Three Years of Love and Chaos

Oh my son, how wild you are. Literally every time I try to get you dressed or put on your coat I have to chase you. Once you realize a wardrobe change is coming you run giggling to the next room. This is my fault. When you were 10 months old I chased you around the house. You've enjoyed running from me ever since. Every morning you want a cup of "milk, quease (please)". We watch PJ Masks in the morning which you call "batman". Why can't daddy cuddle with you and watch it? "Way-down Momma." Most days you would rather sit in time-out than eat food that is not pizza or cake. If I'm feeding you, your mouth remains closed. When daddy comes along you take a bite. You always deliver a good night kiss, noseies, bonk, and a pound-it (in that order) to daddy and then snub me. The funny thing about our night time snub is that you still expect me to cuddle with you. "Momma, way-down." You may have slept through-the-night one time in the last three years. You sleep alone but at some time of the night you will loudly enter our room and sleep on my pillow. We have a king size bed yet I'm always at the edge because we have to share my pillow. Yes, I have switched to a second pillow but you find your way right next to me on any pillow I'm using.

You are a strong willed child. You challenge me everyday, yet you are set in enough routines to be predicatble as well. Our blended family was united by you when you were born. I guess you don't take that responsibility lightly. Daddy is your favorite to play with, and you expect me to do all of the care-taker responsibilities. "No, momma do it!" You will run into your sister's room at any time the door is left open. Once you're in she struggles to get you back out. You expect to play video games with your brother every time he is home as soon as you see him. You try to pillow fight with him and run around the house but he's too strong and you boys aren't supposed to run in the house. It's too loud!

I whine and complain about the challenging personality you have and yet I am hoping it serves you well in adulthood. Don't ever lose your will to get what you want. Set goals high and achieve them. I love everything about you, including the stubborness you throw at all of us. When you're excited you squeeze your arms in, your nose crinkles, your eyes squint tight, and your smile is huge. It is the sweetest sight and you give it to us daily. It's easy to play with you and keep you happy. If it's an off-day, well then you have your ipad. ;)

I love you my sweet son. Happy third birthday!

"Stay behind the line." *Stands on the line*

"I get more cake."

I Almost Killed the Tooth Fairy

Call me lazy, but last night when my nine year old lost her tooth I almost said, "it's me! I'm the tooth fairy!" Why would I ruin the sweet belief my child has in a fairy? I was tired from the previous night of little sleep thanks to her two year old brother. When she walked out of the bathroom holding the tooth that she pulled out herself, I smiled outside while inside I said, "damnit, I have to stay awake late tonight." I am impressed that she still believes in the tooth fairy. I don't want to ruin the magic for her, but I was tempted. Lucky for her, I randomly woke up in the middle of the night and therefore placed two dollars under her pillow for the bloody tooth. Had I not woken up by chance, I would have accidentally missed the chance to make the exchange and we would have had a serious talk the next morning before school.

This morning she came out of her room holding a single dollar. I asked her if she was sure there was only one. She replied that she was sure. So I went into her room and found the other bill hiding behind her mattress. I'll be damned if the tooth fairy looks cheap. Suprisingly enough, this didn't arouse suspicion and the fairy lives on. If my eight year old stepson loses a tooth at our house I'll be considering the death of the tooth fairy once again.

Holding on to the Light

Yesterday I had a very enlightening day. Lately I have been feeling slightly overwhelmed and over worked. I can relate this abundance of stress to having missed hot yoga for over a week now. I didn't truly appreciate how much that really does soothe me. However, I still managed to end the day feeling like I had been moved positively yesterday.

It started with a blog post shared by a friend on Facebook. It was a long blog and took some time and dedication to read it all through. When I say dedication, I mean it. The post was from a missionary who served in Africa and her story was so depressing and heart breaking that continuing to read it was difficult. I didn't see what she saw with my own eyes, but through her words I felt a change in me. Slight change, but it’s there nonetheless. She mentions that when she first returned to the states she broke into sobs in the bread aisle. There was an overwhelming variation of breads here whereas in Africa, it was white or brown, and often with mold. I recently discovered that I love “Dave’s Killer Bread” and want to continue buying it rather than get the 99 cent loaf. Before reading this blog I hadn't ever really seen the grocery store for what it was, a luxury that can’t fully be appreciated by us. This isn't to say that I hate myself and Americans and national chains of grocery stores. What I’m saying is, when I walked into the bread section after work yesterday, I saw it differently. I was thankful that I am fortunate and can choose to buy any fancy or cheap bread that I please. I am grateful.

After reading that post through (and thanking Elyse for sharing it with me) I continued to my feed and found a sad post from a friend I love dearly. After leaving her home town four years ago, she hasn't connected with an adult in her new town the way she has connected with all of us at home. Granted, we've known her since middle school and for some, years before that. I understood her point though; she missed us and needs a good local friend. She deserves a friend nearby that she can trust. I did my best to cheer her up with witty banter (ya right). I then realized that I had only made one new friend that I truly trust and we work together. If we didn't, I would literally only have friendships and acquaintances from school years. How do adults make lasting friendships as adults without finding them at work? If I knew the trick it might also work for adults to meet their partners without having to pay a dating website. At our age, if you don’t work with the person you’re meant to meet, how will you cross paths with them? Again, I’m feeling very grateful for my gifts in life.

Continuing through my news feed, I found another article worth reading. It was about working moms. I enjoyed and appreciated the article because it shed light on something working moms (and stay-at-home moms who in my mind’s eye are the same thing) often forget to pay attention to, ourselves. We live up to expectations that can be too high. How is it we are supposed to get all of it done? Be 100% available to our paying job and yet also more dedicated to the job that doesn't pay us in dollars but is definitely of more value? Sharing this post was well worth the quick share button on Facebook. I loved watching different moms from different walks of life share their opinions and what they took from it. Something so simple made a visible impact.

I really didn't stay on Facebook all day. I’m a fast reader and those things happened close together. I finished my work day and I played bunco with the work girls that evening. It was at bunco that a co-worker noticed the tattoo on my shoulder of my daughter’s zodiac symbol and her birthday in script below. I explained to her what it was and why I had it. It was then that my friend Brittany asked when I would get one for Grayson who had just turned ten months that day. I had been holding out because anything that remains on my body forever has to be PERFECT; exactly what I want it to be so I can wear it for as long as I live. I explained that I was leaning towards getting his foot print because my son has the cutest crooked toe. It’s something known in my family as “Garcia feet”. I was only resisting because I didn't want the very popular tattoo of a baby foot. I didn't have time to dwell on my “problem” because she then asked if I was going to get one for Isaiah, my step-son. Of course I was, and I told her so. I just didn't know of what yet. She seemed pleased with my answer. Wouldn't every loving step-mom do that? I realized that no, they wouldn't. Not a child that wasn't “their own”. The truth is I don’t like calling him my step-son. I do it out of respect for his mother but I would be lying if I don’t often refer to him as just a son. Do I love him the same as my other kids? No. But I don’t even love Halle the same as I do Grayson. The three of them are all very different. They each came into my life in different ways. As a surprise when I was 20, as a two year old who loved to share my grapes on a sunny day at the beach, and as a planned but troubled pregnancy that followed a prior loss of a child I didn't get to meet. Each of them holds equal size spaces in my heart. The type of love and memories attached to that love that flows through each of their spaces is different but equally beautiful. I hold each of their lives and happiness above my own.

When I finally was home for the night my whole day replayed itself in my head while I rocked Grayson back to sleep and I quietly cried. I was so thankful for so many things, and so sorry for others. I couldn't understand why I was taking the day so seriously but that wasn't important to understand. I just realized that for whatever reason I took that day and all it held very seriously. I relaxed and kissed and smiled at Grayson and just appreciated my life so much. Not everyone can say they love their life the way I love mine.

During my quiet reflection, I finally solved the mystery of my upcoming tattoos. I know exactly what I want for Grayson and Isaiah and I know where I will put them. This may seem like no big deal but it is huge for me. It has finally clicked and I can’t wait to get started. I don’t know why I was so attuned to everything yesterday but I’m glad that I was. Call me crazy, or sensitive, or too sensitive, I don’t care. I feel enlightened. My goal now is to keep holding the light.

School Supply Drive for the Vancouver School District

I am always looking for a way to help others less fortunate than my family. We don't have a lot, but I know others struggle harder than we do. Kids in need really pull on my heart strings. My daughter will come home from school with flyers regarding the purchase of a school shirt or donations of items to school events, and it always asks if we can donate an additional item or $2 for another student who can't. Of course I do, every time.

I want to make a bigger impact than an additional $2. I asked my employer if we could run our first school supply drive. I knew the answer would be yes. We have contacted the Foundation for Vancouver Public Schools (go like them on Facebook) and have organized a drive to support first graders in need.

If you'd like to help us, please view the flyer and donate any items listed. You can also share our flyer with others to spread the word.

Thank you!!

Crushing Cancer, One Lap at a Time.

Dear cancer,

You are scum. You serve no positive purpose in the world. You hurt too many people. You end the lives of too many people. No one should have to feel the pain that you cause their bodies to endure. I truly hate you. You have affected my loved ones and I refuse to accept that.

I am only one person and I am not skilled enough to invent the cure that will demolish you. I can however raise the money that funds the research that ultimately will lead to your elimination. I will raise money that helps caregivers of cancer patients. I will raise money that provides aid to cancer patients to receive their treatments. I might not live to see your end, but while I live, I will watch the number of deaths decrease while the number of birthdays celebrated increase.

Goodbye cancer. There’s no room for you in our world.

Kristin

Team Cancer Crushers

Relay for Life of Vancouver

My Tiny Dancer

My “baby” girl is growing into quite the young woman. She is enjoying the first grade and just yesterday started ballet. She is a little bit too advanced for the class I signed her up for. The instructor is going to let her try the Pre-Ballet class on Thursday and see how she likes it. My girl just wants to dance so badly. She won’t care in which class.

Halle has asked me about being able to join dance class since she was old enough to know there were such things as ballet classes. She has danced to movies, radios, and TV commercials since she was a toddler. It hasn’t stopped yet. I refer to her as my “delicate flower”. She has the capability to play sports such as baseball. She throws footballs with Garrick and Isaiah. However her heart is in dance. She is thrilled that I said she doesn’t have to play baseball and can finally dance. Joy just radiates from her.

Her nickname “delicate flower” comes from her sweet yet sensitive personality. She is my cautious, careful, and emotional little girl. Hhmm, does she get it from me? LOL

She has surprised me the last few nights. She hasn’t woken up at night the last week. She sleeps in her own room but if she wakes in the middle of the night she tends to feel scared and asks me to come tuck her in. She has been waking up proud of herself saying “mommy, I didn’t even need you last night. I woke up but I just rolled over and went back to sleep”. I’m sure that her longer days at school this year have a part to play in this. But even so, I tell her how proud I am.

Our nighttime routine is to brush teeth, read a book, and then I tuck her in to bed. At this point, I sit on the side of her bed for two minutes. Just to relax her and let her drift off. It used to be five minutes. It began when we first moved out of my mother’s house. Due to space and so many people who spoil her, she became used to sleeping with someone. When I started “boot camp” in our new place to teach her to sleep alone, this was the compromise. I don’t miss those tough days in the beginning. But I fought through it all and we made leaps in progress.

I’ve been telling Halle that soon she won’t get even two minutes of me in her room at bed time. I’m going to have a new baby that will be quite demanding. She fortunately is old enough to understand this. She also has a baby brother at her dad’s house so she’s familiar with the needs of a small baby. So yesterday morning she says she wants to try going to bed by herself after her book. I agreed willingly of course, but I was a little doubtful. My delicate flower surprised me. She fell asleep and didn’t come to my room until 7:00am to get ready for school. We were both very happy and quite impressed.

My delicate flower/ tiny dancer/ baby girl is a big and brave little woman.

Oh I'm Having a Boy!

It’s no secret that the bundle of joy in my belly is a boy. His name is Grayson. If you know me even from a distance then you already know that. Why am I bringing it up like its brand new information? Well because sometimes it catches me off guard. As if I haven’t known for months.

When I was pregnant with my daughter Halle, I day dreamed about how she would look and how she would behave. I really wanted her to have my nose. I also would have made a deal with the devil if it meant she would have my toes (no such luck unfortunately). But appearance wise, that was all that I really quote-un-quote “cared” about. I most importantly wanted her to be like me on the inside. I wanted her to inherit my kind personality. So far so good; she has a very sweet disposition. She listens well and her teachers always comment on how well behaved she is.

So what do I want for my son? Well my toes of course. Except this time it’s not as serious because Garrick’s feet aren’t awful. I just happen to have cute feet. Hear me tooting my own horn there? Other than feet, can he please be just like my husband? Obviously I adore the man or I wouldn’t have married him.

These things aren’t truly important of course. What matters is that Grayson is born healthy. This just came to mind because of a game that we played at my friends baby shower last year. We all had to guess which features she wanted for her son; mom’s or dad’s. It would be an easy win for someone at my shower because only one answer would be about me, the toes. Otherwise I hope he has dad’s beautiful skin, gorgeous eyes, and hopefully a freckle on the nose too. But what are the odds of that?

I hope he is charismatic like his dad and can pick up pretty much any sport and play it like a professional. I also hope he has good manners (I will be all over this one) and grows up to be a true gentleman like dad. He will open doors for a lady at every opportunity like his daddy does.

Halle, Isaiah, and Grayson are truly blessed to be raised by us. We don’t have much, but we have a ton of love to go around. We will never be at a loss of love and affection which matters more than material things. My daughter will know how she deserves to be treated because of the examples she will see in our household, and my boys will know how to respect a woman when they grow up for the same reason. I’m so happy I took every single good and bad step in life to land where I am today.

To VBAC or not to VBAC…

…That is the question.

I didn’t get to decide if my first child would be born via c-section or not. Mind you back then I would have said no to it anyway. I didn’t pay attention to any of the facts, statistics or stories about a c-sec because well… I plain wasn’t going to have one. End of story! I was/am so damn terrified of surgery. I was so sure that since I’ve always been queen average/good health that I wouldn’t need to know what it meant to have a c-sec.

Well, my world went upside down not long after I had the epidural. I finally was able to relax because the pain had dissipated and I fell asleep watching my then favorite show, CSI. I was startled awake by a swarm of doctors and nurses who needed me to rotate, move, sit, and turn on all fours before they calmed down. Apparently my baby girl just couldn’t handle the stress of contractions. What felt like ten seconds later I was under bright lights, strapped to a table, and feeling a tugging at my uterus which apparently was them opening me for delivery. I “blinked” and there was my baby. All clean and dressed in her father’s arms. I say blinked because I didn’t know I was going to be knocked out and then brought back to consciousness.

 I will spare you readers the mourning I felt for the birth of my baby. Needless to say, it’s been six and a half years and I still can’t get over the loss of my baby’s birth. It wasn’t the loss of being able to try pushing; it was the loss of hearing her cry at her entrance to this world. It was the loss of seeing her naked and gooey the moment she was born.

So naturally you would think that this time around I would OF COURSE want a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). Well you would be wrong to assume that. As scary as my memories of a c-sec are, I still am scared of a VBAC. I’ve done one, I haven’t done the other. Not to mention that I could attempt a VBAC and still need an emergency c-sec; this is more risky than just having a planned c-sec to begin with.

So then I think, ok have a c-sec. You can pick the day and time he’s born. No worrying about if he can handle the birth. I get to have a safe entrance for him. Well that doesn’t account for me. This would be the second surgery in the same place. Bring on the scar tissue! I also remember that recovery for me was the equivalent of being ran over by a dump truck every other day. It hurt to laugh, cough, sneeze, or even move. I couldn’t get out of bed on my own because it required too much stomach muscles. All I wanted to do was soak in a hot bath and I couldn’t because of my healing incision.

Back to VBAC we go. But hey, a VBAC isn’t your average vaginal birth. It means that you cannot be induced. If you go too far past the due date, it’s a c-sec for you. You also can’t attempt a home birth or water birth (neither appeal to me but it’s just another fact). I regretted just lying in my hospital bed all day the first time I was in labor so I planned to this time walk a lot and only sit for as long as my body would allow. Well a VBAC requires extra monitoring so you can’t walk around! My doctor did say I could sit on the exercise ball in my room. It just has to be right by my monitors. Sounds fun to me!

All in all, I am set to have a VBAC birth. This is as long as Grayson naturally comes into the world before November 16^th. If he does not then we will have a c-sec. I just can’t give birth to Grayson at Thanksgiving when both of his siblings will be on holiday in their other homes. It would just break my heart.

So I will soon sign a form saying that I understand the risks of having a VBAC and that I have discussed them with my doctor. One of these named risks is the 1% chance that my uterus could rupture during birth at which time they could not do much to save baby. Yep! Sign me up for that! Both forms of birth come with their risks but the VBAC carries less risk and offers a healthier shot for me and Grayson.

Here’s to a happy healthy VBAC! Please Grayson; don’t keep me waiting past my birthday. ;)

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Two nights ago my six year old had a tough time getting to sleep. I returned to her room about three times to assure her that her closet was closed, her night light was on, and that Dad and I were in the house so there was nothing to fear. Nothing could hurt her. It can be tiring on a parent to handle this because after all we’re “all-knowing” and so sensible, that we just KNOW there’s nothing to fear. Not to mention I’m walking up the stairs each time which is more tiring now since I am pregnant. All of that aside, I was patient with her. She is a young girl and I can remember how it felt to be her twenty years ago.

When I was six, and even younger actually, I was afraid of unknown things at night. I thought someone might climb through my window. I don’t know how I came up with that so young. I hadn’t seen anyone do it before. I also feared Chucky. I saw his evil doll face on TV when someone was watching the movie and never recovered from it. My parents wouldn’t sleep in my bed and I couldn’t always climb into theirs so I would sneak into my older brother’s. I don’t know if this was allowed right away or if I had to sneak in there enough times until my mom caved. I guess I’ll ask her about that. Eventually though I remember that I’d just get tucked in and kissed good night in there and skip the charade of me sleeping in my bed. We’d talk and play games in bed before going to sleep. Somehow having my brother who was only two years older than me as protection sure made me feel safe. Plus I remember thinking that if someone came in the window they would get to him first. Oh my poor unsuspecting brother. =]

Needless to say, I sympathize with my daughter’s nighttime fears. I hope other parents do too because after all, they’re innocent helpless little people dependent on us. It’s our job to make them feel safe in this dangerous world. It is with this in mind that I got out of bed four more times around 2:00am when she would come tap me and say she was scared. I’d spend a minute or two in there tucking her in and calming her before going back to bed. She’d try about ten minutes alone before waking me again. Finally I decided to sit on her bed for fifteen minutes until she knocked out. I wasn’t getting sleep in my bed anyway. She looked so sweet and relaxed. It was sweet to my soul to see that my presence had soothed her. I snuck out and she stayed asleep.

So I finally get to go back to my bed! I apologized to my husband who wakes up every time I leave the bed to check if I’m ok (sweet man). But here’s the kicker, I couldn’t go to sleep for hours! Three hours to be exact because his watch beeps at each hour and I counted the damn beeps. There is nothing more frustrating when you can’t sleep than to know just how long you’ve been flipping around and fighting to lose consciousness. I was close several times however Grayson, my unborn, likes to party in the womb at night. He kept kicking and flailing his arms at the same time. So strong in fact that my belly bounced on the mattress. Was he scared too? Dude, you live inside my body. How much safer does it get?

The next morning my daughter wakes up happy as can be. Like always she smiles and starts the day with little troubles. It’s lucky that she was happy because mom was a grumpy and exhausted beast that morning. I wanted nothing to do with daylight. I drove her to school then right back home to bed where I slept through my class and later went to work. Lucky it was a day that I start work at noon.

So now we’re through the day, and my girl is staying at grandma’s house. I am prepped and ready for a good solid night sleep. Well, what a nice thought that was. Instead I had a vivid nightmare of my own. It was so realistic and about something I subconsciously always fear. Because of how real it felt I couldn’t shake the feelings when I realized I was awake. I had to tell my husband who realized I’d startled myself awake, how I had a terrible dream and needed to cuddle. It took me another hour to fall asleep again at which time I had a different bad dream. I love sleep! Why is sleep torturing me? It should be a time of peace. Why would the mind play mean tricks?

I am fortunate that without questions my husband comforted me. Much like a parent comforts a frightened child. My fears were silly and I knew it but I still wanted assurance from my own protector in this dangerous world. I am blessed that he knew that and didn’t tease me or ask me any questions. He took great care in the morning to assure me while I was getting ready for work too. Looks like kids aren’t the only ones who get scared at night. The “all-knowing” parents do too.

Look Who's Sprouting Gray Hairs

I’m getting old. How do I know? How did it suddenly dawn on me so clearly that I felt the need to blog about it? It isn’t the gray hairs. My husband found two, Katie found three, Aleigha found one. Since they say when you pull it out two grow in its place I am bound to have at least sixteen new gray hairs on top of the others we hadn’t found yet. I know that it’s supposedly a silly myth, but I will go off topic and say it is true that hair grows back thicker and darker when you shave. I have yet to find a person who agrees with the experts and says that one is a myth.

Anyhow, back on topic, I am getting old. I’ve come to this conclusion for a few reasons; the main reason being that I HATE the radio. Everything sounds like garbage to me. My younger cousin never fails to remind me that I’m just old and that’s why I like nothing. Yes maybe so. I also don’t laugh at the things I once would have found hilarious. Another reason, I LOVE to stay in. Fourth of July came and went and I was perfectly content watching NCIS all day with my husband. I’m sure if we had the kids we would have done something, but it was nice to do “nothing”. Not long ago I hated to do nothing. My husband is the king of the home-bodies. He likes nothing more than staying in. It drove me up the wall! I would plead to get out and do things. Not so much anymore. I love being technically lazy, reserving all of our energy to interact with our two big kids.

Speaking of kids, don’t they age you! As a parent I like to think I’m cool and also a MILF (woot woot). On the other side of the spectrum, I became a mom at 20 so I’ve always battled the balance of being a young adult and being a grown up mom. When I was 20 I felt like I was 25. I had to worry about health insurance for my child, doctor appointments, and over all wellness. After that I had to afford to feed and clothe her. I was jealous of my friends who had nice purses, shoes, and clothes and went on wild vacations. If I had money, who was I to spend it that way when my daughter needed things. This was my path and I wouldn’t trade it, but it aged my maturity very quickly.

Now that I’m 26, I feel 31-ish. Who knows for sure, but I imagine it’s pretty close to being 30. I have a kindergartener and first grader now. There are new needs and new wants at this stage, as well as bigger injuries. When I attend a school function or a birthday party the mom’s with kids my own kids’ ages are in their 30’s. I feel like I fit in among them but I wonder if they look at me and try to guess how old I must have been when I had my daughter. I hope they think I look REALLY young and guess 16 or 17 based on how young I look to them.

This post has no greater purpose. I just feel old on the inside, and thankfully look like a child on the outside. Can I really complain about how old I feel? My grandma birthed 16 children and lived to be 84 years old. She never stopped wearing her big costume jewelry or going to the casinos to gamble either. I love and miss you Grandma. I hope I “still got it” in my 80’s the way you did.