Clif sometimes tells me he likes how I can take a complex concept and break it down in multiple ways so it's easy to digest for the masses. I strive to offer several ways of looking at an idea so that the given audience can have the greatest chance of at least one of them making sense. My most common habit is to use an everyday, mundane situation to explain more complicated ones. For example, when teaching about shock in our CPR and first aid classes we discuss how signs and symptoms can include an initial flush to the skin, followed by skin pallor (pale). A stimulus triggers shock, causes the heart to pump faster and move blood to the body core from the extremities and so to me the flushing of a toilet seems to be the perfect every day analogy to depict what happens to your body. Imagine it: You flush the toilet, there is a rush of water in the bowl then it drains. The skin flushes red as the heart rate increases and rushes your blood before it drains from your head. Crude? Yes. A bit of a stretch? Sure! But it clicks at least a little bit, right?
Recently I've been pretty stressy. Responsibilities in a variety of areas of my life have been feeling impossibly huge, heavy and I've been cracking under the weight. A lot of it is work related, though certainly not all. This causes Clif a bit of worry as he's not used to seeing me drag and wants the instant fix to be to remove the primary instigator completely. The thing is, I love my job, just as I love all of the activities I participate in. Even though they can run me ragged sometimes I care about them all too much to be willing to let any go.
In an effort to try to better understand my... let's call it "sensitivity" (i.e. an increasing number of days of pj-wearing, couch-surfing lethargy, inconsolable crying fits, mild depression and nearly 2+ solid months worth of upset stomach) I came up with a scenario for him to try to better understand:
Imagine a brand new sponge, right out of the packaging. It's light weight, hard and can be hurled in any direction at all manner of objects without fear of pain or mess. You hold it under the faucet and watch the water as it initially pools on the surface of the sponge before it starts to sloooowly seep in, spreading a little at a time towards the corners. Once it's entirely wet it's heavy and absorbs liquid so much faster and easier. The idea of throwing it around becomes highly undesirable. But if you let it sit in the dish drainer for a while it dries out, rebuilds its initial resistance.
I'm a sponge. A really, really wet one that hasn't had the chance to dry back out. Things that may not have bothered me much before have been affecting me in tidal waves and I barely want to get off the couch much less throw myself anywhere or into anything.
Knowing the cause of feeling this way is half the battle. Knowing that in time it will get better is also a great source of hope. In the meantime, though, it's been a bit tricky to balance the weight and keep cleaning up messes without the chance to sit a while in the dish drainer.
As I keep working through the place I am right now, using it as a time to try to find some personal growth and learn how to better deal with my stress and anxieties, I hope to be able to get back to spending more time off the couch than on.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Nostaglic BFFs
Three people crossed my mind last night and I wanted to share a little bit of them with you.
#1
VA is the first friend I can remember making. We met in Kindergarten at Tuckahoe Elementary School. I think we had different teachers but somehow we managed to collide spectacularly. When we were young we looked so much alike the adults in our lives seemed to have a hard time keeping us straight, always mistaking one for the other.
She didn't live very far away from me and I vaguely recall the first time being invited over to her house. It was the first friend-invitation I can remember, period, and it thrilled me. From then on we were two peas from a pod. We shared our families as extensions of our own and spent many an afternoon, night and weekend at each others homes. Our time was spent climbing trees, walking the neighborhood, making slurpee trips to 7-11, having sleepovers, playing with horses, pretending to ride horses, dallying at her ping pong or pool table, making scrumptious delicacies with some flat rocks and dandelion buds, and pinching each other when we got in epic arguments about stupid things. No matter what the circumstances or how many other people we each met she was always my very best friend.
Years later VA lives in Boston, is brilliant and runs in marathons. I live in Virginia, am busy and run in a manner that may appear to outsiders as if I am dying. She is blue-eyed, blonde and pixie-like in her petiteness (I mean that in the most awesome way possible) while I am brown-eyed, a bottle-ginger and... curvy. So, less like the twins we were when we met.
Even though our friendship now isn't the same as back then, alternating homes and acting out the intricate and dramatic lives of tiny plastic horses, I grew up loving her as a sister and will grow old loving her the same way.
#2
N and I met at church when we were too young to sit still through Sunday school. He and the two other boys in our class would inevitably stir up mischief that would capture my rapt attention, I'm sure much to our teacher's annoyance. To me they were so cool, but N most of all.
We went separate ways for many years until one day he reappeared at youth group. Those fond Sunday school memories came flooding back and though childhood friendships don't always transition as well to youth ones when there's many years of lack of exposure, I knew we'd be quick friends.
We were practically glued at the hip.
Often I was questioned if we were dating and had to correct people, saying no, we were just best friends. Sometimes the follow-up question was why not and that was harder for me to answer. See, N was who I consider to be my first love. You know, the one that makes your stomach knot up, shoving your heart up into your throat and your skin tingles with perpetual goosebumps. Or is that just me? Figures.
Anyway, there was a lot of love. A lot of friend love, a lot of one-sided more than friend love and I'm sorry for the discomfort that probably caused him, I couldn't help it (though I tried). Eventually friends and family were able to help me see the doormat I had become in an effort to be Totally Awesome, thinking that is what it would take to prove myself worthy of more-than-friend. In an attempt to stop feeling so strongly in what became an unhealthy way I wrote a poem for him and submitted it to our literary magazine with his name concealed as the title. I don't know if he knew it was for him and it was a ridiculously high-school-girly thing to do but it was cathartic. I still have that poem. I came out of a deep and it scarred a little on the edges, but in the end I was and will forever be grateful for his friendship and the oodles and oodles of time we spent together that I'll always remember.
Like that one time he was going to drive me home and pretended to drive away and leave me in the parking lot so I threw my hand into his open sunroof and jumped into the window Dukes of Hazard style. I think it surprised us both.
#3
M was quiet, one of those guys who could hide right in front of your face. I'd known of him in middle school, his name was familiar, but we never spoke until one fateful year after band camp (and yes, it is taking restraint to not start this story with "And one time...").
Band camp was hot and tiring and lunch was a welcome island of relaxation surrounded by seas of marching, drilling, more marching, correcting formations, sweating, drilling, more sweating and doing it again but BETTER! One such lunch something in my brain flipped, unprovoked, and all of a sudden I noticed M. Obviously I'd always noticed he was there, but I mean I started really paying attention to his solitude. He kept to himself and sat a little way off from the pre-lunch crowd, sometimes with a book. This intrigued me and I started making it a point to say hi to him. Much like a dog who is denied its chewtoy I took this as an open invitation to Bark Louder.
Band camp ended and we returned to the Gates of the Under Worl... I mean, another glorious school year. M's path never seemed to cross as closely as the confines of the doorway outside the camp cafeteria and the band room was a gathering place for barely controlled chaos, making further socialization attempts challenging at best.
My opening into M's armor came in the form of our 3rd quarter break during a home foot ball game. After every half-time show we would be released until the clock counted down to the beginning of 4th where we could wander aimlessly in our band finery. One night I noticed M hanging back, again alone, in the upper corner of the stands while everyone else shuffled to the food stand. I snatched the opportunity and used the low ground to my advantage by strategically pinning him to the corner of the bleachers where he had no escape from my barrage of questioning about his favorite books, movies, hobbies and anything else I could think of.
M was support, and my partner in crime and my homecoming and prom date. He would borrow his dad's Mazda and we would cruise along the canal with the top down and Bare Naked Ladies blasting as loud as we could stand it. Once or twice we would (now pay attention, this is where I admit to naughty-doings fully knowing that my mother reads this blog. Hi Mom! Earmuffs, please!) skip a period or two at the end of a beautiful day to harness up and repel out of the tree in his back yard (hey, at least there was no diving from the train bridge into the canal, *ahemLauraandDonaldahem*). Now every time I day dream of repelling it makes me think of M.
M became my very best friend that year and the memories of the amazing year that was for me, so much so because of him, I hope will forever be engrained on me. I wonder if he ever knew how much he really meant to me, how much I cared about and appreciated him, our friendship. I hardly realized how strongly I felt and if I didn't know it I can't believe he could have. One day I hope he does.
#1
VA is the first friend I can remember making. We met in Kindergarten at Tuckahoe Elementary School. I think we had different teachers but somehow we managed to collide spectacularly. When we were young we looked so much alike the adults in our lives seemed to have a hard time keeping us straight, always mistaking one for the other.
She didn't live very far away from me and I vaguely recall the first time being invited over to her house. It was the first friend-invitation I can remember, period, and it thrilled me. From then on we were two peas from a pod. We shared our families as extensions of our own and spent many an afternoon, night and weekend at each others homes. Our time was spent climbing trees, walking the neighborhood, making slurpee trips to 7-11, having sleepovers, playing with horses, pretending to ride horses, dallying at her ping pong or pool table, making scrumptious delicacies with some flat rocks and dandelion buds, and pinching each other when we got in epic arguments about stupid things. No matter what the circumstances or how many other people we each met she was always my very best friend.
Years later VA lives in Boston, is brilliant and runs in marathons. I live in Virginia, am busy and run in a manner that may appear to outsiders as if I am dying. She is blue-eyed, blonde and pixie-like in her petiteness (I mean that in the most awesome way possible) while I am brown-eyed, a bottle-ginger and... curvy. So, less like the twins we were when we met.
Even though our friendship now isn't the same as back then, alternating homes and acting out the intricate and dramatic lives of tiny plastic horses, I grew up loving her as a sister and will grow old loving her the same way.
#2
N and I met at church when we were too young to sit still through Sunday school. He and the two other boys in our class would inevitably stir up mischief that would capture my rapt attention, I'm sure much to our teacher's annoyance. To me they were so cool, but N most of all.
We went separate ways for many years until one day he reappeared at youth group. Those fond Sunday school memories came flooding back and though childhood friendships don't always transition as well to youth ones when there's many years of lack of exposure, I knew we'd be quick friends.
We were practically glued at the hip.
Often I was questioned if we were dating and had to correct people, saying no, we were just best friends. Sometimes the follow-up question was why not and that was harder for me to answer. See, N was who I consider to be my first love. You know, the one that makes your stomach knot up, shoving your heart up into your throat and your skin tingles with perpetual goosebumps. Or is that just me? Figures.
Anyway, there was a lot of love. A lot of friend love, a lot of one-sided more than friend love and I'm sorry for the discomfort that probably caused him, I couldn't help it (though I tried). Eventually friends and family were able to help me see the doormat I had become in an effort to be Totally Awesome, thinking that is what it would take to prove myself worthy of more-than-friend. In an attempt to stop feeling so strongly in what became an unhealthy way I wrote a poem for him and submitted it to our literary magazine with his name concealed as the title. I don't know if he knew it was for him and it was a ridiculously high-school-girly thing to do but it was cathartic. I still have that poem. I came out of a deep and it scarred a little on the edges, but in the end I was and will forever be grateful for his friendship and the oodles and oodles of time we spent together that I'll always remember.
Like that one time he was going to drive me home and pretended to drive away and leave me in the parking lot so I threw my hand into his open sunroof and jumped into the window Dukes of Hazard style. I think it surprised us both.
#3
M was quiet, one of those guys who could hide right in front of your face. I'd known of him in middle school, his name was familiar, but we never spoke until one fateful year after band camp (and yes, it is taking restraint to not start this story with "And one time...").
Band camp was hot and tiring and lunch was a welcome island of relaxation surrounded by seas of marching, drilling, more marching, correcting formations, sweating, drilling, more sweating and doing it again but BETTER! One such lunch something in my brain flipped, unprovoked, and all of a sudden I noticed M. Obviously I'd always noticed he was there, but I mean I started really paying attention to his solitude. He kept to himself and sat a little way off from the pre-lunch crowd, sometimes with a book. This intrigued me and I started making it a point to say hi to him. Much like a dog who is denied its chewtoy I took this as an open invitation to Bark Louder.
Band camp ended and we returned to the Gates of the Under Worl... I mean, another glorious school year. M's path never seemed to cross as closely as the confines of the doorway outside the camp cafeteria and the band room was a gathering place for barely controlled chaos, making further socialization attempts challenging at best.
My opening into M's armor came in the form of our 3rd quarter break during a home foot ball game. After every half-time show we would be released until the clock counted down to the beginning of 4th where we could wander aimlessly in our band finery. One night I noticed M hanging back, again alone, in the upper corner of the stands while everyone else shuffled to the food stand. I snatched the opportunity and used the low ground to my advantage by strategically pinning him to the corner of the bleachers where he had no escape from my barrage of questioning about his favorite books, movies, hobbies and anything else I could think of.
M was support, and my partner in crime and my homecoming and prom date. He would borrow his dad's Mazda and we would cruise along the canal with the top down and Bare Naked Ladies blasting as loud as we could stand it. Once or twice we would (now pay attention, this is where I admit to naughty-doings fully knowing that my mother reads this blog. Hi Mom! Earmuffs, please!) skip a period or two at the end of a beautiful day to harness up and repel out of the tree in his back yard (hey, at least there was no diving from the train bridge into the canal, *ahemLauraandDonaldahem*). Now every time I day dream of repelling it makes me think of M.
M became my very best friend that year and the memories of the amazing year that was for me, so much so because of him, I hope will forever be engrained on me. I wonder if he ever knew how much he really meant to me, how much I cared about and appreciated him, our friendship. I hardly realized how strongly I felt and if I didn't know it I can't believe he could have. One day I hope he does.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
If I Had A Million Dollars
I'd buy you a green dress, but not a real green dress, that's cruel.
My ultimate dream list (at least the part of it I can think of now) in no particular order:
1) Pay off the house, consider a small expansion, reno the basement and toss in some upgrades
2) Invest in family, open to interpretation
3) Invest in landscaping. Lots and LOTS of landscaping. Did I mention the landscaping?
4) Finally go on our honeymoon, first class tickets to one of those tiki huts over the water in Bora Bora. Yes please!
5) Hot. Tub.
6) 4-door hatchback Yaris with a pearl paint job. Don't judge.
7) Charities, charities, charities
8) Travel to Germany, Scotland, Ireland, Japan, Brazil, Canada, any and everywhere tropical.......
9) Start up a homestead with chickens and alpacas!
10) Become a Dive Master
11) Finish my two partially completed degrees
12) Invest and Save
13) Take cooking classes
14) In-ground trampoline. Jealous?
15) Team up with Clif to build the physical Center for Wilderness Safety. See also: start up a Homestead
16) Hire a personal trainer
17) Have a cabaret belly dance costume custom designed just for me
Huh. I thought this list would be so much longer. Perhaps you all could give me some ideas to add. What would your list include?
My ultimate dream list (at least the part of it I can think of now) in no particular order:
1) Pay off the house, consider a small expansion, reno the basement and toss in some upgrades
2) Invest in family, open to interpretation
3) Invest in landscaping. Lots and LOTS of landscaping. Did I mention the landscaping?
4) Finally go on our honeymoon, first class tickets to one of those tiki huts over the water in Bora Bora. Yes please!
5) Hot. Tub.
6) 4-door hatchback Yaris with a pearl paint job. Don't judge.
7) Charities, charities, charities
8) Travel to Germany, Scotland, Ireland, Japan, Brazil, Canada, any and everywhere tropical.......
9) Start up a homestead with chickens and alpacas!
10) Become a Dive Master
11) Finish my two partially completed degrees
12) Invest and Save
13) Take cooking classes
14) In-ground trampoline. Jealous?
15) Team up with Clif to build the physical Center for Wilderness Safety. See also: start up a Homestead
16) Hire a personal trainer
17) Have a cabaret belly dance costume custom designed just for me
Huh. I thought this list would be so much longer. Perhaps you all could give me some ideas to add. What would your list include?
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Blog On: Pet Peeves
The lovely and ever-fabulous Maggie invited me to a blogging group on Facebook, an invitation I am very flattered for. Today is my first go with a weekly topic idea that is presented each Sunday and luckily it's a no-brainer for me:
Disrespect. See also rudeness, selfishness, inability to be aware of a world of people also trying to live their lives just outside your personal bubble.
I feel so passionately about living a life that is aware of the multitude of lives trying to share one space that I couldn't possibly put all my thoughts down on the matter. They are plentiful and emotional and significant. What I will elaborate on is how distressing it is to fear the direction our collective societal train is heading. It is easy and common place for people to shirk responsibilities with the reasoning that someone else will be along, eventually, to clean up behind them. Be it literally (why clean the trash off of my table when I'm done eating, that's what this restaurant hires staff for) or otherwise (I'm going to do what I want regardless of how my decision may impact someone else) it is out of control. Admission of mistakes and acknowledgement of wrongdoings are replaced by phrases like, "Oh well, not my problem" or "They'll get over it".
Respect is simple and can manifest in so many ways. No thing is too small to deserve respect: time, belongings, emotions, differing opinions. They all deserve far more effort and attention than we give them.
What may be even more maddening than the act of selfishness itself are the people who accept is as the norm. "Well, that's just how things are now", or "Yes, it is sad but you just have to accept it". We should never accept a blatant lack of respect as any kind of norm. Being respectful and aware of everyone around you, whether they are a friend or relative or complete and total stranger that you may never see again we all deserve to be treated better.
I want to share a story that is a little bit of a stretch for this topic, but stay with me. After several months of belonging to a photography-based hobby forum site I was invited to join a group of members on a day trip out of town. Now, on this trip we made a snap decision to visit a second location for more photography goodness, a decision kindly considered ill-advised considering our lack of planning, the time of day and having way too many people try to enter at once. Things happened (the whole story requires its own post) and we thought we had been caught (you see, access to this location was not exactly legal). The majority of the group hit the ground running as fast as possible for our exit through a small hole in the fence. As fast as possible is a speed that differs greatly person to person, hence my shock and amazement that one person from the group looked over his shoulder, saw my struggle to keep up and deliberately slowed his pace so he could keep stride with me. So I wouldn't be alone. This might not seem like a big deal but we were basically strangers before that day and had we truly been discovered by the law he would have been risking himself to stick with me. You've got to admit it, that's not an action you see very often these days, especially when while participating in the hobby in question it is pretty much an unspoken rule that it's every man for himself and no one would blame you for looking out for Number One. I will never forget his simple action and the impact it made on me. In the midst of chaos, when he could have suffered for his decision, he altered his actions to look out for someone he hardly knew.
Now, wouldn't that be a nice norm?
Disrespect. See also rudeness, selfishness, inability to be aware of a world of people also trying to live their lives just outside your personal bubble.
I feel so passionately about living a life that is aware of the multitude of lives trying to share one space that I couldn't possibly put all my thoughts down on the matter. They are plentiful and emotional and significant. What I will elaborate on is how distressing it is to fear the direction our collective societal train is heading. It is easy and common place for people to shirk responsibilities with the reasoning that someone else will be along, eventually, to clean up behind them. Be it literally (why clean the trash off of my table when I'm done eating, that's what this restaurant hires staff for) or otherwise (I'm going to do what I want regardless of how my decision may impact someone else) it is out of control. Admission of mistakes and acknowledgement of wrongdoings are replaced by phrases like, "Oh well, not my problem" or "They'll get over it".
Respect is simple and can manifest in so many ways. No thing is too small to deserve respect: time, belongings, emotions, differing opinions. They all deserve far more effort and attention than we give them.
What may be even more maddening than the act of selfishness itself are the people who accept is as the norm. "Well, that's just how things are now", or "Yes, it is sad but you just have to accept it". We should never accept a blatant lack of respect as any kind of norm. Being respectful and aware of everyone around you, whether they are a friend or relative or complete and total stranger that you may never see again we all deserve to be treated better.
I want to share a story that is a little bit of a stretch for this topic, but stay with me. After several months of belonging to a photography-based hobby forum site I was invited to join a group of members on a day trip out of town. Now, on this trip we made a snap decision to visit a second location for more photography goodness, a decision kindly considered ill-advised considering our lack of planning, the time of day and having way too many people try to enter at once. Things happened (the whole story requires its own post) and we thought we had been caught (you see, access to this location was not exactly legal). The majority of the group hit the ground running as fast as possible for our exit through a small hole in the fence. As fast as possible is a speed that differs greatly person to person, hence my shock and amazement that one person from the group looked over his shoulder, saw my struggle to keep up and deliberately slowed his pace so he could keep stride with me. So I wouldn't be alone. This might not seem like a big deal but we were basically strangers before that day and had we truly been discovered by the law he would have been risking himself to stick with me. You've got to admit it, that's not an action you see very often these days, especially when while participating in the hobby in question it is pretty much an unspoken rule that it's every man for himself and no one would blame you for looking out for Number One. I will never forget his simple action and the impact it made on me. In the midst of chaos, when he could have suffered for his decision, he altered his actions to look out for someone he hardly knew.
Now, wouldn't that be a nice norm?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
As Polar As Politics
In which we discuss things that have to do with girl parts and Big Choices. Be ye warned.
The other night I got suckered into the first couple of minutes of One Born Every Minute, a show on TLC inspired by a teaching hospital about births. Right there in the beginning of the episode was footage of a laboring mother who had no less than half a dozen faces shoved so close to her nether region I'm surprised the reason the baby wasn't coming more quickly was because there simply wasn't enough room to emerge. A moment later during what must have been the height of her pain and already intense effort the educating doctor was forcing all of his weight between chest-compression hands (visualize CPR, one over the other), trying to force the child out. It made me feel like I was watching a body builder squeeze a toothpaste tube as hard and fast as he could to go for a distance record and couldn't have been a better advertisement for having a home birth.
I shared the comment on Facebook in passing, just something I saw and felt like sharing the moment, never imagining the discussion that would commence. Such is the importance of such discussions and sharing of experiences and opinions from both sides of the fence that I wanted to continue it here. Let me first address the very first question that was asked of me: No, that post was not some backwoods way of sharing any exciting news. Clif and I are not counting down to Then There Were Three. Yet...
I turned 30 last month and for the first time experienced a birthday that brought me great anxiety, not because 30 is so old (it's not, I know) but because there were Things I wanted to have done by now, one of which has been tugging on my reproductive strings. Clif and I have been talking about the big B-word and I've been less than silent about voicing my readiness to get on that bandwagon. We still have some things to take care of first, but in the meantime I've had plenty of time to daydream and start thinking about those important decisions that will come along. One of the biggest being hospital vs. home birth.
My exposure to different birthing methods has been both ample and limited. Obviously I've never gone through the experience myself but I have lots of friends and family who have, especially in the last couple of years and have hit just about every check box on the list of ways to have your baby. One family member planned for a natural birth in the hospital and ended up having two c-sections while another has had three children successfully at home (the last I was blessed to be present for). Both (I feel) would say they had great experiences, even if they are on different sides of the fence, and have fabulous, healthy children.
Part of why I analyze and discuss this topic now when I don't have a scheduled reason to is because it's a complicated decision to make with plenty of pluses and minuses on both sides. It's stressful enough to think about without the influence of hormones and a deadline, I like to pretend I'm giving myself a head start. And so I will share my current standing on the topic:
I am a fence rider.
One of my best friends had her first baby a year ago in the hospital. Overall things seemed to go swimmingly for her and the family and getting to visit her gave me an impression of hospital births that I found quite appealing. From my perspective it seemed to be a little bit of a smoother transition into life with a baby. There were nurses and staff on hand to help provide care, infant transportation, and allow the chance for some stolen extra sleep for a night or two. Again, purely my inexperienced interpretation. The other benefit is well wishers can visit my hospital room where I won't have stress and anxiety about the presentability factor of my home should someone wish to visit. At this point Clif would roll his eyes at me and tell me not to worry about how clean or not clean our house is but I'm simply not wired that way and the anxiety of it would case hives. So, another check for hospital.
Another friend who had her baby around the same time, however, shared stories of having to fight with an inept nurse and is to this day still working on recovering some medical issues from her stay at the hospital. Big deduction. Another big deduction: a woman once asked on a birth advice board if there was such a thing as a "manual episiotomy" which initially caused confusion as there is no magic machine that performs the procedure. Her clarification indicated that the "manual" part meant literally by hand. As in two hands and ripping. It's bad enough someone might want to come at me with sharp objects with intent to slice, but for a woman to express that such action NOT be taken and then to have her doctor override her decision not only by doing it but by doing it WITH HIS BARE (gloved) HANDS is terrifying. HUGE deduction. One of my biggest fears is laying out my expectations and what I would and would not want to happen during my birthing experience then have it all ignored or overruled, not being allowed to do what feels right for my body because someone says it should be done another way. Labor and delivery is stressful enough, I wouldn't want to have to also fight for my choices.
My sister had three babies at home with the help of her husband, an aquadoula, an actual doula, a midwife and an assistant. Her first daughter came in a posterior position (in other words face up and not helping) after 72 hours of labor and 5 hours of pushing. If she had been in a hospital I'd keel over from shock if they didn't do whatever they could to get her into surgery. She persisted and accomplished her goal. Check for home birth! On the other hand she persisted for 3 days without any medication. Deduction! I admit I would like to think I could handle that kind of pain but I have my fears and doubts. With a home birth you're also left alone, just two new parents suddenly thrown into figuring out how to make it work. An hour ago: no baby. Now: baby! And, go! A little less transition time is what I'm thinking. I guess there's also a part of me that feels if we try it at home and something goes wrong or I feel like I need more help the hospital is just down the road. Perhaps based on ignorance but feel I it would be easier to get TO the hospital than OUT of it should the decision change before the point of no return or someone comes at me with their ripping hands.
I suppose what I've learned so far is that I have no idea what decision I'll end up making and won't know until it's made and even then nothing is carved in stone. Based on stories, experiences and opinions the bottom line is good and bad can happen anywhere for any reason. What works for some won't work for others and everyone has to make the decision that is best for them, regardless of what was better for someone else. I do feel, however, that it is crucial to be able to talk about it! Everyone who shares their story is providing one more piece of information that can help an uncertain expecting mother make a potentially intimidating decision. That said I invite you all to share your stories, your research, your reasoning. It's all valid and it's all important.
The other night I got suckered into the first couple of minutes of One Born Every Minute, a show on TLC inspired by a teaching hospital about births. Right there in the beginning of the episode was footage of a laboring mother who had no less than half a dozen faces shoved so close to her nether region I'm surprised the reason the baby wasn't coming more quickly was because there simply wasn't enough room to emerge. A moment later during what must have been the height of her pain and already intense effort the educating doctor was forcing all of his weight between chest-compression hands (visualize CPR, one over the other), trying to force the child out. It made me feel like I was watching a body builder squeeze a toothpaste tube as hard and fast as he could to go for a distance record and couldn't have been a better advertisement for having a home birth.
I shared the comment on Facebook in passing, just something I saw and felt like sharing the moment, never imagining the discussion that would commence. Such is the importance of such discussions and sharing of experiences and opinions from both sides of the fence that I wanted to continue it here. Let me first address the very first question that was asked of me: No, that post was not some backwoods way of sharing any exciting news. Clif and I are not counting down to Then There Were Three. Yet...
I turned 30 last month and for the first time experienced a birthday that brought me great anxiety, not because 30 is so old (it's not, I know) but because there were Things I wanted to have done by now, one of which has been tugging on my reproductive strings. Clif and I have been talking about the big B-word and I've been less than silent about voicing my readiness to get on that bandwagon. We still have some things to take care of first, but in the meantime I've had plenty of time to daydream and start thinking about those important decisions that will come along. One of the biggest being hospital vs. home birth.
My exposure to different birthing methods has been both ample and limited. Obviously I've never gone through the experience myself but I have lots of friends and family who have, especially in the last couple of years and have hit just about every check box on the list of ways to have your baby. One family member planned for a natural birth in the hospital and ended up having two c-sections while another has had three children successfully at home (the last I was blessed to be present for). Both (I feel) would say they had great experiences, even if they are on different sides of the fence, and have fabulous, healthy children.
Part of why I analyze and discuss this topic now when I don't have a scheduled reason to is because it's a complicated decision to make with plenty of pluses and minuses on both sides. It's stressful enough to think about without the influence of hormones and a deadline, I like to pretend I'm giving myself a head start. And so I will share my current standing on the topic:
I am a fence rider.
One of my best friends had her first baby a year ago in the hospital. Overall things seemed to go swimmingly for her and the family and getting to visit her gave me an impression of hospital births that I found quite appealing. From my perspective it seemed to be a little bit of a smoother transition into life with a baby. There were nurses and staff on hand to help provide care, infant transportation, and allow the chance for some stolen extra sleep for a night or two. Again, purely my inexperienced interpretation. The other benefit is well wishers can visit my hospital room where I won't have stress and anxiety about the presentability factor of my home should someone wish to visit. At this point Clif would roll his eyes at me and tell me not to worry about how clean or not clean our house is but I'm simply not wired that way and the anxiety of it would case hives. So, another check for hospital.
Another friend who had her baby around the same time, however, shared stories of having to fight with an inept nurse and is to this day still working on recovering some medical issues from her stay at the hospital. Big deduction. Another big deduction: a woman once asked on a birth advice board if there was such a thing as a "manual episiotomy" which initially caused confusion as there is no magic machine that performs the procedure. Her clarification indicated that the "manual" part meant literally by hand. As in two hands and ripping. It's bad enough someone might want to come at me with sharp objects with intent to slice, but for a woman to express that such action NOT be taken and then to have her doctor override her decision not only by doing it but by doing it WITH HIS BARE (gloved) HANDS is terrifying. HUGE deduction. One of my biggest fears is laying out my expectations and what I would and would not want to happen during my birthing experience then have it all ignored or overruled, not being allowed to do what feels right for my body because someone says it should be done another way. Labor and delivery is stressful enough, I wouldn't want to have to also fight for my choices.
My sister had three babies at home with the help of her husband, an aquadoula, an actual doula, a midwife and an assistant. Her first daughter came in a posterior position (in other words face up and not helping) after 72 hours of labor and 5 hours of pushing. If she had been in a hospital I'd keel over from shock if they didn't do whatever they could to get her into surgery. She persisted and accomplished her goal. Check for home birth! On the other hand she persisted for 3 days without any medication. Deduction! I admit I would like to think I could handle that kind of pain but I have my fears and doubts. With a home birth you're also left alone, just two new parents suddenly thrown into figuring out how to make it work. An hour ago: no baby. Now: baby! And, go! A little less transition time is what I'm thinking. I guess there's also a part of me that feels if we try it at home and something goes wrong or I feel like I need more help the hospital is just down the road. Perhaps based on ignorance but feel I it would be easier to get TO the hospital than OUT of it should the decision change before the point of no return or someone comes at me with their ripping hands.
I suppose what I've learned so far is that I have no idea what decision I'll end up making and won't know until it's made and even then nothing is carved in stone. Based on stories, experiences and opinions the bottom line is good and bad can happen anywhere for any reason. What works for some won't work for others and everyone has to make the decision that is best for them, regardless of what was better for someone else. I do feel, however, that it is crucial to be able to talk about it! Everyone who shares their story is providing one more piece of information that can help an uncertain expecting mother make a potentially intimidating decision. That said I invite you all to share your stories, your research, your reasoning. It's all valid and it's all important.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Summer Magic and Memorials
One of my favorite movies is Summer Magic, a Haley Mills Disney classic that hardly anyone has heard of, in other words totally typical of my favorites list. At the end of the movie there's a big dance in the barn behind the house and each gentleman greets their date at the bottom of the beautiful wrapped staircase to escort them. The girls parade down the stairs in their best dresses, giving their fellas ample time to appreciate the view.
Ever since I first watched Summer Magic I dreamed of living that scene. Getting ready for a big night with the girls and each having their moment to shine down the staircase of a grand front entrance. Growing up in a rancher and with best girl friend lived in homes that lacked such entries I never thought I could make it happen, that is until one of them moved to a grand-foyered home our senior year, just in time for prom.
Prom was an event to remember, that's for sure, which is quite a statement given I don't remember very much of the actual event. It was the pre-show that really sticks in my mind:
There we were, 4 best friends getting ready for arguably the biggest night of our high school careers. Steph stood in full make-up, a perfect French twist, pantyhose, heels and tears having realized she'd forgotten to bring her dress while either Cher or VA both made rumblings about the likely hood of us falling down the highly polished curved staircase in the vaulted ceiling foyer. I, for once being the voice of reason, insisted that the more we focused on our mishaps and spoke of falling the more likely one of us would bite it.
One by one our dates arrived and soon I was left alone in VA's bedroom watching intently out the window for my date as seemingly endless minutes ticked by. From downstairs I could hear laughter, idle chit chat and ponderings about whether or not I would get stood up. Finally (only 15 minutes late) my date arrived and the butterflies in my stomach turned from fear to excitement. VA's mom handed me the corsage I would present to Mike and between that, my stole, purse and skirt of my fabulous Jessica McClintock I rapidly discovered I had no hand left for the banister.
At this stage in the game an intelligent might pause, take a moment to consider a safer alternative, one that could be executed quickly and gracefully so as not to show the nearly 2 dozen people consisting of friends, dates, neighbors, family and parents of girls not even part of our prom group any cracks in the illusion of a cool and collected facade. In high school cool and collected is crucial. I, however, am not always an intelligent person and so I forged ahead without a safety net, thighs flexed to capacity to carry me as safely as possible down the polished wood. I stared at those stairs as if they would jump out from under me.
Finally after seconds that felt like hours I reached the 3rd to last step and deemed it safe to look up to find my date in a sea of watching faces. A decision that proved to be my undoing. The moment I looked up my thighs revolted and my foot shot clean out from under me. I landed on my backside so hard I bounced and found myself standing on the floor, having skipped the last two steps completely, with my stole now hanging over my head. Embarrassed I rushed forward to present the corsage I had held onto dutifully only to find I mistook the form standing in front of me as I stared down the lens of a video camera, not my date.
Yup. All on tape.
After prom came graduation where the pre-game chatter involved certainty that I would be the one to fall down the stairs. Ha ha.
A few years later VA's parents had their foyer stairs carpeted for additional safety. More for their daily use than because I fell that one time. For Christmas that year I bought them something to mark the occasion...
This plaque lives on the side of the rise I fell off, just below the lip on the back side of the staircase that faces the dining room. With any luck years and years and years down the road when a new family moves in that plaque will still live there, unnoticed and forgotten, left to live there indefinitely. Or until some small child or an overzealous house cleaner finds it and wonders if there be a need to call in the TAPS team.
Ever since I first watched Summer Magic I dreamed of living that scene. Getting ready for a big night with the girls and each having their moment to shine down the staircase of a grand front entrance. Growing up in a rancher and with best girl friend lived in homes that lacked such entries I never thought I could make it happen, that is until one of them moved to a grand-foyered home our senior year, just in time for prom.
Prom was an event to remember, that's for sure, which is quite a statement given I don't remember very much of the actual event. It was the pre-show that really sticks in my mind:
There we were, 4 best friends getting ready for arguably the biggest night of our high school careers. Steph stood in full make-up, a perfect French twist, pantyhose, heels and tears having realized she'd forgotten to bring her dress while either Cher or VA both made rumblings about the likely hood of us falling down the highly polished curved staircase in the vaulted ceiling foyer. I, for once being the voice of reason, insisted that the more we focused on our mishaps and spoke of falling the more likely one of us would bite it.
One by one our dates arrived and soon I was left alone in VA's bedroom watching intently out the window for my date as seemingly endless minutes ticked by. From downstairs I could hear laughter, idle chit chat and ponderings about whether or not I would get stood up. Finally (only 15 minutes late) my date arrived and the butterflies in my stomach turned from fear to excitement. VA's mom handed me the corsage I would present to Mike and between that, my stole, purse and skirt of my fabulous Jessica McClintock I rapidly discovered I had no hand left for the banister.
At this stage in the game an intelligent might pause, take a moment to consider a safer alternative, one that could be executed quickly and gracefully so as not to show the nearly 2 dozen people consisting of friends, dates, neighbors, family and parents of girls not even part of our prom group any cracks in the illusion of a cool and collected facade. In high school cool and collected is crucial. I, however, am not always an intelligent person and so I forged ahead without a safety net, thighs flexed to capacity to carry me as safely as possible down the polished wood. I stared at those stairs as if they would jump out from under me.
Finally after seconds that felt like hours I reached the 3rd to last step and deemed it safe to look up to find my date in a sea of watching faces. A decision that proved to be my undoing. The moment I looked up my thighs revolted and my foot shot clean out from under me. I landed on my backside so hard I bounced and found myself standing on the floor, having skipped the last two steps completely, with my stole now hanging over my head. Embarrassed I rushed forward to present the corsage I had held onto dutifully only to find I mistook the form standing in front of me as I stared down the lens of a video camera, not my date.
Yup. All on tape.
After prom came graduation where the pre-game chatter involved certainty that I would be the one to fall down the stairs. Ha ha.
A few years later VA's parents had their foyer stairs carpeted for additional safety. More for their daily use than because I fell that one time. For Christmas that year I bought them something to mark the occasion...
This plaque lives on the side of the rise I fell off, just below the lip on the back side of the staircase that faces the dining room. With any luck years and years and years down the road when a new family moves in that plaque will still live there, unnoticed and forgotten, left to live there indefinitely. Or until some small child or an overzealous house cleaner finds it and wonders if there be a need to call in the TAPS team.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Hoofing It
I jogged last night. Real, honest, premeditated jogging with intent to jog.
You may not believe it (or you are already rolling your "Well, DUH!" eyes at me) but this is an epic accomplishment in my world. I've a long standing history of uncooperative joints that make activities with impact particularly difficult for me to stomach. That and I just hate running. I admit I like the idea of activities that include the necessity of running (ToughMudder, Warrior Dash, surviving a zombie apocalypse) but generally speaking I'd rather have an un-sedated root planing courtesy of Dr. Giggles than have to perform the act of traveling faster than a speed walk in a linear direction for any length of time.
I know that running is a passion for a lot of people and this I have never, ever understood. I supposed if I thought about it really hard I could whip up a short list of appealing points in its favor but my Do Not Like list chumps the pros substantially. This aversion makes it particularly difficult to walk up to an old friend who has obviously lost some weight and is looking fantastic and find out that their secret is diet and not just exercise, but the running variety of exercise! It sinks my heart.
This past weekend I saw such a friend and felt my stomach seize when I heard she'd started running. Unlike others who found their way to the cult (that's right, I called it a cult, bunch of crazies...) she shared her introduction to it. She and her husband would visit a track and she walked while he ran. One day she thought she'd see what that whole craze was about and upped her pace to jog for a brief time. She started sprinkling her walks with jogs here and there and now she looks incredible and can run for 3.5 miles. This story flipped some kind of switch in my head. Curiosity I understand. The desire to try something new and exciting (dangerous) I also understand.
I spent that evening and the next visualizing myself running. First slowly, just barely above speed walk pace and maybe for only 2-3 house lengths. I could wear some spiffy workout clothes, feel all official and drag Clif along as he walked the dogs to be my company and traveling "home base" should I feel over my head. Last night I turned my visualization into action and stepped out with a cheer leading squad of a husband and two completely distracted dogs to try something I never thought I'd do willingly.
I made it past the first house, then the second and then the third and kept going. I made it down the block, around the bulb of the cul de sac and back across the street before stopping because my calves felt like they were going to snap in two. Lately my calves have always stopped me well before my elevated heart rate and exercise induced asthma do. I limped along with Clif for another block and a half then forced myself to slowly, steadily jog my way half a block back to our house. I spent far more time jogging during our brief outing than I had expected I would be able to and I'm ready to try again. Just don't tell my calves, I think they're ready to riot...
You may not believe it (or you are already rolling your "Well, DUH!" eyes at me) but this is an epic accomplishment in my world. I've a long standing history of uncooperative joints that make activities with impact particularly difficult for me to stomach. That and I just hate running. I admit I like the idea of activities that include the necessity of running (ToughMudder, Warrior Dash, surviving a zombie apocalypse) but generally speaking I'd rather have an un-sedated root planing courtesy of Dr. Giggles than have to perform the act of traveling faster than a speed walk in a linear direction for any length of time.
I know that running is a passion for a lot of people and this I have never, ever understood. I supposed if I thought about it really hard I could whip up a short list of appealing points in its favor but my Do Not Like list chumps the pros substantially. This aversion makes it particularly difficult to walk up to an old friend who has obviously lost some weight and is looking fantastic and find out that their secret is diet and not just exercise, but the running variety of exercise! It sinks my heart.
This past weekend I saw such a friend and felt my stomach seize when I heard she'd started running. Unlike others who found their way to the cult (that's right, I called it a cult, bunch of crazies...) she shared her introduction to it. She and her husband would visit a track and she walked while he ran. One day she thought she'd see what that whole craze was about and upped her pace to jog for a brief time. She started sprinkling her walks with jogs here and there and now she looks incredible and can run for 3.5 miles. This story flipped some kind of switch in my head. Curiosity I understand. The desire to try something new and exciting (dangerous) I also understand.
I spent that evening and the next visualizing myself running. First slowly, just barely above speed walk pace and maybe for only 2-3 house lengths. I could wear some spiffy workout clothes, feel all official and drag Clif along as he walked the dogs to be my company and traveling "home base" should I feel over my head. Last night I turned my visualization into action and stepped out with a cheer leading squad of a husband and two completely distracted dogs to try something I never thought I'd do willingly.
I made it past the first house, then the second and then the third and kept going. I made it down the block, around the bulb of the cul de sac and back across the street before stopping because my calves felt like they were going to snap in two. Lately my calves have always stopped me well before my elevated heart rate and exercise induced asthma do. I limped along with Clif for another block and a half then forced myself to slowly, steadily jog my way half a block back to our house. I spent far more time jogging during our brief outing than I had expected I would be able to and I'm ready to try again. Just don't tell my calves, I think they're ready to riot...
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