Tag: family

The Break Up: Part 3

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This is Part 3 on my series about leaving social media. For Part 1, click here! For Part 2, click here!

I had even more time to fill. Of course I say this somewhat tongue in cheek. As a homeschooling mother of 6, deeply involved in her local community church life, always hosting or attending something, I was always busy. But instead of stuffing funny videos in the cracks of my day like rags in a leaky boat, I looked for better things. 

I used to journal as a young woman, but it was a discipline I had given up with motherhood. I also had Facebook to scream every thought I had the moment I had it. I realized I had “journaled” my children’s firsts, funny sayings, sweet moments, and lives, not on paper for my family to appreciate in posterity one day, but on social media.  Now that it was gone, how would I ever remember these events? I began to write. Like write write. First with my trusty Ink Joy gel pens, on whatever weight paper came in a notebook, then I moved to the appreciation of good heavy fountain pens, some with inky thick nibs and others with satisfyingly scratchy fine ones. I began to buy journals based on how nice the paper was. Some I carried them with me, others stayed hidden away in my room. I started to appreciate the sensory act of writing and the joy of writing something I actually cared about enough to leave my kids to read when they are grown. I also realized that not everything needs to be remembered or written down for posterity. Facebook was my baby book. It frankly doesn’t matter that the second time my child ate solid food it was bananas, and the third it was rice and the fourth it was strawberries. I didn’t need to remember that the quality of Target diapers in 2020 had really gone down since 2016. I didn’t even need to hold on tightly to every, single funny thing my child ever said. 

In a day and age of nearly endless storage, we have documented our lives to an unhealthy extent. I don’t think we were meant to always remember every dish we cooked, every walk we embarked upon, every coffee we sipped. It is good to forget some things, and it is good to find those things which are of value and treasure them as the special memories they are. Not everything needs to be placed in an acid free sleeve and mounted on the wall for all to see. 

I’ve begun to mark deeper looks into each child’s personality, their struggles, their strengths. What does it matter that I marked what my child was wearing when we got hot cocoa together? But it does matter to carefully observe and note that child is struggling with reading and the things I am doing to help them, so I can remember what I did and look back in the future to see if we made progress or stalled out. I can readjust and learn alongside them. It does matter to remember not just something nice they did (though that is lovely), but to write about the child’s character and how she is regularly helpful or kind or courageous. Those things do not make for good scrolling and liking fodder. Those things give you actionable items to hold yourself accountable to in 3 months to see how you’ve helped them. My children’s milestones, memories, and metrics do not belong to your infinite scroll. They don’t even belong to mine. They are ours— our family’s— to be studied, observed, and treasured. 

Apart from having broken away from the social media as a baby book trap, I turned to a new form of writing. Instead of resharing pithy and ridiculously banal quotes in meme format, to my timeline, I kept a Commonplace book. I would write down meaningful quotes, things that made me think, and respond to those things. I collected new words, Latin sayings, and wrote down prayers. I have since filled 3 entire Commonplace books and am on my 4th. I still have a lot to say, but I no longer have to care what other people on Facebook think about it. Whether they find me too conservative or too liberal, whether they think my quotes juvenile or pretentious, whether they are impressed with what I’m reading or look down on me for not reading something more difficult. 

What is most remarkable is that without the lazy convenience of a reshare button, I alone decide what is worthy of noting. I started this process thinking about the lack of fresh ideas people have because we’ve all fallen into the group-think, echo chamber pit. I would read a 2-6 sentence screenshot or meme formatted item that caused me all of 12.6 seconds to read and ponder before I hit that re-share button. Sometimes with such impressive commentary of my own like “THIS.” Or “LOUDER.” Or “Jussayin’” I cringe thinking back on all of the banal pith I shared because I found it edgy or profound. I was just sharing the same stuff 50% of the people around me were thinking and pissing the other 50% off. If it was funny, about 50% of the people in my list of friends also found it funny, because it was another one of those “just like us” moments. How noble to find only those things that are “just like us” attractive, humorous, or poignant. 

In reading widely (I’m working on the deeply thing, speed reading dies hard, and I can’t seem to slow it down) from good books, I began to find nuggets of wisdom and truth. And some of those were deeply offensive and hard to swallow because they pointed out my own faults. To be sure, I don’t mean those terrible reshares that people use for pity. You know the ones: “you may call my ability to love weak, but if giving of myself makes me weak, then I’ll gladly wear the title.” That trivial swill is meant only for the deeply shallow who cannot think past their own false eyelashes. When I say I wrote things down in my commonplace that cut me, it was finding conviction in things about myself that needed to change. I also did find joy in a beautifully worded sentence, the perfectly placed response in the middle of a novel (very un-shareable without context), a lovely line of poetry, or sometimes not even a direct quote, but a rewriting of a portion in the book I was reading which fired my long-cold memory skills into action. 

I began to find my own thoughts again, and since I was spending less time on the internet as a whole by this point, if someone else had already had the same thoughts, I was blissfully unaware, enjoying using my own mind to work through and find the solutions on my own. 

We are not impressed with the young mathematician because he has copied all of the correct answers. Anyone with a teacher’s manual can do the same. We are impressed with the young mathematician who has done the hard work necessary to get to those answers. For the first time in a long time, I was grappling and fighting to come to conclusions that were not the result of what I was told I should observe or believe or think, rather, I was seeking them out. Are they all right? Are they all wrong? Some are surely right and some definitely wrong, but I now have the space to find those footholds and places to grab onto while I climb the mountain of information that I intake.

(Tune in next week on the same Bat Channel at the same Bat Time for Part 4!)

Marie

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Our fostering journey has come to an end, now that we have 6 permanent children in our home, but I have been asked many times what influenced me to become a foster parent. There are actually several stories from my life that pushed me toward becoming a foster parent. I thought I’d share one of the many…

16 year old Marie showed up on our family’s doorstep a week before Christmas in 1994. She had on a faded blue backpack with a wooden color guard rifle sticking out of it. There were two young men with her. She told my parents she needed a place to stay. I was 8 years old.

My dad asked Marie if her mother knew she had come to our home and she said she did. It was evening, and so they said she could stay for the night. The two guys who had driven her left. She settled in on the family room couch that night. I remember being in my bed, too excited about the new guest to sleep. I had no clue how our lives would change over the next 2 years.

This Christmas sticks out to me for a few reasons. One being that it was the last Christmas with my parental grandmother, Grace. She was dying from breast cancer. Her last Christmas, she gifted my mother with a poinsettia afghan. I “borrowed” it from my mother 2 weeks later, wanting comfort at night. I have slept with it every night to this day, and it’s attended every hospital stay, been across the country, and to 2 other countries with me. This was also to be the last normal Christmas of my childhood, made special by family traditions that all vanished when my Grandma Grace died. But, normal it did not turn out to be.

We knew Marie. She had dated a boy from our church the previous year and had come to youth group on and off before moving an hour and a half away. She was a few months younger than my oldest sister Sarah, and so Sarah probably knew her best. She came from a troubled home, fraught with instability and substance abuse. She was a standout from her loud laugh and what I now assume was a smoker’s cough. Marie was often like a big kid. She acted younger and more impetuously than her peers. She was also somewhat of a chameleon, and had a strong desire to fit in with those around her.

At some point in that first week, my parents followed up with Marie’s mom to make sure she wasn’t a runaway. When my parents asked if Marie could stay, she seemed ambivalent and didn’t care, so Marie stayed. Having random people in our home didn’t surprise me. My parents always seemed to be opening our home to people.

Being a pastor’s family, my parents felt strongly about practicing what they preached. There was the pregnant and single woman sent to us from a crisis pregnancy center when I was a preschooler, the strange lady who picked almonds from the chicken salad off my plate with her bare hands and pulled my sister Beky’s hair, and there was family who burned their house down for insurance money, but needed a place to stay. There were also countless missionaries who slept in our home, exposing me to cultures from around the globe from a young age. My parents’ home is 1300 sqft on a small lot, but this never kept them from extending hospitality to people who needed a safe place to stay. My sisters and I recently asked my parents if they were concerned about our safety when strangers were staying in our home. My mom said she prayed faithfully each night for God to protect us, and He did.

Of course, Marie wasn’t a total stranger to my parents, but they didn’t know her well. I don’t even know how she knew where we lived. But when things turned for the worse with her family, she remembered my parents and that’s where she fled to.

A few days after she showed up at our home, I was moved out of my bedroom and into my middle sister Beky’s room. Marie took over my pink and flower bordered little girl’s room with her few belongings. People from church sent toiletries, and gifted clothing and treats. I recall my parents making a mad dash to buy her presents so she would feel included with us 3 girls as we opened gifts on Christmas morning. My parents lived below the poverty line on a very meager salary from our church, and in hindsight, I can’t help but wonder if they were wondering how to pull it all off— but they did.

Looking back at the home videos of that Christmas, you can hear Marie talking loudly in a silly falsetto voice, joking about the underwear she unwrapped. Something I didn’t find strange then, but did later— she was already referring to my parents as “Mom and Dad”. She was like a magnet to metal looking for stability, and she forced herself onto it with gusto.

At the beginning of the new year my parents started gathering paperwork to become Marie’s legal guardians. She had a host of dental issues and some medical needs, so my parents asked her mother if she would sign over parental rights so my folks too could tend to Marie’s needs. Her mother signed her over without a fight.

Marie had been in and out of various public schools with all of her family’s moving around. But we 3 girls were homeschooled, and so my mother set out to homeschool Marie, too. She was at a 5th grade level, and I remember my mother explaining over and over the definition of an adjective to her around our kitchen table. Between trying to get her caught up academically, carting her to countless dental appointments from her extensive dental needs, doctors visits, and whatever hushed about things were happening with her family, all while my grandmother was starting hospice and not long for this world, I got lost in the mix.

I remember learning to be self taught in my homeschool studies as much as I could, also leaning on my sister Beky for help. I went back and forth a couple of times sharing a room with Beky while Marie had my room and then at times Beky and Marie sharing a room when Beky and I were fighting too much. (Once was for reading Beky’s journal where she confessed her crush on a boy in our church, and me telling my friends and teasing her endlessly for it— yes I was the stereotypical annoying little sister!) My mother was stressed, handling the brunt of Marie’s needs. My father was tender hearted toward Marie and didn’t seem to share most of my mother’s frustrations and concerns, because he was at work much of the time that Marie was being carted off from appointment to appointment. My oldest sister Sarah was already off to cosmetology school and working most days, so Beky and I probably felt the pinch of the day to day change more noticeably, though I do remember all 3 of us murmuring at times feeling the stretch of our parents’ attention.

Looking back, I know that the extra mouth to feed, the extra needs, the behaviors, and the uncertainties mixed with their usual flood of responsibilities with the church and mourning the death of my maternal grandmother followed one year later by the death of my maternal Grandfather must have been horribly overwhelming. But despite all of that, they did their best. I know they weren’t perfect, but they tried. They threw Marie a big 17th birthday pool party at a friend’s house since she hadn’t had a Sweet 16. Her teeth did get fixed and replaced. She eventually was able to enroll in the local adult school. She got her GED. She got her license and bought her first car. She got a job. And after 2 years of high highs and low lows, my parents helped Marie find a room to rent 5 minutes away.

The day we moved her out was a big one. She had accumulated so many things since she had shown up with only a backpack of possessions to her name. She now had clothes, jewelry, books, furniture, so many toiletries, keepsakes, stuffed animals, linens, and more. This was the part where my parents hoped she would make it on her own, and live a life as responsibly out of our home as she had in our home.

Within a week or so, we got a call from the woman whose room Marie was renting saying she hadn’t seen Marie. Not long after we got a call from her job asking why she hadn’t been to work. Marie had met a guy who pulled her back into the things from her old life. She hadn’t lasted a month in the real world before she lost everything. She never came to get her things. I remember us taking everything downstairs from her rented room into the van. I remember us sorting through it, my parents trying to get ahold of her to come get her things. I remember taking them all to a donation drop-off when she wouldn’t return calls.

My parents struggled for years after. It had all been for nothing, they thought. The wild girl that they had tamed and tried to make in the image of their own daughters had failed. Years later, we reconnected with Marie brieflyw, even visited her, her husband, and her baby in their apartment. She would have other ups and downs in life, but the last I saw, she was clean and sober, living in the other half of the state near her parents, who also had found sobriety. Still, my mother had regrets about how Marie’s stay in our lives had affected our lives. She had voiced it so many times as I grew up and even into adulthood, remembering how she wasn’t able to be as attentive as she wanted to be toward our needs and education, wishing the time hadn’t been wasted.

In 2019, I got a call from our FFA social worker saying “I know you don’t take teens, but this one has a baby, and if you don’t take this one, she’ll be separated from her baby.” The first thing I told her was “I’m not inclined to say no, but let me talk to my husband.” And when I called Noah, I said “I know we said we wouldn’t take teens til our children were grown, but…” and he replied “I’m not inclined to say no”, repeating my exact words to the social worker. We called the social worker back in half an hour and said yes.

That teenager would change Noah and I forever. We had over a year of ups and downs, ins and outs, but we love her and her babies with our whole hearts. I could have said no. I could have looked at my young years with a strange teenager living in our home, who took my parents’ time and attention from me and said, “I just don’t want that for my own kids.” But the thing is, I didn’t have a childhood of wealth and ease, and it came with its share of heartaches during that season of instability in my own little life, and I see how it shaped and molded me, and knew my kids would be okay.

And so, since meeting my daughter at 17, and since loving her with a ferocious and protective love, and through loving her babies the last 4.5 years and seeing her spread her wings and make it in the world, I have salved my mother’s wounded conscience. I have thanked her for taking in Marie. I have assured her, that time was not wasted. For leading by example. For showing me the importance of living out your faith and ideals, not just talking about it. If my parents hadn’t taken Marie, I might not have said yes to a teenager when we got the call. And life without our oldest girl and our grandbabies from her is a life that Noah I couldn’t fathom.

(Marie’s name has been changed to protect her privacy.)

Note: we never refer to our foster children as our own because they have their own parents. However, by her request, we call our oldest our daughter, and she calls us her parents. It is an honor we do not take lightly.

Celeste

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Our fostering journey has come to an end, now that we have 6 permanent children in our home, but I have been asked many times what convinced me to become a foster parent. There are actually several stories from my life that pushed me toward becoming a foster parent. I thought I’d share one of the many…

In 2005, I was 19, and found myself in a relationship with a guy about 10 years older than me. Bobby and I worked together at a hardware store. I was a manager and we worked in the same department one night and hit it off. I was very much into the Rockabilly scene at the time, and you could find me at car shows with my hair piled high, and wearing leopard pencil skirts. I listened to The Reverend Horton Heat and bought new issues of Rat Rod magazine every time it hit the rack. Bobby was very much my type. He also loved old cars and played guitar. His hair was a perfectly coiffed, high, black pompadour, built up with layers of Murray’s pomade. He wore 501s cuffed over his Chuck Taylor converse, and his deep brown skin glinted in the sunshine when he hung his arm out of the car window while smoking a Camel.

One night, I accidentally became his girlfriend. I say accidentally, because he, being much older than I, likely assumed it was a kiss and nothing more. But, having been raised in purity culture and also being quite naive, I thought that one kiss meant we had to be together. When he found out how much younger I was than he, I remember him becoming a little leery, but I was impetuous, and I have always been quite convincing, so he found himself in a relationship with me.

I was (and am) a Christian who had fiercely disagreed with people being in relationships when they came from different religions. However, young love makes you question all the things you’ve ever held to be true, and I decided instead to just hide my relationship from my family. Looking back, I realize that what transpired next was supposed to be Bobby’s way of nicely getting rid of me. He told me that we should come clean to my pastor father about our relationship. He assumed this would cause me to break it off. I didn’t want to tell my dad, but he pushed, and so we did tell my father, and I was given an ultimatum. Cease to date this much older guy, who did not share my faith, who was not a good fit for me, or go find somewhere else to live. I was given 3 days to make the decision. In hindsight, I am absolutely sure that during those 3 days, Bobby was thinking he was about to be rid of this very demanding, yet very young, naive girl. I know this because later I found out he had slept with my best friend for the first time during this deliberation period while I was at home, pining for him in my childhood bedroom.

When it was time to answer my father on leaving Bobby and abiding by the house rules or finding another place to live, I was frozen. I really didn’t think, when push came to shove, that my dad would make me answer. I had been on my way to work and tried to slip out without my dad knowing, but he stood in the door waiting for my answer. The first thing out of my mouth was, “I guess I’ll leave.”

I threw everything I could fit in my 1996 Chrysler Concorde and drove away from my childhood home, with no where to live.

Throughout the next several weeks I lived out of my car, crashing at my best friend’s house (yes, the same one he had spent the night with, unbeknownst to me at the time), crappy motels, and wherever I could lay my head. A couple of weeks after my 20th birthday, Bobby took pity on his young, homeless girlfriend, and I moved into his parents’ home with him.

Now at this point, I’m sure you are wondering a lot of things, like “what does this have to do with fostering?” Or “why was an almost 30 year old man still living with his parents?” Or “why am I still reading this?” I’ll answer the first question and let you ponder the second, but only you can answer the third.

One evening, while I was living with Bobby and his parents, there was a knock at the door, and it was Bobby’s older sister, her boyfriend, a giant dog, and a most adorable, round faced 4 year old girl. The little girl turned out to be Bobby’s niece, Celeste. To this day, I do not know the ins and outs of what the situation was, but soon, Bobby’s mom and I were cleaning out the spare bedroom and making it ready for Celeste. I remember that we were preparing the house for a social worker to approve the living situation. I remember scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning the carpet in the living room, and dusting little trinkets. I also remember hushed talks about Celeste’s mother and boyfriend needing to find another place to live in order for Celeste to stay with her grandmother.

And then Celeste was there living with us. All I had ever wanted in life was to be a wife and mother, and I suddenly had this chance to test it out. Bobby and I took Celeste to the park, and the beach. I picked her up from preschool, and cooked her breakfast. I read books to her before bed, and memorized the words to Fox in Socks from reading it so many times over. I cleaned up her vomit in the middle of the night, styled her hair, and gave her snuggles. There came a point when I was becoming disillusioned with Bobby, but I loved Celeste so much, that I couldn’t fathom a life apart from her.

But of course I was not a wife, nor a mother. I was just a rudderless 20 year old in love with a dream. I could pretend I was a mother, but I never would be her mother. Her grandmother was her legal caretaker, and she had a mother, even if we didn’t see much of her. I was playing house and there would be no happily ever after for me. Bobby cheated on me with my best friend while I was nannying in Scotland for a couple of my preschool students, and this time, I found out shortly after. I tried to stick around, and force him to love me, but we were cursed from the start. The dramatic story of my homecoming after leaving him is one for another day.

One of the hardest parts of breaking up for me was leaving Celeste. I knew leaving Bobby meant losing Celeste. I kept in contact for a while, even attending her 5th birthday, but sitting across from my ex and former best friend at Chuck E. Cheese was awkward for everyone. Bobby’s mom was incredibly sweet and arranged for me to see Celeste a few more times after that throughout the following year, but understandably, that didn’t last.

I think about Celeste often. I still have her Kindergarten school picture stowed in my jewelry box. She’s now a young adult woman, living where and with whom and doing what, I may never know. I think about how when I left Bobby, it broke my heart to leave her, and yet I was just one more unstable adult in her life to vanish. Just one more person to come and go with no explanation. There were people and situations that came before Celeste, and after her that also led me to become a foster parent, but learning that I could love a child as much as my own flesh and blood, who started out as a stranger to me was eye opening. Knowing that there were children in the world living in unstable situations and needed a safe place to land stuck with me.

Our first foster placements would come into our life 10 years after I left Celeste. One of whom was a 4 year old girl with the same smile, eye shape, and round face as Celeste. Her mom was also having a tough time and she and her little sister needed a safe place to land.

20 year old Rachel was lost and confused about why God would let her make so many stupid choices that led to some serious heartbreak. 30 year old Rachel saw that all things worked together for good, and that a foolish, young relationship may have just been a catalyst used to prepare her 10 years later to love and care for children from hard places— not for pretend with a boyfriend who was bad for her, but for real with a husband who shared her vision.

(Bobby and Celeste’s names have been changed to respect “Celeste’s” privacy.)

Just Okay

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I do not like to be good enough. I do not like to be just okay. Last summer, my family rented an AirBnB. It was wonderful, truly the best vacation we had ever had. I privately messaged the owner with a list of minor issues with the home so she knew to repair them, because the home had been booked solid for months, I assumed she just didn’t know about them. Really simple things like burnt out lightbulbs, or peeled off wallpaper or missing towels and cutlery. I assured her that the house was wonderful, it wouldn’t affect our rating of her home, and we hoped to come back, it was just an FYI. When it came time to rate the home, I gave a detailed review, praised the home endlessly, and gave it 5 stars. Her review of me came up, where she criticized me for being too wordy in emails (guilty as charged, look at me now, I can already tell this post is going to be too long) and said I was “just okay.” JUST okay? Just OKAY?! JUST OKAY?!?! I wiped all the surfaces with bleach wipes, stripped all the beds, washed all the towels, left a thank you note, cleaned everything, swept, wiped down the fridge. Just okay?!

I tend to be a perfectionist in some aspects (not all). I like things to be done a certain way. I have high standards for myself and my children. I like my fitted sheets folded in perfect rectangles, I like my toilet scrubbed a specific way, I like my scrambled eggs cooked on a screaming hot cast iron in 40 seconds and removed immediately and topped with the perfect amount of coarse salt. When it comes to baby and kid stuff, don’t get me started on car seat safety, and I am probably the only person I know who is sanitizing bottles post-first birthday. I don’t offer solid foods before 6 months, I nurse all my bios to natural weaning age, I use rigid formula preparing protocol for our fosterlings, and I document the heck out of everything I do.

So a few years ago when we were fostering our 4th kiddo and the social worker said “Rachel, I’m not looking for his mom to be perfect. I’m not looking for her to be you. I’m looking for her to be just safe enough. Just good enough. Just okay enough to keep him alive.” I was of course flabbergasted. How could you take a child out of a home with everyone’s underwear was folded in perfect envelope shapes, and stacked like files in their little drawers and move him somewhere where the bare minimum is “just good enough to stay alive”?!

We just celebrated 6 years of fostering a few weeks ago, and I’m finding that indeed, not everyone has to be me. They don’t have to face all their canned goods the same way and have spreadsheets for their Costco shopping. They just have to be able to care for the child at a safe level. They have to feed the child 3 times a day. And sometimes those parents are going to feed their kids apple juice and Cheetos, something this mother just doesn’t do. Sometimes they are going to let their kids sleep with the TV on, a travesty in my home. Some parents are going to let their children graduate to a booster before the maximum weight on their 5-point car seat, a thought which literally gives me palpitations.

I shouldn’t look at the family of the child who is placed in my home and say “if this baby is gonna go home, they need to be a carbon copy of me.” I have to say “will this child be safe— enough?” A lot of times the answer is yes, even if I really fight that answer. And if the answer is no, being that the goal of all foster care is, what my friends? Ding ding! Reunification, that’s right! Then I better do everything in my power to set them up and help them be good enough, safe enough, okay enough. That means I have to mentor, I have to co-parent, I have to celebrate their every achievement, I have to sit with them in court and show them I’m here to cheer them on, I have to write safety tips and schedules for them, I have to help them set up everything they need to make their home safer. And the hardest part? I have to be at peace with it if and when that child that I have loved, fed, clothed, kissed, cuddled, wept over, advocated for, driven all over the countryside for appointments, prayed over, and indeed written a book’s worth of notes, documentation, spreadsheets, charts, and schedules— goes home to a house where they might eat donuts and soda for breakfast.

At the end of the day, I have no legal or biological right to that child. Yes, they feel like my own. But they aren’t my own. So if the powers that be say the place they need to be is with their family, in their home, kept just safe enough, it’s not my job freak out in the corner that their parents aren’t AS safe as me. Or AS organized as I am. Or AS responsible as I am. (Let me just be real and add here that I WILL be rocking back and forth in the corner freaking out, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so I shouldn’t! 😂)

I lost my mind last year when I was rated as “just okay”. I actually cried about it. I vented to my sisters and my friends. I could not believe that someone had the audacity to rate me as “just okay”. I had to go to God and deal with my pride over how upset I was at being seen as mediocre. My incredibly talented and funny friend created this embroidery piece for me, and I have it hanging in my room to remind me that as highly as I might have viewed myself leaving that AirBnB, someone else thought my standards were just okay. Talk about humbling.

If the requirement for parenting was perfection, then none of us would be able to parent. Heck, some of you run way tighter ships that I do, and if you were the required standard, I would also surely fail, spreadsheets and all. My encouragement for you, if you’re like me, is to stop judging parents because they aren’t you. No one is you, except you. And that’s okay, and also? Sometimes being just okay, is actually okay.

(Note: I want to be clear that this is something I am working on. This is literally me preaching at me right now. Trying to tell myself these truths when I feel like every fiber in me is fighting it. This is not something I have attained, I am not some holier than thou perfect person who doesn’t judge people. I do a LOT. And so as I am writing this, my number one audience member is me. I really hope I can learn this lesson sooner than later!)

I Hate Postpartum

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I hate postpartum.

I know, I know, we are supposed to relish every moment of motherhood, and love our bodies at every stage, and be amazed by ourselves, blah, blah, blah bull crap. I hate it.

First off let me clarify, because I hear a lot of people who automatically think the word postpartum means a mood disorder because we associate it with postpartum depression (PPD), anxiety (PPA), or psychosis. It doesn’t. It literally means the time after you’ve given birth, and while I have plenty of stuff to say about postpartum mood disorders, I really just hate a whole lot about what happens after giving birth. Secondly, I know it’s not like me to be a downer in this space, but in case you hadn’t noticed, I haven’t been in this space for well over a month, because I have been so far in a postpartum ditch I haven’t been able to find my way out. My reappearance to write is really difficult for me, and to be honest, I’m only doing this because the therapist I’m seeing for postpartum depression and anxiety made it my assignment to return to something I find fulfillment in as I struggle to get a handle on my mental health. Writing is one of the few things that helps me process, so forgive me as this is some of the rockiest writing I’ve ever shared.

After being pregnant during a pandemic, being secluded from my support network of family, friends, and church, adding a teenager back into our home, deteriorating physically to the point of being in a wheelchair again, my husband temporarily being on furlough due to said pandemic, our landlord raising our rent a significant amount during the pandemic, trauma parenting an adult and toddler in the system, giving birth during a pandemic, experiencing the worst PPD and PPA of my life, all while attending multiple phone meetings with our girls’ support team, advocating, saying goodbye to the baby I had raised for 13 months and her mama that I raised for 5 months, and trying desperately to find a place to move since we can not afford the rent increase here, but finding nothing so just spending hours looking and packing… I. Am. Exhausted.

If I hated postpartum in the past, I have hated it all the more so this time. 

As I was in the hospital being induced unexpectedly due to my baby girl having extreme decelerations during a non stress test, I thought “I don’t love being induced, but I could do it again.” As I had yet another failed epidural, I thought, “it sucks that my body hates epidurals, but I could do this again.” As I passed the 18 hour mark of my induction and still hadn’t progressed, I thought “I hate that my body still doesn’t know how to labor after 6 pregnancies, but I could do this again.” During transition on 12 units of pitocin as I went from 4 centimeters to 10 in an hour, as I was breathing through contractions, I thought, “I forgot how intense transition is and how much this hurts… but I would definitely do this again.” As I pushed out my tiniest baby ever, I thought “that was easy, I could totally do this again.” And then moments after she was in my arms, and I was being given shots to prevent another life threatening postpartum hemorrhage, and I was being cleaned up, diapered, and moved and poked and prodded, and the postpartum contractions started up, and I was shaky and weak, I thought “I hate this so much, I would be happy if I never, ever, had to do this part ever again.” And that feeling has stuck with me every, single day since I gave birth 2 months ago. 

I hated postpartum with every nursing cramp  that sent me into a dizzying pain (these get worse with every baby). I hated postpartum coming home to a house full of unrest, trauma, anger, and too many emotions outside of my own. I hated postpartum every trip to the bathroom as my body poured blood for 5 weeks. I hated postpartum as I tried to get back on my feet again physically. I hated postpartum hormones as anxiety crippled my body completely. I hated postpartum hormones as I went into a dark tunnel of depression and nothingness. I hated postpartum as I struggled to bond with my baby because I needed to be available to an entire team of people supporting our girls as they readied to transition and reunify, and I couldn’t connect with my own child. I hated postpartum hormones as they made saying goodbye to our girls so much more intense than I thought possible and as I felt totally conflicted from one moment to the next about how I felt regarding that goodbye. I’ve hated postpartum for making the process of trying to find a place to move to during a pandemic that much more frustrating. 

I’m not sharing these things for sympathy or a pat on the back. I hate nothing more than friends, family, and therapists giving me a sad “there there” look with a outstretched lower lip. I don’t want pats on the back for making it through a tough time, I don’t want people saying “it’ll get better”. I am not sharing this because I’m triumphant on the other side and have some great wisdom to impart to you wrapped in flowery paper with a bow on top. I am sharing this because I’ve talked a lot of moms through PPA and PPD, and I gave them all the right answers, but having never been in it this deep, those were just nice words. I’m sharing because in case you’re going through this right now, I’m going through it too, so you don’t have to feel alone. If you’re feeling like your anxiety is a pool of battery acid eating you up from the outside in, then I want you to know I am feeling that too. That when the laughter of your children physically hurts your ears and makes your skin burn because you cannot handle any more sensory input, I have felt that way, too. And if you can’t stop crying for no particular reason, I am feeling that way, too. When you are staring into space and your partner cannot reach you because it feels better to shut down than to feel anything, you aren’t alone, because I’m there too. When you have a fuse so short that you explode over someone leaving their toys on the floor and have to retreat to your room to calm down, I want you to know it’s not just you. When you are smelling your baby’s head, doing skin to skin, nursing, staring into their eyes and all you see is a random baby, but not your baby, remember others have felt this, too, because I have. When you’re used to being the caregiver and fixing everyone else’s problems, but you can’t even get out of bed, you aren’t the first. If dialing the number for behavioral health feels like a 20 foot wave is barreling you over, keep dialing even if it feels like you’re the first person to fail this hard, you aren’t the first to feel that, and you certainly aren’t a failure. Because that was me, and I felt scared and like a failure, too. 

Your postpartum experience is different from mine, because it’s your own. It’s your story. It’s your struggle. Mine struggles aren’t bigger or more important. Yours aren’t less important because you have less kids or different responsibilities. We may have differences in the exact details, but I need you to know that you have other mothers who have walked this road before you, are walking it alongside you, and others will follow behind you. I need you and I to remember that this is temporary, even when it doesn’t feel like it. That it’s okay to get help. It’s okay to talk to someone. It’s okay to take meds if you need them. It’s okay to be vulnerable to a therapist. It’s okay to tell others that you aren’t okay, because maybe they aren’t okay either. 

So for now, reach out to the ones ahead of you, hug the ones alongside you, and once you’re out of it, help the ones behind you.

The Last Mile

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I have never run a marathon, and I never expect to. But I imagine how I am feeling in this moment is similar to that last mile a marathon runner runs.

After 13 months, our girls are reunifying and moving out.

I am elated. There’s no other word for it. We have advocated and pushed and done whatever we could to help make this happen. There is no greater joy than a family being put back together and getting a fresh start in a new place. Parent and child are finally starting a new chapter of their lives together. Sure they’ve been living together here in our home, but now they are on their own. It’s the next big thing.

I am terribly sad. Sad is such a general word, but it’s the only word I can find. I watched baby’s first steps, heard her first words, took her on her first Disney trip, held her when she cried, kissed her booboos. I’ve received countless kisses and cuddles from her, tickled her til we both were in stitches laughing, watched her bond with Milkman grow stronger than with any other caregiver, and felt her sleepy breathing belly on my back in the carrier for so many naps. For over 13 months she has slept in my home every single night, and awoken every single morning to the sounds of her 4 (now 5) siblings. I’ve been greeted by her big smile and loud voice yelling “MAMA!” Every time I came out of my room in the mornings. How could you not be sad saying goodbye to a child who has been as close as your own for over a year? And her mommy? The teenager I have seen from a minor to a legal adult, the girl whom I have held many evenings working through things, the girl whose gorgeous long hair I have braided countless times, with whom I have laughed so hard we’ve almost peed ourselves and cried so hard we’ve emptied ourselves of all emotion. The teenager who moved out in a fury months after she came, the teenager who returned back to our family a few months ago. This teenager that I bonded with quicker than I ever bonded with a foster baby, is leaving my home forever.

I am relieved. Both for selfless and selfish reasons— yes, I am a human and I am sometimes selfish. I am relieved because we worked so incredibly hard to make this happen. I am relieved because families belong together. I am relieved because this is the next step. But I am also relieved because I am tired. I am tired of meetings, specialist appointments, so many therapies, so much paperwork. I am relieved because I haven’t had time to bond with my 2 week old baby because from the second I got home from the hospital I have been on calls and doing interviews for next steps and trying to calm storms and repair old wounds for a hurting soul. I am relieved because I haven’t been alone with my husband in months. I’m relieved because 5 kids will seem like a breeze after 7 kids. I’m relieved because I’m tired— I’m so so so tired of having to model perfect parenting 24/7. I’m relieved because my family needs a break from the constant trauma that has washed through our home for these last 13 months, and the behaviors that trauma results in.

I am grateful. I am grateful we said yes to a teenager last year after saying we wouldn’t do that while we had young children. I’m grateful we said yes to her and her baby when we thought we wouldn’t foster moms and their babies til we were much older. I’m grateful I bugged every provider, therapist, and social worker til we got the safety nets in place for these two to set them off on the right foot. I am grateful my children have grown in patience and selflessness, sharing their mama with so many others. I am grateful that I have been stretched— not TO my limit— but BEYOND my limits, til I thought I would break and shatter into a million pieces, but didn’t. I am grateful that my life has been forever changed by these two souls.

I am hopeful. I am hopeful for their future, that they will be successful in their reunification. I am hopeful they will stay in our family’s life forever. I am hopeful they will break old cycles.

We are on the last mile. The finish line is so close I can taste the rest at the end of it, feel it in my aching soul. I can’t wait for it to be here— but I am also so scared to cross the finish line, and everything to be forever different. This is foster care: where we take the bitter along with the sweet, where our family is ripped apart, so another can be made whole.

A Time to Bathe, and a Time to Cuddle

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I have been uncharacteristically private in regards to our current foster placement. With past kiddos it has felt appropriate to share snippets here and there while protecting their privacy and stories. For this placement, it has not felt appropriate.

However, last night as I rocked Little One and the tears were flowing I wanted to share something on my heart.

Many times when we get a child back from a visit, we are tempted to bathe them immediately. Sometimes this is necessary if the child comes back obviously soiled, caked in grime, or sticky from treats. I’m sure there are also many germaphobes like me who like the ritual of the after-visit bath to cleanse away the host of germs you imagine them to have touched in a county visitation room where countless children have been snotting, slobbering, and chewing on the same objects all day.

Yesterday, Little One came back from visit smelling very strongly of their parent’s preferred fragrance. The smell of this fragrance was incredibly harsh. I am really sensitive to perfumes and colognes, perhaps more than most, but this time it was particularly bothersome. I began sneezing, my eyes were watering, and I even broke out into hives on my face as I cuddled Little One after the visit. As I was scratching my chin and blowing my nose while rocking this very upset, post-visit child, I thought “I’ve gotta bathe this baby.” As soon as I had the thought, Little One went into another fit of screaming, and I thought “Wait— this is all this child has. This scent. There is no physical touch from their bio parent to cling to, no article of parent’s clothing, no face to reach out and touch. There is only this scent.” If I bathed the child there and then, I would be stripping away the one sensory reminder this child had to hold on to as they went to bed. So I didn’t bathe Little One. Instead I put my head down close to theirs, ignoring the itching hives and runny nose I had. I prayed and sang over the child, and though this baby usually goes to sleep without any rocking, I rocked Little One to sleep.

Once I left the room, I cried. Yes, Little One is secure with us. Little one is loved, cared for, and knows us, having spent over half their life living with us. But Milkman and I are not, nor will we ever be Little One’s blood relatives. There is an invisible bond that this child will have to their biological parents that has and will continue to confound me, no matter how infrequent visits may be. The fragrance may have been offensive to my nose, but if I washed that away, Little One would be devoid of that lingering memory of their parent.

I’m not here to say that you shouldn’t bathe or shower a child after visit. I’m not here to say that you should always choose to suffer with an unpleasant or lingering cologne or perfume. I’m not saying that if you immediately bathe them that you’re a bad foster parent. I’m just saying these are the things we should seek to remember when we are caring for other people’s children.

Keep up the good work, foster parents. The little unnoticed things you do may go a longer way than you think at helping shape a child for the rest of their life.

Gordito’s Birth Story

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It’s been so long since I’ve written one of these, I don’t even know where to start. If you followed my posts during pregnancy, you may recall my struggle with SPD. Around 36 weeks, I used my walker to get to the laundry room, and I tripped over a shoe. My right foot went forward about 3 feet and I landed hard on it, with my legs apart. SNAP! That’s literally all it took to tear my SP joint (symphysis pubis). I screamed so loudly that Milkman and all 3 kids came running in. Milkman had to help drag me to the couch where I sat wailing with an ice pack. I was so angry at my body, that had been so much stronger this time, and so well supported by the HG harness (of course, I wasn’t wearing it when I tripped ::face palm::), that it just seemed cruel to make it so far and then have such a catastrophic injury at the end.

I went to the perinatologist a few days later who confirmed the tear, and later that day a wheelchair was delivered to my front door step. I was both relieved to have a means to get around, and then discouraged to know I was ending another pregnancy in a wheelchair.

The last few weeks of my pregnancy were spent sitting in the nursing chair in the corner of my livingroom, relying on my children to keep themselves fed with easy meals, and folding laundry and baby clothes while I cried missing our foster baby who had left unexpectedly the previous month. The pain I was in was unbelievable. Even readjusting myself in the recliner was scream-worthy. The last 2 weeks of my pregnancy, my mom and sisters took turns showing up most days of the week. My oldest sister swept and mopped my floors, my middle sister tended to kids, and my mother kept us all fed. This was the most help I had ever received during a pregnancy, and it was humbling, difficult, and one of the biggest blessings I’ve ever encountered. (They kept this up for a good 2 weeks after Milkman went back to work after I had the baby. I owe them a very great debt!) My beloved neighbor and dear friend would pop in on the days my family wasn’t here, and she would give me back rubs, and take my kids to water plants and feed chickens to give me little breaks. As someone who is used to being on the go, being a helper, being a host, and taking care of other people, it was totally foreign to be cared for like this, but it was good for me.

One of the big concerns I had after the tear was my ability to deliver this baby vaginally. The pain that I was in had me longing for a C-Section, but! There was an issue that would make a C-Section very undesirable for me. After 7 failed epidurals from my previous labors, and a consult with the head of anesthesia at my hospital, we determined that due to my scoliosis and arthritis, epidurals were never able to be properly placed and take effect. This being the case, it was suggested I try for an epidural at the very beginning of labor (something I’ve never considered), and then if it didn’t take, we would progress to a spinal. If that didn’t work, we would know that if I was in need of a C-section, I would have to go under general anesthesia. The thought of not being the first one to see my baby felt unbearable. Without the ability to move on my own or go anywhere without assistance, I had a lot of time to sit, stew, worry, and cry. And boy, did I cry a LOT!

While some people can fully cook a baby in 37 weeks, I am a slow cooker, and I knew I wouldn’t deliver this baby boy early, let alone “on time”. I normally have weeks upon weeks of prodromal labor, but this time, all prodromal labor stopped at 38 weeks and my uterus was calm and totally disinterested in ejecting a baby. My midwives and my perinatologist knew me well enough to not bother offering an early induction, and we didn’t even try for membrane stripping this time since it had never worked before. We knew the name of the game was “wait”, and so we did.

My sister brought oils, both to diffuse and to slather on me. My neighbor and sister tried pressure points, and Milkman tried making me meals loaded with balsamic and oregano, but nothing could cause my body to kick into gear. This was not surprising given my history, but it was discouraging. From feeling around, one midwife said the baby was really big, and another said the baby was right on track. One ultrasound showed a beast, the other a totally normal sized baby. I felt confident that I could deliver a baby at any size— if only my pelvis weren’t split! But it was split, and I was getting nervous. This was also the first pregnancy where I became terrified of labor. After my last (and very traumatic) birth, I became consumed with terror at the thought of delivering another baby. There were so many moments of Milkman holding me while I gripped his hands to death whispering over and over “I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this, I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this…” and him whispering back “you can do this, your body was made to do this, you will do this…” over and over.

I felt like I practically lived at the hospital the last 3 weeks of my pregnancy. Between midwife, perinatologist, and iron infusion appointments to help get my iron up to a safe level for delivery, even the parking garage attendants got to know me. By week 40, the valet was saying “today?” Every time he parked my car and I would say “nope. Not yet.”

At that 40 week appointment, the perinatologist set my induction for 41 weeks, and said hopefully I would go before then. It was at that point that I felt the clock ticking. I was absolutely not interested in an induction, so I figured I would try everything I could at home. We kept up with oils, and I began pumping and nursing around the clock. Sex wasn’t an option because my pelvis was split, but we tried massaging pressure points, and more oregano oil than you can shake a stick at. I went from crying about not wanting to be in labor, to crying and needing to be in labor— but still not wanting to be! That last week of my pregnancy was brutal, and not one I would like to re-live ever again. The pain, the emotional turmoil, the hormones! Just a big mess.

The day before my scheduled induction, I put makeup on, had Milkman push me over to the barn, put heels on me, and shoved my cane under me to prop me up for pictures of my week past date belly pictures. Looking back, I’m so glad we did that! I’m really bad at taking belly pictures when I’m pregnant, so it’s something I’m grateful for!

Sunday morning dawned. The day of my induction was here. Not a contraction or sign of impending labor to be seen. We went to church, and when I came home, we all piled on our bed, while I nursed Peachy, and cuddled my family of 5 for the last time. After lots of tears on my part and the kids’, we loaded them up and took them to my mom’s house. We headed to the hospital, and I told Milkman over and over “I don’t have to stay after they check me, if I don’t want to, right?” And he would say “we can leave any time you want.”

We got to the hospital and got checked into a wheelchair accessible room. I made it clear I wanted to be checked and told if I was favorable for an induction, and if I wasn’t that I would be going home. I was hoping to do a foley and cervadil only to find out that my hospital doesn’t even have cervadil, and I was a 2.5 which meant they wouldn’t do the foley. They said we would go right to Pitocin and because of this, I would not be able to be in the shower (my favorite place to labor) because with pitocin you need constant monitoring. I began crying. How would I make it through a marathon Rachel labor with no shower? I explained how an epidural was not likely to work, and that I wanted to go home and wait for natural labor to start. One nurse was annoyed and said I should just stay, and another nurse went to talk to someone in anesthesia.

I told Milkman to pack my things and though he was supportive, I think he also wanted to just get it over with and begin the induction. At this point I asked a nurse “if I leave now, and come back when I’m in labor, will I be charged twice for being admitted?” She told me I would be charged twice, and being the cheapskate I am, I said “well, I guess I’m staying then”. Soon after then, the nurse came in with a young, female anesthesiologist. She told me that she was looking at my pelvic MRI and x-rays, and she understood why my previous epidurals hadn’t worked, but that after studying them, she was 90% sure she could place a working epidural. Though I had sworn I wouldn’t go through the hassle of getting one that wouldn’t work anyway, I felt really confident in her confidence.

One hour later, I had a working epidural and pitocin running through my veins. 8th time’s the charm apparently!

Because of my disability we had to take several things into consideration and care. One was that I couldn’t open my legs more than about a foot to 18 inches at the knee. Another was that I needed to be moved frequently, but the epidural posed a special threat because I couldn’t feel pain in the same way to trigger me to not move into unsafe positions. I also would not be able to deliver on my back, as it would require my legs to open to far. Because my labors are often very long (34, 23, and 56 hours respectively), being unable to be mobile was a particular concern for extending the length of my induction.

Every 90 minutes, Milkman had an alarm that would go off. He would stabilize my legs with 2 pillows between, tie a sheet around my knees and pillow to keep them closed, and I would move from my right side to my center. 90 Minutes later, we would do the same thing and move from the center to my left side.

9 hours after my induction began, the midwife who delivered Mamitas walked in the room and was officially on duty. We had gotten the schedule a few days before and this was one of the few reasons I decided to stay. Linda is an exceptional midwife. She is the calm to my crazy, she is down to earth, and she can deliver a baby in any position. She is one of those people who radiates warmth, without being syrupy. Real salt of the earth. The team said they were going to check me, and since I had so many contractions they were sure I was close. I told them “pretty sure I’m not.” Guess what? No change. They said maybe a tight 3, but true to my normal, that cervix wasn’t budging. I had a good cry, snuck some food, sipped some of Milkman’s coffee, and told him I wanted to go home. Obviously, it was too late to go home, but this was for the birds. Not used to contracting and not feeling it was totally foreign, so I tried to watch TV, but that made me even more annoyed. I got moved onto my side, Milkman slipped in the bed behind me, and I put in my headphones, turned on my labor mix, pulled my sleep mask over my face, and fell asleep crying silently.

Around 5pm, the Midwife came in and I was about a 5, and the baby was still way up high in my ribs. I told her I was discouraged and she said “I know exactly how this is going to happen. You’re gonna have some crazy contractions and he’s gonna drop, you’re gonna feel pressure and he’s going to engage and be born right after that. This part is taking a while, but once he drops, it’s going to go fast.” I gave a pursed lipped smile and rolled my eyes a little. Nothing ever goes fast for me! We talked about labor positions, and though we had planned on hands and knees, she said “We could tie your legs shut, and if a baby wants to come out, it’ll come out. When the time comes, we’ll get you on your side, nice and comfortable and he’ll make his way out.”

Within an hour, my epidural ran out. I could feel the contractions ramping up, and it felt good to breathe through them. With previous labors, I was so exhausted by the time I hit transition that I would go wild. This time, I moaned low and slow, I breathed deeply, and held onto Milkman like he was a life raft and I was in the middle of a stormy ocean. The pain was satisfying, and because I was well rested, I felt strong enough to handle them. The first song on my labor mix played over and over. A love song…

In April, our foster son left us unexpectedly after just about a year. We were destroyed, and Milkman and I went away on a baby moon. We spent 3 days eating and sleeping (LOTS of sleeping. I took multiple naps a day!) One of the days, Milkman convinced me out of bed long enough to go to the movies and took me to see the movie “A Quiet Place.” If you aren’t familiar with it, the movie is mostly silent. It’s a suspenseful, well acted, beautifully shot thriller, and after watching it, it fast became one of my favorite movies of all time. There was once scene that had me bawling in the theater, and in this scene, John Krasinski And Emily Blunt slow dance with headphones in to the song Harvest Moon by Neil Young. The last 2 months of my pregnancy I would listen to that song, and cry, and hold onto Milkman, feeling a multitude of emotions. Missing our foster baby, being excited to meet our new baby, fearing labor, loving Milkman so much it hurt, ready for the next chapter, but so terribly sad the last chapter had ended. This song became the theme for my unborn baby, and as it played during labor, I would picture being able to stand, and not being so crippled, and swaying with my husband to that dreamy song.

Around 8, my contractions were right on top of each other, I felt a huge turn, and yelped, and boom, he moved down. As it turns out, Midwife Linda knows what she’s talking about. Who’d a thunk? I told Milkman between contractions “Tell… Linda… he’s engaged… coming soon”.

She came in a while later, checked me, and said “well, honey, you’re complete. You start pushing when you want to.” The nurse and Milkman moved me on to my right side, and I felt the urge to push. Linda half laid on the bed, and told me to rest my left knee on her head. My legs were only open that much! I was pushing with all my might, and at one point the baby’s heart rate decelerated, so they threw an oxygen mask on my face. Between pushes, he was going back up. His heart rate went down again, and finally she said “you just gotta push with all your might, and don’t stop” I delivered his head, and I knew he was bigger than my other babies. One contraction later and he was out. It felt longer, but I pushed for less than 10 minutes.

They put him in my arms while he screamed and I opened my eyes wide and said “uh… he’s big, right??” And she replied “oh, he’s BIG!” I nicknamed him Gordito right then and there.

A while later I delivered the placenta. I remember holding the baby and watching Linda look at it curiously. She said it was a huge placenta, she also said it was very mushy, and deteriorating. Praise God I’m such a cheapskate and didn’t want to pay two admitting fees, this baby NEEDED to come out when he did. I have this clear memory of her pushing her finger into it and her finger went clear through the placenta. She called in 2 people to look at it, and she didn’t seem convinced it had all come out. However the doctor inspected it and said it was all there and not to worry.

Milkman and I marveled at our baby. He was so chubby! I checked his lip and tongue almost immediately and saw he was lip and tongue tied, and told Milkman to call the ENT first thing to make an appointment to get it lasered. I was not interested in months of ductal thrush and mastitis like I had with Mamitas, and 24 clogged ducts in 3 months after Peachy! Milkman took a million pictures, I nursed my baby for the first time, which is always super magical, and ate some gluten free graham crackers with peanut butter and drank a pitcher of apple juice (this is what I eat after every single delivery!)

They measured Gordito and he came in at a whopping TEN POUNDS! He was 22 inches long, and a beast. My other babies had been in the 7-8lb range, so giving birth to such a large baby was a shock.

Once everything was removed and I was cleaned up, we were taken to the postpartum wing, and this is where my evening went from a sweet dream to a total nightmare. I began nursing the baby and I felt a very, very large clot pass. The nurses had been “massaging” my uterus post delivery and kept saying it wasn’t feeling right. I hit the call button, my nurse came in and I told her I needed assistance getting to the bathroom as I had passed a large clot. She pulled open my postpartum mesh hospital underwear and her face alarmed me. She said we wouldn’t be going to the bathroom, and that she needed to get the doctor. The charge nurse came in, and within seconds the tiny little room was filled. My midwife was there too. They pulled back the sheet and there was blood everywhere. I was passing massive clots, and I had multiple people pushing on my abdomen while I nursed and switched back to labor breathing. The charge nurse explained the doctor was in a C-section, and they were going to wake the on-call doctor to come in. She was a young, very tall OB, with magnificently long fingers and narrow hands. It was actually one of the first things I noticed about her, which was interesting considering that very soon, I would be introduced to them in a horrifying way. She explained that my uterus wasn’t contracting properly and that I was hemorrhaging. She was going to attempt to sweep my uterus with her hands and pull anything out she could find. She had the nurse crank up some pitocin, and they gave me a shot of morphine. She said “ready?”

I had just delivered a 10lb baby. I could not have understood before that moment how anything could have felt worse than transition and pushing out a 10lb baby, but lo and behold, there is something worse, and it was this. I had a nurse on each side to stabilize my legs and keep them from opening too far and worsening my SP injury, and those long slender fingers, and that thin slender hand went all the way up inside me and she began to scrape and claw at the inside of my raw uterus. It was late, and being in a small postpartum room, I was determined to be quiet so I wouldn’t disturb the sleep of my fellow postpartum mothers and their sweet newborns in the wing, so I contorted and twisted and did Lamaze breathing and moaned as quietly as I could. She pulled out masses of clots and tissue and while I regained my composure she said “there’s more. I’m so sorry, I know this hurts, but I have to try again. You can scream.”

I fought back tears and said “I can’t scream, I don’t want to wake anyone up!” And everyone said “no one would expect anyone to be quiet through this. Just scream.” I handed my newborn to Milkman, and noticed the look of white terror on his face. “Ready?” The OB said. And I yelled out guttural yells and screams while she pulled out yet more tissue and clots. At this point, there was blood dripping off my bed and onto the floor. It was everywhere. I was soaked in it, all the way up my back and down my legs. My husband fought back tears, one of his hands in mine as I squeezed it as hard as I could and the other cradling our newborn baby.

“I can’t get it all out. She has to go in for a D and C.” My heart sank. The one thing I wanted to avoid in this entire birth was going under general anesthesia, and it was going to happen. I nursed the baby while they waited for the other doc to get out of the C-Section. I remember looking at the floor as I handed the baby off to Milkman and kissed them both, and being shocked at the amount of blood in the room. If it hadn’t been for those iron infusions leading up to the birth, I may not have survived.

The team that took over in Pre-Op was a nightmare. While I was somewhat comfortable with the OB in charge, as he had delivered my oldest, the nurses and the anesthesiologist were like vinegar to the teeth. I was tired, it was the middle of the night, I had delivered a baby, and experienced some of the worst pain in my life. The nurses were mouthy and the anesthesiologist was cocky. I had the OB who was going to do the surgery do an internal ultrasound before I went under to confirm that the procedure was necessary. I remember looking at the screen on the machine and it looked like my uterus was full of cotton. He confirmed we had to do it, and we had to do it now. I cried and the nurse said “you don’t want to do this? You could lose your uterus, or you can lose your life! Is that what you want? You literally could die right now.”

I said “I know I need it, but I’m sad because my brand new baby is down the hall and I’m going into surgery!” She said I needed to calm down. I wanted to drop kick her, but I held my tears back. The last thing I remember is the doctor telling me “how far can we open your legs?” I showed him, he measured, and he had every person in the room look and said “don’t open her legs past this point. We don’t need her in a wheelchair for life.” Then the anesthesiologist strapped my arms down, and they said “see you in 45 minutes”, and I was out.

I woke up crying, which is typical for me coming out of general. I asked what time it was, and they told me it was 3 hours later. Apparently they still couldn’t stop the bleeding, so they tried putting a foley inside my uterus and inflating it to put pressure to assist in stopping the hemorrhage. Unfortunately, they couldn’t keep the foley in because my cervix also wasn’t going back down. To this day, I’m not totally sure what went down in that operating room, but all I remember is the doctor telling me “it didn’t go according to plan, but we saved your uterus.” I asked the nurse to take me to my baby, and she refused. I told her I needed to breastfeed my baby and she said “you need to rest!” I said I could nurse and then rest, but I needed to see my baby. She threatened me again with losing my uterus or my life, so I asked to talk to my husband. Later he told me that she told him “you need to be on my side, don’t tell her she needs to come back.”

I told him they weren’t letting me come back to the room and that he needed to call my sister, it was now 5am, and tell her to come to the hospital and nurse the baby. He spoke to the nurse and said “I know it isn’t visiting hours, but I’m going to have my sister in law come nurse the baby since they aren’t releasing Rachel.” The nurse looked shocked at the thought of someone else coming in to nurse the baby and then made a call or two, and magically I was released back to my room!

Milkman looked totally wiped by the time I came back. He was holding out sweet little fatlng and got choked up when he saw me. He kissed me over and over and said he was terrified that he was going to lose me forever that night. I latched my sweet newborn on, and nursed him, Milkman crawled into the bed next to me, and we slept, very much alive, and very blessed to be together.

———

I never know where to stop these birth stories. There was a lot more that happened before, during, and after, but this was so long as it was. I was encouraged by my besties not to worry about the length of the story, because at the end of the day, I’m writing this story for Gordito and for me. I want to remember these things, and I want him to know how he entered this world.

It’s strange to me that his labor was my shortest at just 18 hours, and that while he was my biggest, he was my easiest delivery. The aftermath was terrible, his size likely played a part in my hemorrhage, but I am so glad that things ended as favorable as they could have!

This was also the first time postpartum that I felt the docs realized the severity of my disability. The day after delivery, they had a pelvic floor therapist in my room assessing me, and put in a referral for me to receive pelvic floor therapy when I got home. It took 9 months of weekly appointments to get me out of the chair, off the walker, and only needing my cane for flare ups or long walks. I’m so grateful for the care I received postpartum. I also had a bunch of iron infusions after delivering, and was well cared for in that respect.

A year out and Milkman still gets choked up thinking about the hemorrhage. In some ways, I feel like that wasn’t even me, but I am grateful to be alive!

My baby is one today. He is the love of my mama life, he’s my little (BIG) best friend. At a year, he loves to babble, laugh, be tickled, and make funny noises. He’s a very anti-social baby and only has eyes for mama and papa— but especially mama. We never get to be alone or go on a date because he can’t handle being apart from me, but I’ll tell you, it’s worth him tagging along, because even when I’m most burnt out, I look at his chubby face, ridiculous toothy grin, and he snuggles into the crook of my neck, signs to nurse, and I’m smitten all over again.

Happy 1st Birthday, my sweet baby boy.

Teething Blues

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Sweet Little Gordito,

Today you are teething and it must be very painful. You are normally such a happy baby, but today, nothing is working. You scream and arch your back, you nurse constantly, and won’t let me put you down. Your feelings are so big, but you are so small, and it must be really hard to process that.

My feelings are big, too. I’m touched out, my ears are ringing from the constant switch between screaming and white noise, and sometimes both combined. I’m trying to get my kitchen organized and there are piles of dirty dishes and pantry items strewn about. Every time I make progress in one cabinet or on one shelf you awake or begin to fuss, and I have to stop what I’m doing, leave a half done job, and pick you up and nurse. My breasts are sore from the constant popping off and latching on, back and forth to either side, and gnawing as you teethe.

I remember it was about 6.5 years ago when your oldest brother Captain was a baby. He had lots of big feelings, too. Especially at night. I remember these endless nights where we would be up constantly. And I was so tired. One night he was up 23 times and I thought he was broken and I was broken, and we took him to doctors and chiropractors, tried medicines and tinctures, tried routines and methods, and nothing worked, and we were exhausted. Everyone had an opinion, so we tried them all.

One time we decided to let him cry. He cried and cried and cried. The books said he would stop, but he didn’t stop. He cried so hard it hurt, and each night we tried it got worse, and we set timers and sat outside the door waiting for that break, but it never came. A few days of that and your daddy and I decided we would never do that to one of our babies again. We remembered how as Christian parents it was particularly important for us to remember that we were called to treat our children how God treats us. We remembered that we were ambassadors for Him, and that every time we were tired and weary God always listened to us and responded. We remembered that when we cry out to God, he is gracious and loving. We remembered that even when we are being irrational in our adult tantrums, the Lord is patient with us.

And when we remembered this, our mindset shifted. We learned to accept the long nights, to realize that our baby was just pushing us closer to Jesus, and that he wasn’t broken. I went to bed every night knowing I would be awake in 30 minutes, to nurse, and every 30 minutes for the whole night. And I changed. I literally changed. Yes, I still had nights where I felt like I was losing my mind and I was so exhausted I googled “can you die from sleep deprivation?” But overall, I was less angry, less anxious, less depressed, and less frustrated and daddy was, too.

Since Captain, each of your older siblings have slept better than the sibling before them. Most nights, I’m only up 4-6 times with you, which is a delightful change from Captain’s usual 10-12 a night. You meld so well into our routine and are so low maintenance that I’m not used to fussiness in a baby, so when you are, it comes as a shock. A reminder to switch off the part in my brain that grows weary and frustrated, angry and upset and fights, and turn on the part of my brain that remembers that you are only small once. That you aren’t trying to ruin my day or my night. That accepting these interruptions are for growing me and also slowing me so I can spend more time kissing your pudgy cheeks and soaking in your delicious scent.

My feelings are big, your feelings are big, but I am bigger than you. So it’s my job to hold yours and my own, to breathe and remember that soon— too soon— you’ll be reading books and riding bikes, and I’ll be missing your teething snuggles.

I love you, little fatling.

Love,

Mama

Happy 4th Birthday, Ezra

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Dear Ezra,

Today is your 4th birthday. 4. I can’t even believe this will be the 4th year we have celebrated your birthday without you here. Wasn’t I just in the hospital waiting to deliver your tiny, lifeless body?

So much has happened since that day, Sweet Boy. 4 months after I delivered you, I became pregnant with your little sister, our rainbow, Peachy. But that’s not all. There were 4 foster children in and out of our home since then. We moved— my goodness leaving the house we lived in where you lived and died in my womb nearly shattered my heart. I’ve experienced hosts of physical ailments, and a few diagnoses. Your big brother and big sister have gone from toddlers to elementary aged kids. After saying goodbye to you and two of your baby foster brothers who came and left after you, the Lord blessed us with a forever baby boy, your brother Gordito. He’s sleeping now in my arms with a full belly of mama’s milk and swaddled like a chubby burrito.

There has been so much change since you left us, and yet? I still miss you. I still feel your loss in physical and tangible ways.

Sometimes when I am kissing your baby brother, his soft, bubble gummy cheeks, I wonder if you would have looked like him if you had made it. I sniff in his pungent smell and remember all I have of you is a little box of ashes.

Sometimes I think about how different life would be if you had lived. There would be no Peachy, in all her wild insanity, I love her so much I can’t fathom life without her, and yet if you were here, she wouldn’t be. That makes me feel guilty if I think about it too much.

Sometimes when I’m in the living room with your brothers and sisters, I count their heads “1, 2, 3, 4…” and then I go into a mild panic scanning the room looking for you. Where is my other child? There have been times where I have gotten up and looked in other rooms in the house for a fifth child, and as I do, I am overcome with sadness again remembering you aren’t here. There’s no fifth head to count.

Ezra. My beautiful, itty bitty boy. I’ll never stop grieving your loss. I’ll always have a piece of my puzzle missing with you not here. I’ll forever remember you and keep your memory alive in the hearts of your siblings, so that even when I’m dead and gone and holding you in Heaven, your name will not be forgotten on earth.

But for now my love, I know you don’t miss me. You’re complete. You have lived a fuller life in the 4 years you’ve been in the presence of the Lord than I have 32 years on earth. You are held by arms more capable than mine, you are cared for better than I could have done, and you are loved even more than this imperfect mama ever could. I have such great joy knowing you are not mourning, you never have and never will.

God is good— all the time, and I take comfort in knowing that one day, we will be reunited together with Christ.

I love you, sweet Ezra Eugene.

Love,

Your Mama