Previous savings - $1 dollar and 25 cents

Vacuuming the living room rug - 25 cents

Scrubbing down the back door - 50 cents

Doing a load of laundry (start to finish) - 2 dollars

Putting away all the dishes - 1 dollar

Hosing down the back windows - 25 cents

Dusting the baseboards - 50 cents

Clearing fridge of artwork and other miscellany - 25 cents

Cleaning up the whole den (even though most of it was your brother’s mess) - 50 cents

Watering the garden - 25 cents

Buying your very own fish and food with your very own money  -

Bloggityville, meet Sparky … and Ghosty (He looks vaguely like a stain on that bit o’ white near the bottom and he’s a ghost shrimp …. which explains why he’s so hard to see and explains why he’s called “Ghosty”.  We are nothing if not creative around here.)

“To laugh is to risk appearing the fool. To weep is to risk appearing sentimental. To reach for another is to risk involvement. To expose your feelings is to risk exposing your true self. To place your ideas, your dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss. To love is to risk not being loved in return. To live is to risk dying. To believe is to risk despair. To try is to risk failure. But risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing. The person who risks nothing does nothing, has nothing, is nothing. They may avoid suffering and sorrow, but they cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live. Chained by their servitude they are slaves; they have forfeited their freedom. Only a person who risks is free.”

William Arthur Ward

Here is to living a life free of fear.  To accepting and embracing each moment for what it is and moving on without regret.

*photo courtesy of Snoober

Greeted early by two bright sets of eyes I rolled my tired body out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen.  I started water for tea and began to make the worst breakfast smoothies ever.  Neither child would touch them opting instead for cheesecake.  (Wouldn’t you?)

I wrote out an ambitious to do list for the day hoping to keep my mind occupied and was well through the first task - an enormous mound of laundry - when my body cried uncle.  Back down the hall to a bed kept warm by my sleeping mate.  A light but persistent cramping hovered in the background until I rolled myself out of bed for the second time.  Will cooked a real breakfast and I returned to my list ignoring the ever increasing cramps that came and went on some erratic schedule.

Around 11, I returned to bed for the third time.  The cramping had increased and now washed over me in waves radiating pain around my abdomen, lower back and down both legs.  I glanced at the clock, “God, when will it end.”  Another wave - another look at the clock, another wave, another … and then the realization hit.  They are not just cramps.  They are contractions.  Of course.  Now we were in familiar territory.  As fear of the unknown subsided so too did the unbearable pain.  The waves still came but I was no longer drowning - at least not completely.

As a doula I have seen a number of women in labor reach a point of despair thinking it will never end.  The point for each was different but I told them all the same.  “It’s okay.  You can do it.  I know it’s hard but it’s worth it.  There’s a prize at the end.”  About 12:15 I thought of those words and began to despair myself.  If there was no prize then all was for naught, wasn’t it?

I sent my longsuffering husband on a hunt for the strongest medication in the house.  “I want four.”  He returned with two.  “I need four.” He hands me the two. “Just take these.  You don’t need to have liver damage on top of everything else.”  My reply came through clenched teeth. “I need four.  You will bring me two more or I will get them myself.”  I have, with the help of my husband, birthed two children sans medication of any kind.  I am sure he found my attitude bewildering at best and to be honest I did to.  The doula part of me whispered, “You’re in transition.” while the laboring part of me wailed, “That’s ridiculous.  This isn’t even a real labor.”  Will returned with the requested caplets but it was too late.  I waved him away, leaned over the bed and let my grief have a voice.  Tears dropped unchecked onto the quilt below and when there were no more left to fall my body finally released its precious charge.

If you have experienced the loss of a child through miscarriage please know that my deepest sympathies are with you.  Understand that I am not trying to be flippant by publishing such a loss as a birth story.  It was simply one of those things that begged to be written and remembered.

Know also that I have found a Hope in the midst of grief and I wish the same for you.

“Why are you downcast oh my soul? Why so disturbed within me?

I put my hope in God for I will yet praise Him,  my Savior and my Lord.

Psalm 43:5-6

That part I wrote about not being a weepy sort of griever was not true, apparently.  it has been true in the past so of course I assumed consistency.  Will says it’s because I am softer now than I used to be - emotionally, speaking.  I say, softer sucks.  The strong side of me - the hard side, I suppose - has settled back into routines that had fallen by the wayside amidst the nausea and fatigue that overshadow one’s first trimester.  The soft side walks through the routines in a wooden sort of way.  The strong side drives to the library and grocery story and gas station intent on the errand at hand.  The soft side looks into the eyes of every woman she passes and wonders how many know this hurt.  The soft side sees pregnant women everywhere and she says a prayer for each one.

I read a statistic once that most women will have one miscarriage in their lifetime and I suppose I figured that I’d paid my dues somewhere after Sister but before Brother.  And as painful as it was, I thought to myself, “Okay.  Well, at least that’s over with.”  It was a silly sort of reassurance I know.  Obviously they had to average things out which means of course that some women will never experience this and some get extra chances to build character.  But one doesn’t think of averages when you are lying to yourself about the statistic.

“It will feel like really strong menstrual cramps.”  This one I believed not because of the authority who said it but because I’d already had the experience once and it had indeed felt just like difficult menstrual cramps.  After we got the news I faithfully drank my red raspberry tea, took my tincture of black haw and waited.  It took my body two more days to get the memo.

**continued tomorrow (and then I’ll let it go … I think.)

Exciting!  I wasn’t just blabbering on about my boring life yesterday.  See this …

Not so boring, eh? There’s a story behind this one but it will have to wait.  I’m over at Leslie’s today with a guest post.

Elaine over at Blog In My Eye found this intriguing exercise.  Describe your life in exactly six words.  The idea comes from the book Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure which sprang from this story. 

Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”).

We’re not nearly on par with Hemingway around here but I made an attempt all the same.

*Jumped off barn roof.  Bloody nose.

*Took best friend’s guy.  So sorry.

*Crashed car while naming seven dwarfs.

*Almost married the wrong person.  Oops.

*4 credits from graduating.  Left college.

*Found true love. Growing a family.

Then I realized the task required not a series of six word thoughts but only six words.  Hmm, my life in half a dozen….

“All things work for the good.”

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I don’t know if you’re supposed to tag anyone for this but I would be interested to see what Leslie would come up with because, being the Queen of Haiku and all, she knows how to say more with less.

I’m also curious about Jenni’s perspective.  Someone who boldly uses words like “troglodyte” and “proclivity” will most certainly rock this vocabulary exercise.

And if you feel so inclined, please play along.  You could even go here and submit your entry. 

Who know’s you might get published.

Some of you who have purchased a new or nearly new car before will laugh at my naivete but the recent price of my Oklahoma tag left me thinking it should look more like this

than this

I knew it would be in the hundreds but when the tag lady requested double what I was prepared for ….. there were no words.  I mumbled something about using a different account as I fumbled in my purse.  Fortunately I knew there was enough money to cover the immediate charge but I sure rushed home and did some fancy schmancy budgeting moves to prevent any *ahem* mishaps at the bank.

Anyway, I’m telling you all of this because it occurs to me that you might like to know what I found out from my sticker shock experience.  Basically, (in Okla) the tag costs 3.5 percent of the sticker price.  Unless of course Uncle Bob gave you a phenomenally great deal then Uncle Sam shakes a finger at you, looks up the bluebook value and you pay 3.5 percent of that.  The most important thing to know though is that you can call ahead.  From the privacy of your very own home you can call the tag office with the VIN # and the current mileage and they can tell you what the charge will be.  The great advantage of this would of course be that you’ll have a sofa handy when you faint.

***FYI - the tag numbers have been changed to protect the innocent.

Before this post will make any sense you’re going to need some backstory… I was born in the small town of, no wait, that’s too far back… Sister was born… yes, that’s about right….

Before Sister was born my main concern about having a new baby was loss of sleep. The holding, the changing, the loving, the nursing, I knew I could handle all of that but sleep was on my top three list of things I loved (right after God and my husband) so I was highly concerned potential at the loss of it. That is why for about six of my nine-ish pregnant months I did research and developed a plan. I came across a very intriguing book that promised a new baby could sleep through the night by six weeks or so if only you would follow the directions to the letter and not grow discouraged when things didn’t seem to be going well (You know like if your child was crying their eyes out begging you to, “Please come pick me up already! I’m a baby and I NEED you.”) The book laid it all out and before Sister was born it seemed like the perfect solution to my fears.

This is why a couple of weeks after we brought Sister home I briefed Will on “The Plan” and we began. Early success encouraged us and so we continued. (We didn’t realize that most newborns sleep all the time with or without a “Plan.”) As time went on successful sleep times grew scarce and crying became the norm. We were baffled. We followed the directions perfectly. Well, almost perfectly… we “gave in” occasionally and held our weeping daughter close until she calmed and then wept ourselves at the “failure.”

It took too many months before we snapped out of that “I just do what I’m told” stupor and started thinking for ourselves as parents. If I remember right it was not long after the night we heard Sister outside our door, whimpering, needing comfort and yet afraid to come in. One of us stumbled out of bed, went and gave her a hug then sent her back to her room, still whimpering. Yes, it was after that we declared, “This is wrong!” We moved Sister’s bed to our room and when she woke 3 and 4 and 5 times each night we reached out a hand to hold hers and we whispered sweet thoughts and slowly … very, very slowly she learned to sleep.

I am not trying to start a debate here on nighttime parenting. If you trust your instincts I’m sure you will find the right solution for your family. But I want to say very clearly is that we did NOT trust our instincts. And because we did not, we taught our child to fear the night and to fear being alone in a way that went far beyond normal childhood fears.

It’s been almost 5 years since our parenting ephipany and in that time Sister (and Brother) have mostly slept with us. In our first home we all shared a room. At Grandma’s we had the mega-bed. At the loft apartment there was no choice but to be together. Then we moved to our current home where the rooms are small and it made sense to divide our beds among them. At first, sleepless nights were chalked up to the change in location but as time passed they grew more frequent and the terror behind them had a central theme. “I don’t feel safe without you.”

We talked about these concerns during the day and we prayed them away each night but fears are not logical. They can’t be explained away. Fears have no faith and without it they can’t be prayed away. Sometimes what fear really needs is a tangible hand to hold and a voice that confidently says, “You are safe.”

So we combined our beds together once again; completely filling the little room they are in. It looks strange to say the least. I wish I could say that the ensueing peaceful nights made up for the strangeness but alas, no. And here is where this post really begins.

Will had surgery about three weeks ago and while he was recuperating he slept on the couch. It was easier to get in and out of (Our bed is on the floor.) and he was already resting there during the day. This created an empty space in the bed beside me. An empty space quickly filled by the enterprising Sister. She moved in her pillow, her blanket, her water, her books and a number of other critical items. Finally settled, she slept. Really slept. For the first time in months. The next night she casually inquired where Daddy would be sleeping. Told he would remain on the sofa, she settled in again and really slept. So it went to the end of the week when Daddy was finally well enough to leave the couch and join us in our “bed” room.

Sister roused us a couple of times the first night, three times the second, four times the third… see a pattern? We switched the room’s configuration twice so she could be closer to our bed hoping that would help. It didn’t. The wakings escalated until more time was spent with eyes open than closed. Will and I sleepily discussed the issue each morning. I googled “six year old insomnia”, among other things, searching for solutions. But Sister could and did counter every suggestion or reason we presented about why she should go to sleep. (I’m thinking someday she could have a very lucrative position in sales.) The morning after bedtime was at 9pm and Sister went to sleep at 3am, we laid down the law. You can stay awake as long as you want but you will not do it in here. We went on to explain that she was welcome to get up quietly to use the restroom or get a drink of water but if she insisted on keeping us awake she would be asked to sleep on the couch for the remainder of the night… alone. We stuck to this plan for two nights. I wish I could say that it worked but if you read through the whole backstory you know it didn’t. It didn’t work because in all that time of discussion and solution searching we never truly considered Sister’s needs. We thought we did. We talked about what we thought she needed. We psychoanalyzed her behavior and reached psychoanalytical conclusions. We thought we considered her but once again what we were really considering was how she could conform to meet our needs. Fortunately, it didn’t take months for this second parental epiphany to occur.

The next day we tried a new approach. We asked her what she thought a good solution might be and we really listened to the answer. Then we talked about what was realistic and what wasn’t. We found compromises and real solutions and that night we all slept more and the next night a little more and last night all the way through to 6am.

The problem with fear is that it keeps you from seeing the other person’s point of view. It keeps you closed, separate, and alone. But trust is the opposite. To trust someone is to say, we can do anything together.

*************************

A cup of water

Blankie, Story, Goodnight Kiss

Please go to sleep now

Don’t forget to submit your haiku to Leslie… one more day!

Hubby spent a couple of hours on three different occasions this year ringing his little heart out.  Because we share a car and have our trade-off times carefully mapped out, his donation of time was an inconvenience to us all.  Still as I read this post today, I knew it had been worth it.

Inspired by the ease in which her first tooth came out (or perhaps by the copy of Super Secret Super Spy the tooth fairy left), Sister pulled out her second baby tooth today.  The first was a bottom front and the incoming tooth could already be seen.  There was no pain and no blood.  The second was a top front which was primarily loose because of a few overly rambunctious wrestling sessions with Dad and Brother.  There was much blood and an unexpected residual throbbing.  Sister was decidedly not pleased with this outcome and I believe has decided not to lose any more teeth.

It might also be worth noting that the above picture was taken by Will.  Sister graciously posed for free while not two minutes before she made me pay two quarters for the privilege of taking a picture that didn’t even turn out well!