I played softball my teams would lose constantly. I was never on a winning team. I was pretty decent at batting practice though. I would absolutely slay while I was in the batting cage. When I got out to the plate though. I remember a time where my father made me a deal after I hit my first double. He said he would give me twenty dollars if I hit another double, some amount for a triple, and then something like one hundred dollars for a home run. I started getting hits left and right. Never did hit a triple or a home run though and instead of getting recognition for what I did do, it got pointed out what I didn’t do. It wasn’t perfect. So I tried harder. Still never achieved perfect. Then I finally quit softball.

I swam my whole life. Again, I was pretty good at it. I remember when I broke a school record though I was told that I could have gone faster. When I re-broke the record I was told that I didn’t throw up so I could have gone faster. When I got personal records but didn’t place, it got brushed off and barely acknowledged.

I did my first triathlon and when I got to the turnaround point on the bike I fell and jammed my thumb. I wasn’t more than 12 years old. Instead of being commended for getting up and finishing in my search to reach perfection, I got chastised for falling. I tried time and time again to have the perfect triathlon, but there was always something. There was always some reason that it wasn’t good enough. I would get crumbs of compliments here and there. There was always a “but” though. It just wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough.

As you can imagine I put myself through the same stress in the academic world trying to find that recognition. Still, it was never good enough. It wasn’t perfect and so it wasn’t good enough. If I got an A-, it could have been an A. God forbid I get a C or lower. By my senior year I was burnt out. With sports. With school. With everything. But I had to keep trying to get some appreciation. I needed him to be proud of me. I got accepted to CGAS and you can imagine the reaction when I failed out.

Even into adulthood I have strived for perfection in every aspect of the game. I joined the Coast Guard, got married, had kids, bought a house young, got promoted, and so much more. None of it has ever been done perfectly though. I can’t even be the perfect mother. My house isn’t spotless. I didn’t have the amount of hands to finish my bathroom remodel with the kids around. I painted my room wrong. I did a crappy job painting the kid’s rooms. I put my kid in speech therapy. I took my kid out of speech therapy. My kids don’t know how to pronounce every single word and they say “yeah” instead of “yes”. My kids draw on walls sometimes. My stove is dirty. My youngest still sleeps in my bed. I didn’t give Mark a pacifier and that was wrong. I did give Rose a pacifier and that was wrong. I breastfed Joey for longer than a month and that was wrong.

He doesn’t even acknowledge that I have a 4.0 GPA and am almost done with my requirements to meet Honors Program Distinction. I have even made the President’s List 4 times out of 4 semesters now. But that doesn’t matter.

I frantically clean my house any time I know my dad is coming because I am trying to get everything as perfect as I can so he has something good to say. I am always met with the negative though. The one corner I missed. The one piece of trash on the floor. The marker that I couldn’t get off the wall. The nails in my living room that we hang our stockings on. The grass. The bushes. The weeds. The deck. The pool. The patio. The smallest tiny little thing is what gets pointed out.

I have been criticized and chastised every single step of the way when all I really wanted was for my daddy to say “I’m proud of you”.

To be honest I could go on and on because this is why I am probably so anxious all the time.

Why am I striving for something that is impossible though? He will never say he is proud of me. That is something he needs to work through with himself. Perfection is just not feasible. Perfection is not reachable. I will never be perfect. If that means he will never be proud of me than so be it. We will not be perfect in every aspect of the game. We will never be perfect in any aspect of the game.

I am a good mom. I am a good student. I am a good wife. I am good at so many things. And that’s enough. I may not be perfect in every aspect of the game, but I am good enough.

I had known for a few weeks since getting several positive pregnancy tests and a gut feeling that I was pregnant. I kept this hidden from people for a variety of reasons. I kept it hidden from colleagues and my bosses because they had made it clear to me that being pregnant was inconvenient for the unit. I “can’t run a shop with four kids”. A whole story in and of itself, honestly. Maybe one day, when my thoughts and opinions aren’t so critically scrutinized through the microscope of the government, I’ll be able to openly go into further detail.

Another reason was the judgment I knew I would receive from the general population and family. I have felt uncomfortable for quite some time announcing pregnancy because of this judgment. Too many “you can stop having kids now” comments. Or the “you have a boy and a girl that’s the perfect family”. Or even just the questioning of “you guys are done now RIGHT?” Large families are not a new concept, but the judgment from family, friends, and society that I would receive for having a fourth child had me keeping this pregnancy locked down tight.

The third, most prominent reason I can think of, is that I had a gut feeling that something was wrong. I kept denying to myself that I was pregnant. I carried on with my normal routine for the most part because it just didn’t feel real or right.

But when that first test popped positive, and I sent a picture to Joe, he was so excited. For the first time, if I’m being honest. He replied, “we did it!”. We hadn’t been trying, but we had decided we wanted one more. TOGETHER. For those people who are going to say that I coerced him into it. He was actually the one that ultimately suggested another child so eat my dick, ok?

He started calling the baby the Froot Loops bird. Which ended up being funny because we had decided the baby’s name would be Sam. So obviously, this evolved into referring to the baby as Toucan Sam. Despite my hesitation and gut feeling, I started to get excited. I started looking at nursery bedding and started a registry for the few things we would need. I looked up sibling shirts. I clicked “add to cart” on an adorable coming home outfit.

I had taken probably 3 tests that were all positive. I had finally started telling a few people. At 5 weeks and 5 days (predicted), I really started spreading the news among some friends that I knew would be excited because we had talked about it before. I had told no one in my family and had no intentions to until I went to the OB.

It was a Saturday night and I was finally starting to get comfortable with the idea that there was a baby. I was going to call medical first thing Monday morning so I could get set up with the OB. I was going to tell my command after my medical appointment. I had a tattoo appointment the following day, Sunday, that I was seriously contemplating canceling but had held off because I was unsure if I should trust my gut that something was wrong.

Now I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t.

Sunday morning I woke up not feeling well. I was crampy and nauseous. Something that I had chalked up to just morning sickness and an expanding uterus. I lay in bed for hours. And then I felt a gush. I ran to the bathroom, already tearing up, and called Joe into the bathroom. There was a lot of blood and I immediately knew that my gut feeling had been right and this was it. It was over. He went out and got more pregnancy tests anyway.

Negative.

Immediate dread filled my body. Was it really that quick and then it’s just over? I didn’t expect the test to come back negative so quickly. Everything says it takes weeks for the test to come back negative. I just wanted one more positive test. A reminder I guess. But negatives were all I got. Confirmation of my worst nightmare. I broke down into tears right then and just sat on the toilet for what felt like years. We debated if I should go to the hospital and get checked, but I decided that the show must go on and I had to pretend nothing happened because no one knew. Not even the kids. I slapped on a pad leftover from my postpartum days with Joey, and we got loaded up and on our way to my tattoo appointment. I just kept crying. Numb, but so sad at the same time. We went about our day not saying a word to anyone.

We went home. I went to work the next day. Still not saying a word. Just carrying on all week like everything was ok. I was ok. I wasn’t.

That week stands so vivid in my head right now. Heavy bleeding all week. The week following that too. Cramping. Just silently miscarrying hoping that nothing went wrong causing me to go to the hospital because I felt ashamed. I felt like I had failed the baby, Joe, and myself. I was cooking dinner one day that week when the kids wanted Froot Loops. I broke down in tears on the kitchen floor, giving myself 20 minutes to be held while I cried. I picked myself back up and kept going. The show must go on was my new motto.

All I have left now is the stuffed animal I bought for myself that I call Froot Loops and the coral the Joe bought named Froot Loops. But you know what really gets me. I felt guilty for being sad about it. I felt guilty that I was mourning this loss when I have three healthy, happy children when other people have none. Other people desperately want the family I have and here I am feeling sad over a fourth child that some people could only dream of. Guilt, shame, sadness, anger. No one would believe me. No one probably does. But I know. I know and I feel it all.

It was a bittersweet Mother’s Day. Trying to celebrate what I have while remembering what I don’t anymore. It keeps hitting me every few days and I relive it again. It’s dumb but it’s how I’m working through it for myself.

Sharing this is a lot for me because I know people will feel hurt they didn’t know or deny that it happened at all. But I am 1 in 4 and it is about time I share this. I don’t know if this will help anyone, but I hope it does. Shit. I don’t even know when or if I’ll share this on my social media and make it an open target for people to read and criticize but I needed to get it down because this is like therapy for me. Maybe one day I’ll be able to look at a box of Froot Loops again and feel happy with what I had for such a short time.

We will remember Toucan Sam forever, and I hope one day soon we will be blessed with another Toucan Sam. I’ll miss you for always buddy. I hope you are the one helping the next Toucan Sam make his/her way to us. And just know that we loved you, and still love you so much. Goodnight. Sleep tight. I’ll see you one day.

If I share this on social media, don’t be an asshole. Don’t make comments about how it could be worse. Don’t say it’s shitty that we still want to nickname our next kid Toucan Sam. Don’t make it about yourself and how you didn’t know. It doesn’t help with grieving. If you’ve suffered losses I would love to talk to you and get some tips on how to deal with this better. BUT If I see some fuck shit on my social media regarding this don’t ever expect to talk to me or my family again.

There is a list of things that I could go the rest of my life without hearing and not miss in the slightest. In fact, every mother probably has a handful of phrases that they get from people that grind their gears. When we had our kids close together, and then again had more than what people deem as the “normal” two kids, that list just got longer. I’ve seen a lot of mothers recently talk about the backhanded crap that people say to them, and it got me to thinking. So let us talk about it. Shall we?

“Geez don’t you guys own a TV?” Why yes Janet we do own a TV and we still had two kids two years apart because IT’S NONE OF YOUR GOD DAMN BUSINESS what we do in our bedroom. Thanks.

“Why doesn’t that baby have socks?” Well, the baby hates the fucking socks. Like all babies hate socks. The baby took the socks off approximately .2 seconds after I put them on and threw them into the dark abyss. I figured I would probably rather just walk from my car to the door without the stupid socks than look for them for 30 minutes just for the baby to rip them back off.

“You can stop having kids now”

“Mom’s got her hands full”

“He sticks his tongue out a lot are you sure he doesn’t have Down Syndrome?”

“You should breastfeed it’s best for the baby”

“You should really give the baby formula. No one wants to see your boobs.”

“I don’t envy you” This particular comment was in regards to my grocery bill. Kindly fuck off.

“You have a girl and a boy. It’s the perfect family”

“Don’t try for another girl. You’ll end up with three boys” This one gets me.

“You’re going to end up like one of those 19 kids families if you keep it up”

“You should really teach your kid not to do (X, Y, and Z)”

“You shouldn’t talk like that”

“You shouldn’t dress like that, you’re a mother”

“What is that outfit they have on?”

“I really wish you would bring the kids to visit more” Oh I’m sorry that we have our own life and don’t live around the corner. Also, cars work both ways. That’s the crazy thing about cars.

“Why doesn’t that kid have a jacket on?” Let me break this down. You can’t wear a jacket in a car seat. Do you really want me to put a jacket on a child when they get out of the car to walk 10 feet to take the jacket back off? Also, I fought with them in the car for 15 minutes about wearing a jacket.

“Your kids should be kissing everyone goodbye” No. They don’t have to. See that’s the thing about consent. They have control over their own bodies and if they don’t want to kiss or hug somebody, that is their prerogative.

I’ll be quite frank about the older people (usually) that say this stuff. Many of you had your own chance to raise your kids and have a family and you didn’t do a great job. Look around. There’s a whole generation that labels themselves as “cycle breakers” while they suffer from depression and anxiety trying to cope with their childhoods. Please be mindful that unless you were a perfect parent or those children are in immediate danger that your opinion quite frankly doesn’t matter. If a house looks lived in but is not filthy, keep your mouth shut. If the kids are healthy and their doctors aren’t concerned, keep your mouth shut.

The dirty looks when a child throws a tantrum in public. Or when they’re on a leash. That mother is already having a hard enough time without judgment from a stranger.

It is easy to be a perfect parent and say “my kids would never do that” before you have kids.

A lot of you forgot how hard it was when you had small children. And a lot of people, in general, have forgotten The Golden Rule. Treat others the way you want to be treated. Treat mothers the way that you wanted to be treated when you had small children. Just be kind and patient because being a parent is fucking hard.

And if/when someone keeps a pregnancy out of the public eye, or even just specific people, look at it and realize that it is probably because people are rude and judgmental. So if someone doesn’t share big news with you, take a good long look at yourself and what you have said in the past that caused that. You can bet your ass that people see how you talk about other people and decide not to tell you things because of it.

And yes, I realize that this makes me seem like a bitter, angry bitch. And I’m fine with that. I am angry. I am bitter. When you hear the same stupid comments over and over again it gets irritating. I am at a point in my life where I no longer want people to think they can talk to me any which way about how I raise my kids. So kindly, fuck off.

The swirling, deep blues and yellows of the sky sweep me away from Earth

Rigid black lines surrounding the houses of the village ground me

Their strict brown and white roofs remind me there is more than this sky

The moon shines bright yellow among a sky of stars

Stars muted only by the brilliance of the night sky’s moon

Cascading hills fall behind the village, lit only by the strength of the moon’s light

Surrounded on all sides by dull trees brought to life by their yellow hues, this village

A village completely centered around a towering steeple that becomes one with the sky

Drawn eyes to the village notice windows filled with life despite the darkness of night

One star, brighter than the rest, stands out from the world around it

I feel I have seen this place in my dreams, unreal

The swirling and flowing darkness of two towering cypress trees

They speak of the calm, quiet that only night brings

Whirring of blue-gray wind overhead is the only noise heard throughout the village

Madness. This place isn’t real, it mustn’t be

It’s as if the heavens are opening up and meeting the uppermost point of the church

I feel at peace in this world, this dream world of mine

Gabris, S. (2022)

I wrote this for school, but I like it.

Spring was just beginning, and a light breeze whirred through as a red Dahlia sat budding beneath a pink bloomed Magnolia tree. In the clearing where the Dahlia and Magnolia sat the sound of rushing water could be heard whooshing through. The Dahlia stretched, hopeful as a drizzle promised a fruitful spring growth.

     Rain quickly turned into a Thunderstorm with deep growls of thunder and flashes of lightning mumbling that no flowers would withstand the ferocity of its strength and darkness. Dahlia shivered and withered in fear of the Thunderstorm. “Someone help me! I’m too small to handle this storm!”, yelled the Dahlia.

     Magnolia stretched her branches wide overhead to shield Dahlia from the storm. Defeated by Magnolia’s support to Dahlia, the Thunderstorm shifted away and disappeared, opening the clouds to let the spring sunshine through.

     Dahlia stretched and grew a brilliant display of petals that spring knowing that Magnolia was there to help through any Thunderstorm.

There is no storm that can’t be weathered with support and perseverance.

-written by yours truly for a Literature class but I wanted to share.

I said in the last post that I’m going to use some journal prompts for a while. Today I’m going with 10 things I appreciate about Joe.

1. I appreciate his willingness to be silly with me. We are constantly making jokes and using funny voices with each other. No matter what we are doing we can turn it into something silly and fun. This tends to be how I break the ice when we are arguing and I love that he just goes along with it and it helps to open up a dialogue.
2. I appreciate the love he gives to our children. He losing his temper when he gets overwhelmed, but honestly who doesn’t? He constantly let’s our kids know that he loves them and wants to be around them. He takes the time to play with them while I’m at work and make it meaningful for them.
3. I appreciate his effort in becoming a better husband and father. He is trying to communicate more and evaluate himself so that he knows what his triggers are and how to deal with them. He strives everyday to become better.
4. I appreciate that he tries his best to listen to me. I ramble. A lot of what I say doesn’t make any sense. Still, he sits there and listens to me. He shows interest in what I’m saying. When we are having a disagreement and I bring up my concerns he listens to them and acknowledges them. He’s not one of those guys that just nods his head and acts like he’s listening most of the time. Instead he’s actually trying to listen most of the time and just nodding his head and acting like he’s listening a small percentage of the time.
5. I appreciate that he goes along with every family outing I ask to go on. The first time I suggested that we go pumpkin picking he was very clearly not into it, but he went along anyway. In the end he had a lot of fun. He does this consistently everytime. I want to go to an amusement park, a zoo, an aquarium, for a walk, for a run, to the beach, anything. No matter what it is he goes along with it and makes the best out of it even when the kids are acting crazy.
6. I appreciate that he offers me emotional support in the times I need it most. He’s not great with emotions. He struggles with his own emotions and still hasn’t figured out how to communicate them and decipher them yet. Despite that, when I’m struggling he’s always there for me to lean on. Even if it’s about him he still is there to offer me the emotional support I need. I can’t even count how many times I’ve spiraled out of control into an anxiety attack and frantically cleaned our house and he manages to calm me down and help me communicate what’s actually going on.
7. I appreciate that he tries to help with the house because he knows it overwhelms me. I say try because I’m always like “no you aren’t doing that right” and then in the same breath saying I need help. He tries his very best to help around the house with what I need help with and I can’t ever thank him enough for the housework he does.
8. I appreciate that he quit his job to take care of our kids when they were neglected at daycare. He didn’t have to do that. He really didn’t. He could have had me quit my job. He could have just switched daycares and called it a day. Instead, he saw that even after switching daycares I was anxious and having difficulty trusting anyone else with our kids. He saw the way that I was feeling and stepped up and did what was best for our family. I don’t think there a lot of men that would give up their job and become a stay at home parent. I know he struggled with the idea of giving up his job and not being able to bring any financial help for the family. I know he struggled with the thought of switching the “traditional” gender roles and being the one at home. I know he really struggled with it but he did it anyway for the betterment of our kids.
9. I appreciate that he holds me accountable when I’m being a bitch. I’m just going to leave that at that.
10. I appreciate that above all else he’s my best friend. Sometimes I need him to put on his best friend hat instead of his husband hat and have a heart to heart with me and he does it. Sometimes I need him to be one of the girls and talk about things he probably doesn’t want to talk about. No matter what I need from him, he’s there. He is my best friend in the entire world.

I’ll be entirely honest with you, having to write 10 reasons I appreciate Joe was kind of difficult. Not because I don’t appreciate him, because I do. It was difficult to put into words. I don’t think I usually think about specific reasons why I appreciate him so it was hard to pinpoint exact things that I appreciate him for. I appreciate everything about him though. Even the things I don’t necessarily like about him. All of his strengths and all of his weaknesses together make him who he is and who I want to be with. I appreciate that he is so undeniably himself that no matter what happens he’s just, him. Everything we have been through together has made us both stronger and better. I remember being told that we were too young to get married and he was too immature to be married or be a dad. We’ve grown up together though and I’m so grateful that I got to see our progress and I got to share that with him. I appreciate you Googly Bear. I hope you know that even when I don’t tell you.

I’m going to try something a little different here instead of just going off book and writing about whatever is making me angry or upset when I write. This started off as like a journal for me hoping that someone else could relate. But let’s get down to some things about me that aren’t making me angry or upset. I found some ideas for journal prompts that I’m going to try and build off of one at a time. This time I’m going to focus on love languages. Joseph and I both went through a little phase where we tried to pinpoint our love languages and the kid’s love languages. Let’s jump right in.

My love language is acts of service. I appreciate gifts from people and I like spending quality time, and I really do enjoy it when people have positive words to share with me and tell me I’m doing a good job. However, what really fills my cup is when people help me with things without me having to ask. I have trouble asking for help on my own, and if I have to sit down and go over what I need help with it takes a lot out of me to have to communicate that because it would just be easier if I did it myself. For example, if I’m sitting here thinking about how I have to clean the living room and do the dishes and then Joe does that without prompting just because he knows it needs to be done, that really butters my biscuit. On the flip side, if that stuff needs to get done and everyone just ignores it and walks past it, it feels like a personal attack and completely drains me.

Joe’s love language is tricky for both of us to try and figure out. We both tend to think that his love language is quality time. When we spend time together, or with the kids, with no electronics just genuinely enjoying each other you can see his whole demeanor change. It really puts him in a good mood and he starts smiling from ear to ear and it is so contagious. This is why we tend to lean towards quality time as his love language, but he is a man of mystery that never really learned how to feel his emotions or communicate.

Mark. Oh, my sweet Marky butt. I was once reading the 5 love languages book that directly focuses on children. It said something along the lines of how every child feels all 5 love languages and they all have some kind of connection with gift giving (Chapman, 2012). That seems to check out. Kids love gifts. With that said, I think that Mark heavily resonates with gift giving and words of affirmation. He is always needing to be reassured. This tends to make me question my own parenting and if he knows how much we love him. I feel like maybe we don’t speak his love language and fill his cup as much as he needs. As far as gift giving he loves getting gifts and is always very appreciative in the moment but doesn’t cherish those things like someone whose love language would only be gift giving. If that makes sense.

Rose’s love language is physical touch. She doesn’t do personal space. She loves hugs, snuggles, kisses, or just holding hands. She is her most calm and authentic self after she is met with that kind of affection. When we are not with her she breaks down. So I know I’m saying physical touch but there’s a touch of quality time in there too. I think they kind of go hand in hand, but I’m also not an expert by any means.

Joey is a hard one. How do you pinpoint a love language on a baby? If I had to pick love languages for Joey though I would have to say that currently it’s physical touch and quality time like Rose. He is our shadow. Particularly Joe. He doesn’t leave our sides. If Joe puts him down he loses it. He definitely has a very secure attachment to both myself and Joe. He wants both of us around and he wants us playing with him. He wants to be next to us or in our arms. He doesn’t like to be alone. If he isn’t with Joe or me he’s with Rose, snuggling, or trying to play with Mark. He climbs into bed with the big two every night to give a hug and say goodnight. He really only likes to play if we are playing with him actively. We have to be holding him, sitting with him, giving him our full attention for him to be truly playful and happy.

That about sums it up for us. I find it really helpful to try and reevaluate our families love languages every once in a while so that I can more effectively love them and communicate my needs as well. It’s also pretty difficult right now having two children that want quality time and physical touch because it’s really easy to get “touched out”.

I suggest if you haven’t, you take some time and figure out your own love language. If you know your love language, what is it? Can you pinpoint how you figured out that a particular love language resonates with you? I’m going to cite some resources for anyone whose interested.

Just as a brief recap for anyone not familiar the 5 love languages are:

Quality Time, Physical Touch, Gifts, Words of Affirmation, and Acts of Service.

Resources:

Chapman, G. D., & Campbell, R. (2012). The 5 love languages of children. Northfield Pub.

Chapman, G. D. (2015). The 5 love languages. Northfield Pub.