I know that I would definitely use a midwife again. I would search for a good one and have a homebirth, no doubt about that. I would exercise more regularly during the pregnancy. I would eat as healthy as I could, especially to avoid insulin resistance (I am sure that I had insulin resistance when I was pregnant with Mo and that that has contributed to her chubbiness). I would skip all ultrasounds. I would get regular massages and adjustments. 

I would do the Vitamin K, but orally as we did with Moira. My objection is more to the shot than the use of Vitamin K. I would definitely not vaccinate, but we would do the newborn screening test as we did with both kids. I would breastfeed for sure and would definitely co-sleep (unless for some reason the baby didn’t like that). I would learn to use different baby carriers and use them more often, I think. I would definitely use cloth diapers again, but I would splurge and get some all-in-ones or something. In fact, I’d have some research to do because there are so many more options than there were when Chico Habib was born.

I think the biggest thing I would do is make sure I have way more help after the baby arrives. I would welcome help of any sort. I would also want some quiet. I might want visitors, but it would be limited for a couple of weeks. I would also want quiet bonding time for the family. I would also not try to jump right back into everything. I would enjoy my babymoon, darnit! I don’t feel like I did that with either baby for different reasons. With Chico Habib I didn’t enjoy it because we had such a rough time with the breastfeeding and I felt like such a failure and it was a horrible time. Plus, he was never big on the whole sleeping and napping business, so it was hard to enjoy a babymoon. With Mo, it was the darn afterpains that made it hard to enjoy my babymoon. Also, tandem nursing was hard. Very hard. I don’t regret doing it, but also would not want to do it again. 

Anyway, it’s hard to give advice to people, which is why I wrote this as a "What if" sort of post. Not everyone is interested in homebirth, which is fine. I do think people should explore their options, choose their care providers carefully, and think about the kind of birth experience they want. Having a healthy baby is important, but having a positive birth experience is also important. So many women are taken advantage of, threatened, and scared while they are at the hospital. This is NOT right and I think that if women have educated themselves, they are less likely to be taken advantage of.

I do think that everyone should give breastfeeding a try, and, most importantly, make sure they have a support system for breastfeeding BEFORE the baby arrives. I think that people should respond to the cries of their babies and should keep them close. I think that people should educate themselves about vaccines. I think that circumcision should be outlawed unless medically necessary. Of all the decisions we’ve made, keeping Chico Habib intact was one of the best. It wasn’t really a decision so much as a thought that it was HIS body and his choice. I think that women should have a babymoon and be able to enjoy it. I think families should pitch in and treat the new mom like a queen and take care of her. And that women should let people do this for them. I so wish I had! 

The burst of energy was premenstrual as well. I like that kind of PMS better than the other kinds. But somehow it didn’t last. Aunt Flo teased me for a couple of days. I had some spotting, but nothing (except the energy and hunger). Then today she made a grand entrance. I have cramps and I feel crappy. But I felt good this morning, even if I was tired. We ate eggs and jelly toast and jasmine green tea. We watched a movie. I played with the kids. Chico Habib was upset because I have been busily cleaning the house and the porches for his birthday party on Sunday. He’s conflicted. On the one hand, he is excited about his party and presents, but on the other hand he is upset that I am spending so much time cleaning (and not being with him). Of course, I think this is made worse when I have been very withdrawn lately. 

Anyway, I didn’t feel like cooking dinner because I was tired. I felt fine, though. Just tired. Krimboor and I talked about what do do about dinner. We have no quick to fix food. Apparently no one else wants to cook, either. Krimboor looks in the big freezer in the garage and then mentions the lasagna that is in there. I think he asked about the freezer burned lasagna, in fact. I asked if it was really freezer burned and he said he didn’t know. Then he said it’s been in there for months. I said it’s been in there since May 20. I remember making that lasagna. I remember it very well because I made it the day my niece passed away. It was made with love for a grieving family. It ended up in the freezer because lasagna is an easy meal to make and others brought lasagna to them also. I figured mine could wait. The kids wanted lasagna. I don’t know if my sister-in-law wants a lasagna that’s been in the freezer for four months, but still it feels wrong to eat it. I don’t think the kids understood. I don’t think Krimboor understands. 

So Krimboor goes to town (the little town that has very few options) to get frozen pizzas. I ate hot dogs because of the whole gluten-free thing. Then we had dessert. Then the night went to shit. I tried to keep things together, but in the end I know I’m the one who lost it and made it crappy. Krimboor made the pizzas and served the kids. He emptied the dishwasher. Hubby played with the kids a bit and helped get them water or something. We were going to play a board game but the kids played for about 2 minutes and then went outside. I went out and they were playing in the creek. I figured I could go down to the end of the lane and mow while they played in the creek down that way. Krimboor comes in the house and sees me getting my shoes on and says I’m going to need his galoshes. FUCK. It’s muddy. I had forgotten. It’s a bad idea. I was going to walk down to the road (Chico Habib drove the mower with Mo in the trailer), but then Krimboor was making some comment about how I do whatever a 7 year old and a 4 year old want me to do. Hubby was in the house playing with his damn phone. Now I’m mad at Krimboor for his snide comment (and the fact that he was eating dessert but then asking the kids if they ate enough dinner when he knew how much they had eaten and knows we don’t exactly do that in our house and it was that patronizing tone that adults pretty much only use on kids, but would NEVER use on another adult). I’m mad at Hubby for being more connected to his phone than his family. So I come inside and pick a fight with him. He storms upstairs. FUCK FUCK FUCK. Now I’m mad and the guys are both mad and I fucked it all up.

I’m stressed because the downstairs has gotten messy because the kids got stuff out. Well, that’s not exactly right. I’m stressed because I know that if I don’t cajole everyone into helping pick up the downstairs that I will be picking it up tomorrow. I’m tired and I don’t want to do this. I don’t like seeing my hard work go unappreciated and undone so quickly. I felt stupid for thinking of mowing when I know it is too muddy to get the damn mower to the end of the lane. Of course it gets stuck. Krimboor’s boots don’t fit over my fat calves. He says he is sinking in pretty good, so I know that I will sink. If I get stuck, that’s worse than the mower getting stuck. Fuck it all. Now I give up. I can’t clean this house for the party all by myself. I can’t do it all by myself. I just can’t.

So I give up and sit in front of my computer. They get the mower out and everyone comes back to the house. Chico Habib wants my computer, my water, me. But he’s all muddy and I’m all upset. So I give him my computer and my water but not myself. Instead I picked up a bit and then sat in a chair near him. He seemed fairly happy, chattering to himself the whole time. Mo was drawing letters for Krimboor. The kitten was finally playing with the cat toy Krimboor brought home from the thrift store. I should be happy. Instead, I just sit in the chair feeling nothing. Krimboor goes home. Hubby gets the kids to play the game. They have fun and ask me to come play but I don’t. I don’t want to. I don’t want to do anything except go back to the two normal days I had. 

I know this is jumbled. I know the story makes no sense. I suck at telling stories anyway. The point is, I was fine and now I’m not. And I can’t explain it. Except that maybe it was the lasagna. And I’m worried about my brother, which seems totally out of the blue, but it’s not. His group just moved to a different area in Afghanistan. There have been several people injured since they moved. How could I not be worried? I dream about Hubby’s dad a lot, too. I’m learning Spanish and I keep dreaming that he is sitting in a house (his house, our house, the location varies) and I ask him something in Spanish. Then I wake up and realize that I will never get to practice my Spanish with him and that we will never see him again. And then there’s the lasagna. How is it that a lasagna can set things on such a different course? I knew it was in there. I was just thinking about it last night and it made me smile because even if it doesn’t taste good, it was made with love. Even if they don’t want it, I can’t bare to eat it or let anyone else eat it or throw it out. I know it’s just a lasagna, but it’s also so much more. It’s a memory of a horrible day. It’s a memory of a little baby that should be here and isn’t. I miss her. I miss my father-in-law. Grief sucks and it sucks even more when it sneaks up on you. 

So yesterday we went to a park in Quincy, Illinois. It’s near a school that I would guess is a private or a charter school. The neighborhood is definitely middle to upper class. The moms were mostly dressed nicely. One wore a skirt and a white blouse, another wore nice jeans with a blouse. The kids all had khaki pants/shorts and polo shirts with the school logo on it. They call came to the park after school. I felt a bit rednecked because Chico Habib was wearing gray athletic shorts with an orange stain from silly putty. His shirt was a white t-shirt with some drag racing thing on it. That shirt has been chewed and sucked on so that it looks faded and kind of gross. He was also wearing his knee-high boots, which are actually for girls, but aren’t all that girly looking. Mo looks cute, but her clothes are a bit too small. Her belly is hanging out and she is sporting a plumber butt. To be fair,she has been sporting the plumber butt crack look since she was a toddler. It’s something about the way girls pants are cut, too short waisted or something. I’m not sure what it is, but the girl has a butt and most pants do not seem to be cut for her figure. Now, if she were 20something she’d be fashionable. But at this park, we looked out of place.

Now, I say all this mostly as an observation. I do not in any way feel bad. I love my kids. I love their style. I love that they pick out their own clothes and they don’t always match. I love that they play without worrying about getting their clothes dirty. I love that they are both comfortable in their bodies. They lack that self-consciousness that seems to start so young, especially for girls. I have no problem with a little butt crack showing. I do, however, have a problem with other kids being so intolerant. At least two kids said something to Mo about pulling her pants up, or telling her that her butt was showing. This is a girl that is chubby but is not self-conscious in the least. She feels comfortable in her skin and in her body. She felt comfortable in her clothes, until someone else made her feel uncomfortable. 

What I don’t understand is how other kids can be so intolerant. These kids were elementary school aged. They already seemed to think that clothes are important. They seem to already be judging the book by its cover, so to speak. They seem to think it is perfectly OK to comment on a the body of a little girl. I’ve had this happen with my 11 year old nephew, too. I thought that maybe 11 year old boys are somehow more acutely aware of social norms or something. But now I’m not so sure. Now, to be fair, not all the kids were like this. There was one girl who played with Mo and didn’t seem to bat an eye at the belly and buttcrack. My nieces sometimes ask about our unusual habits, such at the kids not wearing shoes or underwear. But they do it in a way that is just curious because we do things differently. I never catch any hint of judgment behind their questions or behind my sister-in-laws answers. 

I realize my choice of words may be troublesome. I’m not sure. Is redneck offensive? I know it can be, but it seems that as with many labels, it has been used by the group it is applied to. It has been taken and changed to have an almost positive meaning. I think. I’m not sure. I’m not sure what it means exactly. A friend posted on facebook that she had gone to a redneck birthday party. I wasn’t sure what that meant. I didn’t ask, even though I should have. Are we rednecks because we live in the country? Because even though we have a minivan it is alway dirty? (There is NO SUCH THING as a clean car when you live in the country. You drive over gravel and through mud. It’s not possible to keep our cars clean). Are we rednecks because my kids are mostly barefoot at the park? Are we rednecks because our clothes aren’t "nice?" Because Chico Habib has a buzz cut and is wearing boots? Because his knee is skinned up? Because Mo’s hair is messy (Damn if we can keep it looking neat anyway!)?

So if you have an education and you have money, do you have to do things to prove that? Do we need to wear nice clothes all the time just because we can afford it? Do my kids need to wear nice, clean shoes just because? Should they have nicer haircuts? I don’t think so. I think they are fine and we are fine. I think it’s the rest of the world (though not everyone) that is so hung up on appearances. It seems to me that a lot of people live beyond their means just so they can appear to be more than they are. What is wrong with being a farmer or working class? I grew up in a working class family. My parents worked hard. My dad worked a job that he hated for many, many years. My mom worked jobs with flexible hours or worked third shift so that she could still take care of us, go to school events, etc. There is nothing wrong with that. It’s just weird to me. It’s weird to me that kids can be so judgmental at such an early age. It’s weird that clothes and style are so important, even to elementary school children. It’s weird that girls learn to not like their bodies at such a young age.  

I don’t know who or what is to blame for this. Sometimes it’s the parents. Sometimes the parents are fussy and intolerant and they pass that attitude onto their children. Some kids are just naturally fussy. Some kids learn at school (are they learning from the kids who learned from their own fussy parents?). Some learn from the media. I have no idea. I just know that I am glad my kids are not in school. How long would it be before Mo came home crying because some kid told her she was fat and made fun of her? She was upset about the two comments at the park. I can only imagine how much worse school would be.  

We got back from Phoenix a couple of weeks ago. I felt tired when we got back. I’m still waiting for my energy to return, but it’s not happening. I did have a couple of days of feeling fairly normal (again, after a day of being together as a family, a day where it was not just me and the kids for 10 hours or so). Now, the darkness is back. I feel crappy, but not physically. OK, well sort of physically. I feel tired and worn out. It’s not really lack of sleep so much as it is that I need a break. I had a Mom’s Day Out in Phoenix. I had a Girls’ Night Out at home. It’s not enough.

I pretty much spend my days in front of the computer. I am withdrawn. I have withdrawn. I don’t want to sit on the couch and snuggle. I don’t want to watch TV. I want to be alone. It isn’t really the kids, it’s me. I just want to be alone. I am drained. Is that the same thing as depressed? I can hardly tell the difference. I’m not sure it matters. I just want to be alone.

I cannot meet the kid’s emotional needs. I am meeting their physical needs, which are fairly minor considering they are almost-7 and 4.5. They are fairly self-sufficient if they need to be. And if they aren’t, it’s not that big a deal to get them a bowl of cereal. Their physical needs are so unimportant compared to their emotional needs. They fight. Still. They don’t want to learn how to get along. They don’t want to use their words. They don’t want to talk about their feelings. They just want to fight. I hate it. It tears me apart inside and I feel hopeless. I am out of my depth. I no longer know my kids or what they want or need. I just want someone else to figure it out because I can’t/won’t/don’t want to. 

I am lost. I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing. I’m a mother. I’m a wife. That’s it, really. I don’t know what else to be. I guess I’m a chickenkeeper, but if you saw the coop and how lazy I am about the chickens, you’d laugh at that label. I have a garden, and if you saw it you would laugh. Or cry. I really don’t know. I gave up on the garden after we travelled to Puerto Rico and then to Phoenix. No one really wanted to help with the part that I don’t like to do. I WANT a garden. I WANT to be a homesteader. I WANT to be those things, but it’s not happening. I can’t do any of it. It’s too much and it’s too overwhelming.  

I feel like shit. I feel like a shitty person, a shitty wife, a shitty mother, a shitty daughter-in-law, daughter, gardener, homesteader. I am nothing. I do’nt know what’s wrong with me. Is it psychological? Is it my neurotransmitters? Is it my adrenals? Thyroid? Insulin? Something I ate or didn’t eat? Am I just tired the way mothers get because they are responsible for every little thing? Am I just an introvert who never gets time to herself? Am I just lazy? I just want someone to tell me. I’m so tired of trying to figure it out. I just want to be normal. I want to be happy and fun and carefree. I feel like I should be able to change my thoughts and bring myself out of this but I just can’t. 

Fuck. I already started this post and it was going well and then somehow my stupid hand hit something and the browser went back, back, back. Now it’s all gone. Should I start over? Cry? Fling myself on the bed?

We are in Phoenix. We are here to see friends and have fun. I will go because I am supposed to, because it is expected of me, because I feel compelled to go. And I don’t know what else to do.

I don’t want to be here. But "here" isn’t Phoenix or the hotel or the houses of our friends.

I will go. I will act normally. I know how to do that. I think that is one thing schools do. That’s what people mean when they talk about socialization. That’s why people object to homeschooling. Because homeschooled kids don’t always act "normal." They don’t go to school where their peers will bully them or make fun of them for every little thing. I went to school. I know how to act normal. I know how to talk the talk, even if I don’t walk the walk. I know how to talk the talk even if I don’t feel like it or want to.

I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to be here.

I might interrupt more than I should, more than is socially acceptable. That comes from being constantly interrupted.

"Mommy," Moira says in a whiny voice. She is whiny and upset because Aidan locked her out of the bedroom area of the hotel room. The upsets are mutual, the upsets have a long history. Yet the upsets start out small and escalate. I don’t know what Moira wants. Or, I do, but I don’t have it in me. She wants to be heard and comforted. So I change the TV to something she will like to watch.

I am a horrible mother. I don’t want to mother.

Other than interrupting more often than I should, I think I do OK. I don’t mention Moira’s nursing or family beds to anyone unless I know they will be supportive. I don’t talk about vaccines or politics or religion with anyone. I don’t really talk about anything important to anyone because what is important to me doesn’t seem to matter to anyone else. How I feel doesn’t matter. I can force myself to smile and laugh and make others comfortable.

I don’t feel like smiling or laughing. I have no sense of humor. I don’t have fun and I don’t know how.

I think I do OK, but then after almost every social situation I analyze it in my head. I am definitely my worst critic. I see how things I said could have been misinterpreted and hurt someone’s feelings. I think about my tone of voice and how I sounded angry when I wasn’t, sounded confident when I wasn’t, sounded uncertain when I knew what I was talking about. I think about every stupid thing I’ve ever said, like the time I asked a realtor if the power company turns off power in the summer if people don’t pay their bills. She was worried we wouldn’t pay our bills. I was just thinking about how in Philadelphia, the power companies cannot turn off power in the middle of winter because people can DIE. Does it work like that here? Is Phoenix compassionate (even if that compassion is legally mandated)? That was what I wanted to know, but my comment was just stupid.

We drove by our old house yesterday. I don’t really feel sad. I don’t miss this place at all and I don’t want to move back. But I do feel SOMETHING. I feel so much sometimes that I can’t think, I can’t process, I can’t make decisions.

I just want to be left alone. Why doesn’t my brain work? What is wrong with me?

I think about a time at playgroup where one mom and I were talking about how smart our kids were. I said to another mom that it would be cool to see if her son were smart, too. What the fuck? I thought about that later and how it sounded and how I meant it. Partly I suppose I was being full of myself, but mostly it was that her little boy was younger. I didn’t mean it like THAT. But she never came around again. I saw her out in public once and she didn’t look at me or ackowledge me. Maybe she didn’t recognize me.

I’m sure she hates me.

I think about my brother-in-law who I adore. He is such a sweet, sensitive person. He is also quiet. If he doesn’t want to talk about something, he doesn’t talk. So that means mostly that he doesn’t talk about anything important. I think we are probably a lot alike, except that instead of being quiet, I talk. Too much. I chatted with him online and asked him how something went with his dad. I was concerned about him, but I suppose I was also being nosey. He stopped chatting. I feel like shit.

Sometimes I think he doesn’t even like me anyway. I would be devastated if he didn’t. But I wouldn’t blame him, either.

I think I should just talk less. If I can’t talk about important things, then why talk at all? I know that my brain works differently than a lot of people’s brains. It’s not that I’m smarter or anything like that. It’s just that I’m not normal. And I think I know how to act normal, but I really don’t. I just want to be myself, but I don’t know what that means anymore.

I don’t want to be me. I don’t want to be.

I think it might be nice to be a Stepford wife. To be happy doing menial chores around the house. To not expect anything in return, no appreciation, no help. I want to be able to do all the things I do with love, but the truth is that I don’t always. I do the menial stuff because it needs to be done. I have the most time. I care the most about what kind of food we eat, where it comes from. I care if the house is somewhat clean. I feel guitly when people can’t find things in the house, as if it is all my fault.

I am the worst feminist in the world. My ltitle girl wears pink and wears make-up. She is super girly. My boy is a boy. He is rough and tumble. She is empathetic and sensitive. He is nearly oblivious to the feelings of others. What does that have to do with anything? Nothing. Except I think of myself as a feminist, but I don’t even know what that means. I feel like my kids watch too much media and that is why Mo is into being girly, why they think calling names is normal. I waffle all the time. Too much TV or no limits? Loving electronics and yet feeling disconnected because of them. I still do not have any new friends in Illinois. I am not making any on the computer, and I know this but still I persist.

"Mommy, can you hit start? I can hit 3 and 2, but I just can’t hit 3 and 2," says Moira. I don’t know exactly what she means. I’m trying to figure it out and type what she is saying at the same time. Yelling ensues because I am busy typing what she is saying instead of getting up and taking care of her.

The kids don’t want me. They just want someone to wait on them. They probably hate me. I deserve it, so I wouldn’t be surprised.

Now she is eating leftover Taco Bell. We got the kids Taco Bell for dinner last night because that’s what they wanted and I was too tired to fight it. Too tired to just say no. I should say no more often. Or maybe less often.

I have no idea what I’m doing as a mother.

The kids fight. A lot. Every day they hurt each other. My reaction varies. Sometimes I am indifferent. Sometimes I am enraged. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I do nothing. Sometimes I talk to them and try to help them work it out. Nothing seems to help or work. I’m sure they hate each other.

"Mommy, I’m really hungry," she says as she is rooting through the hotel fridge. I know there isn’t much in there. I say, "We will go get food soon." She says, "Mommy, can I spray whipped cream in my mouth?" I say sure because why not? It’s longer I can sit here and write and feel sorry for myself. So I take a few minutes to teach her how to spray the can into her mouth. 

What a great skill to learn! I am the best mother ever.

I hear her doing it wrong. I hear the air coming out, but no whipped cream. I yell at her for not doing it right.

I sound mean and horrible. I hate it. I hate myself.

The kids are hungry. We need to go. I still feel like crap, but at least I’m not trying to drive while I’m sobbing. I’m not lying on the bed sobbing and feeling sorry for myself. So I guess I am OK. I will seem OK, even though I am not. My friends will not know the difference. They might notice that I seem down or upset, but they will never guess the extent of it. I will never tell them or let on, either.

I don’t know what it means to have a best friend. I don’t have a best friend. I have friends, but I never call them to chat. I never call when something is wrong. I am the worst friends in the world and I don’t deserve to have any friends anyway. Why would they want to be around me? I find it hard to believe that some of them are rearranging their schedules just to see us. What’s wrong with them? Don’t they know me at all? If they did they wouldn’t do this for us.

Tom will know I was upset. I was already upset and crying last night when I picked him up from work. I cried on the way to Taco Bell and to the hotel. He asked if someone was mean to me at playgroup. I said yes and that is what started the tears. The person who was mean to me was my own son.

I have a breakdown and the kids go on as if life is normal. Mo asks me what is wrong a few times, but gives up after I fail to answer or explain. They act like this is normal because it is. I have mood swings. Sometimes I am hateful. I have hateful thoughts about myself in my head. I have these horrible thoughts and I almost don’t know what is in my head and what I have said out loud.

I am depressed. Why is it so hard to say it, to admit it, to OWN it? I don’t want to be depressed. I just want to be normal. Maybe I’m slightly bipolar. I felt great a week ago. Now, if I ceased to exist, that would be fine with me. I think the kids would be fine. In the deepest part of my mind, I think they would be better without me. The guys would be better without me. They both seem to love me. They do love me. They say so but I don’t believe them. I treat them like shit. I do not deserve them. I don’t know why they put up with me. Someday they will realize they would be happier without me.

The kids are yelling. Mo shared the whipped cream with Aidan, but now it’s gone. They are scrounging in the fridge. I said if they get dressed we will go. They didn’t hear, they didn’t listen. I don’t know which and I don’t care. They will do what they want to do anyway. It’s time to go before they hurt each other again. Thank God for the TV because now Aidan is in there and they aren’t fighting. It’s time to go.

I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be me. I don’t want to be. I think I can fake it, but I don’t know if I can for much longer. If the kids fight at playgroup or someone asks what is wrong, I might not be able to fake it. I have to fake it. It’s time to go.

I can’t remember exactly how old Chico Habib was, but he was a toddler. It was Halloween, but during the day. Chico Habib was wearing tennis shoes, which is unheard of these days. We were out with Krimboor as he was looking at a used truck. But it wasn’t the usual car dealership, it was some place that was mostly indoors and they had repossessed cars and trucks for sale. Anyway, we were outside and there was a puddle. A big puddle. Chico Habib jumped in the puddle and giggled. He did it again and again and again. It was one of those moments that was full of joy and wonder and discovery. Of course I "let" him do this. How could I stop him from doing something he so obviously enjoyed? I enjoyed watching him. It was a great moment.

We arrived at the hospital and their dad came out to get them. We waited for a few minutes to give them some time together and then we went back to see our newest niece. I was also very excited. We have lived in Illinois now for a year and a half and are getting to know our nieces, but we weren’t here when they were little. So I was very excited to have a little niece to get to know and a baby to hold. I was so happy for my sister-in-law and her family because they were so excited and happy to have a baby.

________________________________________

I remember my sister-in-law waffling about another baby. Sometimes she would tell me they wanted another one. Sometimes she would say she was happy to be done with diapers and those kinds of baby things. But in the end, they decided their family was not complete. My sister-in-law told me that she never said it made sense to have another baby. She just meant that it didn’t make sense to start over with the baby stuff when her other two girls are 6 and 7. But sometimes things just don’t make sense on a rational level, but they make perfect sense to your heart. 

And sometimes the universe just doesn’t make sense at all. Sometimes things are just so wrong, yet there is nothing you can do to change anything. The next time I picked up the girls at school was not such a happy occasion. Their mom was at the hospital with their little sister again. This time, the baby was not conscious. Something was wrong and the hospital was running tests. It was pretty serious, but the kids didn’t really understand how serious. I watched the four kids for hours. We had a great time that day, and yet it was one of the saddest days of my life. I say that, and yet I feel so selfish saying it because I know that whatever sadness I feel, my sister-in-law feels infinitely sadder. You see, that day her baby was air-lifted to a bigger hospital in a bigger city. Just before they air-lifted her, the local hospital did a CT scan and found blood in her brain. 

She died the next day at 21 days old. And this is a horrible sadness.

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It’s been two weeks since the funeral. I remember someone at the visitation telling me to think of the good that will come of this. Or something along those lines. It struck me as a wrong thing to say. It wasn’t comforting to me. I suppose it is to some people. Some people have faith and trust that there is a higher power and a purpose to all things, no matter how horribly sad those things are. I almost envy people their faith at times like this because it does seem to comfort them. 

Yet, even though I lack that faith, I can be comforted by small things. I can see that there is some good in this situation. It is a comfort to know that they chose to donate some parts of her body. Some other baby or child may be living because of their generosity. My sister-in-law and her family are being tested for clotting disorders, as it was a deficiency in a clotting factor that led to the brain hemorrhage. There are other good things, such as seeing family and friends come together to help out. At this moment, they have so many paper products they don’t know what to do with them. People have been bringing meals now for more than 2 weeks. Seeing how they are a part of this community, how a small town can band together to help out, has been wonderful. They have some wonderful friends and family. I’m sure they already knew that, but now they know it 100 times over. 

Seeing how strong a marriage is, how much love is there and how much they care about each other is a goodness beyond measure. So, there is good along with the horrible sadness. Today I feel the horrible sadness the most. But when my little boy can finally look at pictures of his lost little cousin without feeling too sad and my little girl comes over and asks why I’m so sad and gives me a hug, I know that some things in the world are still making sense. 

• hypothyroid
• insulin resistance (which doesn’t seem as bad as it used to be, but is still there)
• estrogen dominance
• adrenal fatigue
• possible food allergies
• possibly Candida growth in my intestines
• stomach aches 

Some of these issues I am not sure about as the saliva test hasn’t come back yet (I was supposed to do it about 2 months ago but we were on a plane to Puerto Rico to say goodbye to my father-in-law). I have an appointment on April 12 and I will find out more about my adrenal and sex hormone levels. I’m already on thyroid medicine, but the doctor tells me that if your adrenals are not working well, the thyroid medicine will not be as effective. I was tested for food allergies, but the results were apparently way off. I showed absolutely no reaction to almost every food. I did show some IgG reactions to coffee beans, cranberry, red grapes, oysters, and sesame seeds. But the fact that I showed no reaction at all apparently means my immune system is totally out of whack. 

I alternate between energetic and exhausted. Sometimes it might be the food I eat, but sometimes I just think of food first. I used to do that when I was eating fewer carbohydrates due to the insulin resistance. If I ate something and felt sluggish, I figured it was too many carbohydrates. Sometimes that is the case, but sometimes there is no obvious reason for the exhaustion. Or no obvious reason other than being a stay-at-home-mom/cook/personal shopper/maid/really bad accountant/chicken keeper. I have no doubt that attachment parenting and unschooling, especially without an adequate support network, is part of the problem. And yet I felt this way in Phoenix, too, and I had a kick-ass support network out there. Part of it is just from being a mom. It’s hard, no matter if you stay-at-home, work-at-home, work outside the home. If you are doing the parenting gig right, no matter what your choices, it should be hard. Right? It should be rewarding, too, but some days it’s just freaking hard to get out of bed and take care of children all day long (and sometimes all night long).  

Anyway, I have some other thoughts about how my body got to be this way. I’ve been reading a lot of stuff about adrenal glands, healing the gut, sugar, insulin, serotonin, and how they are all related. If I work up the energy, I might write another post with some links. I can’t promise anything, though. If anyone reading this is really interested, you can leave a comment and I’ll e-mail you some links. 

Last week when my brother-in-law was visiting, I realized that my parenting looks like this to many people. Some people have figured out that I do actually know what I am doing. I think my mom gets it, but it took her a while. And at first I think she spent a lot of time biting her tongue. I know that my mother-in-law gets it because her view on children is very similar to mine. That is, we both believe that children are people. Most importantly, I think it took my husband a while to figure out what I was doing. It took a lot of conversations, and some yelling and fighting, for us to be on the same page. We don’t always do things the same way, but we at least have the same basic goals and values. I can’t say that I always know what I am doing (what mother does?), but I am very thoughtful about parenting, about my children’s feelings and their wants and needs. I read, I talk to people, I observe other parents and I mull it all over and figure out how things will work for us. I know my kids and I know what works for us and what doesn’t.

I know that my parenting requires a lot of thought, a lot of creativity, and a lot of flexibility. It doesn’t look the same from one minute to the next or from one child to the other. It looks mainstream only when I am needing to take care of myself or needing time to myself or just completely frustrated. When I’m connected and present, it looks like I’m a big kid myself. So it looks different because I need to be a different kind of parent depending on the circumstances. To others, I think it looks like I have no idea what I’m doing. But I do, dammit! How can I change this appearance? Or should I not worry about it?