14b- Birth Story

17 Years Ago Yesterday Night

This time of night-

“My pain meds are wearing off.  I’m beginning to feel these contractions.”

“Lets have a look.” Insertion of fingers.  I can’t feel them but I am aware of an intrusion. “You’re ready.  Let’s get you to the OR.”

“How close to ready am I?” Mostly curiosity, I felt as if I had been ready for all of the 6 weeks that I had been on bed rest.

She held up a finger, pointed to the 1^st knuckle, “The baby’s head is here.” With no further ado she left, calling for the underlings to move the bed and get my Mom and husband gowned.

I wasn’t afraid of labor.  I had accepted it as the natural way of things.  Since Eve women have been giving birth. It made sense to me in the way that most logical things did. What goes up- comes down. You plant a seed- it sprouts.  A baby grows- it comes out.  Probably seems like an oversimplification but to me it was just reasonable, no further conversation needed.

Six weeks earlier

I went into labor at 30 weeks and by the grace of God and with the combination of some really nasty drugs we stopped it. I remember the OBGYN looking me dead in the face and telling me that while yes, my babies would live at 30 weeks, 1 day in the womb was like 1 week in the NICU. That statement cut through the haze of pain, the drugs, and the frustration. It was clear that there was no substitute for my body in this situation. 

I remember going inside of my head and willing myself to calm down.  I slowed my breathing. I calmed my heart rate. I blocked the noise the lights and the other people. I told my body we had a job to do, to keep my babies safe, we needed to be a good hostess and keep the guests inside. I demandingly implored it to do its job and it did, I even joked with myself that it was as simple as keeping my knees together. Soon my heart rate slowed, my body relaxed, the tension left and my contractions abated. My labor stopped.  I was sent home on complete bed rest with a regime of drugs to ensure the health of both my twins and myself.

I took the drugs. I visited the doctor. I read. I waited. I watched a lot of Baby Story on TLC. I let my babies grow. Six weeks later I was told it was safe for them to be born.

Back to this time 17 years ago

As vivid as the birth still is, I don’t remember pain with labor. I remember a sense of purpose. Again my self-talk was critical. 

“Ok Amy, it’s you and the babies. It’s going to be just as wretched for you to get them out as it will be for them to exit.  Lets work together.  Come on body, we can do this. Come on babies we can do this.” 

I remember visualizing the journey the babies were making as I was “baring down”. I remember thinking about the progress that each contraction was causing. Laughing a bit in my head about the idea that if I don’t push down they may try to swim back up and as I was over hospitals that was a not an option. I liked to think that the kids saw humor in that situation too.

And then a break in pressure, a release, twin A was born. She did not initially cry. To this day she hates to cry in public, then a soft whimper.  I started questioning the doctor. “How many fingers? Toes? What does she look like? Can I see her?”

“You realize you’re not done yet.  Can you pay attention please?”

I like to think I rolled my eyes at the anesthesiologist. Obviously I wasn’t done- like I didn’t know I was carrying twins. I must have given him a dirty look because my Mom answered.

“10. 10. Perfect. And the nurses have to check her first.” Good ole’ Moms.  They totally say the right thing.

In the meantime my cervix had closed.  The doctor started to explain to me that no one knew how long it would take my cervix to reopen and that they were probably going to take me back to the room.  I toyed with the idea of having twins with different birthdays. Then I realized that that would mean waiting another 2 hours and I dismissed the idea.

I had another conversation with my body.  This one short and simple, “Let’s do this.” My contractions started again and 15 minutes after my daughter, my son was born.  He came out protesting the world loudly and promptly peed on the anesthesiologist. I thought that was funny too. 

My son they displayed to me but I didn’t get to hold him either. I had torn deeply and required stitches. The babies went to the nursery and I got put back together.  When I met them a few hours later I marveled at the fact that what was once inside was now outside and it couldn’t ever be the same again.

I was proud of my body that day.  I was proud of the perfect response to superhuman demands.  I was proud of my twins. They fought along side me to enter this world. It was our first battle together and we came out of it like champions.

Real Time

As I drive home tonight I look in my rear view mirror.  It’s cold outside, snowing in fact, on this last day of April. In the car Maxwell’s voice caresses your soul while the temperature in the car is perfectly toasty. My daughter is asleep in the backseat while my son tries valiantly to stay awake.

My mind flashes a million scenes just like this one; me driving at night with my music blaring, them asleep or on the way to sleep in the backseat (they always sit in the back. always). I think of all the battles we have come through together, just the three of us.  Good ones, bad ones, fun ones, really really painful ones. It’s been the three of us since they were 3. Many of our nights have ended with neo-soul, a car ride, and the twins asleep in the back seat.

I have had these wonderful beings 6,205 days, or 204 months, or 17 years to this day.  In 24 months they will be legal adults. Today was a fundamental shift in our relationship.  On their 16^th birthday they started work.  For the first time in their lives they will answer to an authority figure other than I.  One that I cannot protect them from nor influence in their favor. They are on the cusp of adulthood starting jobs and choosing career paths- saving money and preparing to leave home. To leave me.

But as with their birth, I understand that it is the natural order of things. It is time for them to begin to crack their chrysalis and fly. I’m good with that.  I haven’t done many things well but I have tried like crazy to be a good Mom. I trust my parenting and their good sense as they begin their journey. They will be fine.

In this moment though, in the car, all I can do is reflect on all the battles we have forged, starting with their birth and into now. I am humbled, I am proud, my heart is throbbing with the magnitude of the gift that I have been given to be able to walk this path with these little people.

They came along at a time when I was lost and forced me to find my way. Parenting has taught me humility, patience, self-sacrifice, joy, practicality, planning, love, forgiveness, mercy, justice, and so much more. It humbles me that I got to be along for the ride. What a gift.

I am excited for them as they begin to direct their own worlds and I simply become a consultant. This has been a dynamic 17 years of a grand adventures with the best companions one could ask for. They’ve done good.

And so have I.

-Dewb

13b- Anger and Exercise

I do not like to be angry, mostly because I have a nasty temper. I would like to think that I have tamed my temper but it's probably more accurate to say that I have refined it. I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse.

Not many things make me angry. Being mean to kids (as opposed to tough love), being mean to old people (seriously- they're old. bad form), and injustice underscored by a substantial one sided balance of power. That's it. I find most human behavior curious as opposed to anger rousing. I arrogantly like to think that people who yell at other drivers lack anything substantial to be angry about. Road rage is a luxury for those with a light load of personal problems.

I hate angry, my anger, because I have learned to use it to inflict the most harm. I hate it because after inflicting said harm I never feel regretful. Only justified and drained. I have learned that it is not the physical pain that hurts people the most. It's the words. And my tongue, when provoked, is deadly.

Here is the evolution of my temper-

1) Observe something unfair that I can't make sense of.

2) Feel my blood start to boil. I literally feel my body get hot. I feel my blood pump faster and as a result the temperature rises.

3) Acknowledge to myself that I'm feeling anger.

4) Try to talk myself down by reasoning at I don't have all the pieces.

5) Convince myself to ask more questions.

6) Receive unsatisfactory answers.

7) Analyze, quickly, the most efficient method to right the wrong while inflicting the most harm to the person enacting the injustice.

8) Zone in, focus, engage.

At this point my brain goes to hyper drive. I am not conscience of the passage of time. I'm am marginally aware of the what is happening in my peripheral. I don't hear anything. I am über  focused. With the tenacity of a feral dog protecting its cubs, I go for it. And I win. I always win.  Even if I loose a battle or two I persist until I get the W.  It's a sickness.

It leaves me emotionally exhausted. As I come down off of my angry high I become aware of smell, color, and sound. I analyze the events to see if I could have done something different. Decide that I would not and go for a run. Literally. I have to burn the rest of the angry off.

Circular point- I recognize how much exercise has saved me. When angry, when sad, when hurting- I punish my body until all I can do is pass out. When I got divorced, the original, I would jump rope every night after the kids were asleep until I couldn't stand. When Georgia died I ran until I couldn't. Then I ran some more. Some people drink, some do drugs, some sleep- I work out. Thank God for natural endorphins. And blogging, absolutely thank God for blogging. Writing heals.

Return to point- what am grappling with is if my anger is a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand I fight for those who can't. I'm generally justified. I win. On the other hand, why can't I be passive? Why can't I let it roll off? The Amy in me finds that both laughable and unnatural. I mean does anyone ever really let it roll off? Doubtful. Probably they just internalize and have strokes. I'm sure I'll never find out.

I am grateful that I have been taught to fight well. I never yell. I never raise my voice, as a matter of fact the angrier I am the quieter I get. I am a lady. What I will do is go above your head and eviscerate you. Mostly to your face. 

It's the ultimate humiliation because in the end the other person, not wanting to loose something essential (usually a job or status), has to bow down. That's where the pain is found; the breaking of a spirit, feeding you the shards, and watching you choke on your own blood as the jagged edges of your pride serrate your esophagus.  Leaving you to emotionally asphyxiate. I find perverse satisfaction in it and all I ever think is, "Don't be mean to old people/kids."

That's what I don't get either. Why do people think that they can act however they want with no ramifications? I witnessed that today.  A presumption of no accountability for meanness. Unfortunately for her and I my sense of justice flared as did my anger.   I left a scorched path in my wake. I feel no regret.

In the meantime it's been 56 minutes and 7 miles at the gym. My body is done.

My anger is gone.

-Dewb

12b- Flavor

I wish I could get the right combination of flavors.  Or at the very least know the perfect combination of flavor that my tongue prefers.  I think that’s the worst part of the thing, knowing that a dish is missing something but not being able to put your finger on exactly what.

I was at lunch the other day with a friend, ingesting a particularly tasty dish while simultaneously being driven further down my path of crazy because I couldn’t figure out a spice that I was tasting.  I knew the flavor.  In between bites it would tease me- playing hide and seek with my tongue.

I feel like that when I am cooking some days.  I cook by smell and feel, not by recipe. Yes feel, as in- this feels right with that. That feels off.

I feel like that about my life some days.  I know the combination that I want. I can see it in my mind. I can feel and taste it but when I mix everything together something elusive, that is just beyond my scope of cognitive identification, is missing. I used to attribute that to a person, a relationship.  As I have began to mature I recognize that a ≠ b.

Then the question becomes am I really missing something?  Or do I need to just let the flavors of my life marinate for a bit? If I do will the complimentary ingredients mesh to create the exact perfect life dish? 

The great thing about cooking is that a smart chef also knows how to use the theory of balance to neutralize a flavor that’s gotten out of hand.  Too acidic?  Add sugar. Too thin? Beat in a fine measure of flour.  Not salty enough?  The right cheese will do.  So, of course, would salt but that’s too obvious (and no umami).

As is usual I am left with many more questions than answers.  One door always opens two.  Way leads to way... I’m sure there is a lesson in this.  Yet today, as with the flavors, I find it elusive.

And that’s that.

-Dewb

11b- Gifts from the Ex

I have to thank the exes. I am not broken. I do not feel inadequate nor unloveable... I have also started in the middle of the story.

I recently spent time with a long time acquaintance that promises to become a good friend. We share a complex history and have found ourselves at similar points in our lives. Kids getting older. Life changes and a kind of reckoning with middle age (dependent on your projected death date). We have also recently emerged from marriages. What surprised me was how vastly differently we had emerged from the event. And thus the story begins.

I do not think of myself as having failed in marriage. This is probably part of some internal flaw on my part given that I have been married and divorced twice. Perhaps it's my eternal optimism and love of humanity. Perhaps it's my belief that if you love someone you will always love them and that love is never a waste of time. Perhaps I just have a soft spot for my failings. 

This is not to say that my divorces didn't hurt, that I wasn't disappointed, or spend a lot of time meditating on how to be a better human so as to bring my best self to the next relationship. It's not to say that it didn't feel like a shattered happily ever after. It did. But I was not left bereft nor questioning my worth. And I have to thank my exes for that.

I believe in love. I believe in marriage. I believe in happily ever after. My first marriage happened too soon almost as a statement that I would not be dictated to by an upbringing that I had deemed confining. We were 19 and 20, from different worlds and headed down different paths. I regretted neither the marriage nor the divorce. I didn't question the original exes love for me, only his maturity and fidelity. In a world full of half truths and outright lies, loyalty and fidelity are a non-negotiable in my world. We parted amicably (I like to think anyway given that he wanted to stay married and I didn't). My children's half sister was born less than 6 months later. But I wasn't angry. Sex is what 22 year old men, especially ones with quasi- celebrity status, do. We stayed good friends for a really long time.

The most recent ex struggled with an illness called addiction and depression. He hit a really rough patch and lost the battle towards the downward spiral. He felt and I agreed or I felt and he agreed that it wasn't fair to drag the family along for the ride. When he was being honest, he could admit that he liked his addictions. And when I was being honest, I could admit that there was a part of him that was defined by his addiction that was interesting. We hugged it out and he left. Again, we parted on amazing terms, he maintained my car and I ran his errands until he moved from the state. Even with that we visited him and his new girlfriend in Arizona and they invited us back anytime. How can I be mad at that? 

I understood clearly at the departure of both relationships that it wasn't me. They were who they were and I was who I was. We loved each other enough to not kill that thing inside that made us unique.  It wasn't like they hated me and wanted to be rid of me, the opposite in fact. Wilde said that each man kills the thing he loves. Typically because you love the life out of it, you suffocate it. I believe that true love frees, not binds. What kind of love comes with shackles? I feel like they loved me enough to not kill my soul. They loved me enough to set me free.

I realized after talking to my friend that that isn't generally the case. Most love ends in tragedy. And lots and lots of pain. I feel like mine ended in hope. Hope because since I wasn't broken and I don't feel inadequate I spring back ready to love again and again some more whenever I feel like it. That's a wonderful gift. And again, maybe it's my rose colored glasses but pink glasses are a fashion statement that work for me.

So to the exes, original and recent, thank you.

-Dewb

10b- Rich

Laughter. Gales and gales of

Laughter. 

"Dead squirrels? What? What are you talking about?"

More laughter. Louder this time. Chuckles turning into guffaws. 

Laughing voices layering upon each other like warm blankets. 

"I heard squirrels too!" "Why are there dead squirrels at the observatory?" "I don't get it!"

"Scrolls!! I said Dead Sea scrolls!!"

Deep belly laughs. "SCROLLS!!! That makes more sense." 

Minutes of pure hilarity. "I thought..." "Was she saying... " "I know I heard it too!" "That's SO funny." "Scrolls" "Squirrels..." "Who wants to see dead squirrels...? " "Yeah we got live ones in Colorado...!"  We laughed until we cried. 

That was my weekend. This is my life. I spent the weekend in sunny California for an Arabic Assembly. We had no expectations going into the weekend. Just a sense of doing the right thing and a preparedness to make a sacrifice. As is usually the case, when you are fully prepared to make sacrifice (in this case monetary) you get back so much more than you give. No one can out give God. 

But you can't doubt. For people that doubt, it's the doubting that sinks the ship- faith has to be the assured expectation of things hoped for. If you doubt you get nothing. And you have to put something on the table. A trust token if you will. You have to be all in for the right reasons to see it clearly.  

In any case this was, hands down, the newest best weekend of my life (given the complexity of making it happen I'm not surprised. You have to fight for your blessing.). And I've had some pretty good ones. It's hard to expound without it sounding like bragging. On a slightly topical plane literally every single thing we had hoped would happen happened. Down to seeing the Hollywood sign that I told my daughter I refused to find for her. The beach cities and Compton. Driving through Inglewood singing California Love. Another check mark on our collective bucket life lists. 

But those were the superficial things. Fun but not substantive. The real pleasure was that we met new family. Not the blood kind, the deeper kind. Heaven on earth was moved to ensure that we had a place to stay. Literally. I mean, I'm a grownup and I had a hotel booked but as soon as I turned my cell phone back on after landing I had a call telling me arrangements had been made for us. 

It was strange because given how independent I am it wasn't a need. I had a hotel, a car, lots of directions printed and the money to afford it all. I didn't understand the reason behind a further blessing of a home to stay in. But I went with it because I have leaned that when you come across a clear path laid by Powers Higher than you, you follow it and find the rainbow. 

And what blessings. The new sister we met completely spoiled us in a way that only Jehovah's people can. I was humbled. I was awed. I learned from her example how to be more loving, giving and hospitable. I was shown true love. I was inspired to give love more freely. 

I should no longer be surprised at how rich my spiritual heritage is. But I constantly am. My physical Aunt refused to let us stay at her hotel because she was mad at my Mom yet here is this virtual stranger who houses us, takes us out to eat (getting legitimately angry with me when I tried to pay), cooks our breakfasts, and makes our lunches- for free. All because we are united in faith. We hear it a lot, we say it a lot- but it bears repeating, "Only in Jehovah's organization. Only here." I pity the world bereft of its warmth. 

On the days when I'm feeling low or hemmed in or questioning I always circle around to this true idea- no matter what, no matter what, I'm always sure that this is the best way to raise my kids and build the strongest healthiest kind of family. It takes a village and I have such a solid one that even as cranky teenagers questioning their place in the world, they never question the plethora of people that love them. They never question their worth. Even if nothing else is true (but of course it is), we have the best life ever. It is a direct result of these morals that cause us to have clear consciences, these principals that help us to be the best humans that we can, this acknowledgment of our place in the universe that keeps us humble, and these friends who love us and make us laugh. There is also no getting around the fact that when you give a little, with the right attitude, you get a lot.

The blessing of Jehovah has indeed made us rich.

-Dewb 

9b- Puzzles

Puzzles. I like puzzles. This is both an asset and a curse. It's an asset in that I enjoy the challenge of figuring. I like figuring things. I like figuring people. I like figuring stuff. Challenges or the act of taking a problem apart and breaking it down to its vital elements in order to find the flaw and solution- or what makes it tick, makes me happy.

Here is the problem with puzzles. You solve them and then they loose their allure. Once I see the full picture I start looking to put together the next puzzle. This is an ongoing struggle in most areas if my life. In all but 2 or 3 areas of life puzzles reach a baseline. A point at which they become predictable and rote. If I can do something without having to think about doing it, I'm over it.

That's probably why teaching is such a good fit for me. I was told before I even entered college to be a teacher that, "Teaching is like a blind date every day." This is true. Not only do you have the variables of each child's daily different emotional level- and the the effect that that has on the other 25 kids in the class- and the varying cognitive abilities- and the different perspectives and background knowledge that each kid brings to the room but you also have the second by second corrections you have to make to ensure that you are delivering content well. To say nothing of your own personal emotional state. And if that's not enough, you have to make it look effortless and feel fun. If you can't do, teach- my eyeball. Teaching well is a dynamic art. I could never find it boring, too many variables. 

People on the other hand, not so much. I like figuring them out and then I like figuring the next one out. Obviously this has a curious impact on my relationships. In my friendships this isn't a problem, I'm generally attracted to people who enjoy knowledge for the sake of knowledge. They embark on quests for new information and then they assimilate it to what they know in complex and fascinating ways. They are fun to talk to. 

With others it's a bit more of a challenge because I hit a flatline. I don't  know the age or mindset when people stop challenging themselves to think but it seems to happen in adulthood. If they do think they their firm opinions and refuse to critically examine their thoughts. Debate is a cognitive exercise that should be a stimulating exchange of ideas. You should both be well educated enough to be firm in your convictions yet humble enough to know you don't know it all. "The quest for knowledge is ever illuminating the road of your own ignorance." Or something like that. The more you learn the more you realize how much you don't know.

Maybe that's why I find know it alls so annoying. To me it demonstrates a lack of real intelligence. No one knows it all. Maybe that's also why I'm so grounded in my spirituality. There is too much evidence of things that I don't understand (or everyone else's collective intelligence for that matter) to not attribute it to something much much smarter than I.  You have to bow down in respect to that much intelligence, the excess of pride that undermines seeing that amount of knowledge is kinda dumb. 

But enough already.

-Dewb

8b- MicroSeconds

I've been thinking a lot about how in the space of a second things change.  One moment status quo, the next, it's all different.  I know that this isn't a new concept- Gladwell expounded on it quite articulately. I've just had so many micro changes in such a short period of time that it's humbled me.

Life is purely mostly unexpected. In the space between one breath and the next- one blink and the next, the change happens. I am awed by the fact that humans don't kneel over with the anxiety of the unknown at every given second, regardless of if the change brings joy or pain.

I guess that's why we feed ourselves lies about the amount of control we actually have.  We tell ourselves that if we read enough, workout enough, sleep enough, know enough we will beat the indeterminate haze of the future.  We are wrong.

We have essentially no control of any of the variables outside of our physical bodies.  And if we are being honest we have very little control over what happens on the inside of our bodies. No one can predict cancer right? Or a stroke.  Yeah- there are contributing factors with graphs and charts but they only narrow the field.  They aren't infallible and typically aren't accurate.

The unknown is both a scary and a hopeful thing.  The change can be the best thing that ever happened to you, it can also potentially be the worst. All we really know is that adaptation is inevitable.

Today that makes me feel heavy.

-Dewb