I'm moving.

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A Sneak Peek at A-Frame of Mind

The story is a little funny, at least from a distance. I can't remember exactly when we realized we had outgrown our small two bedroom apartment, but it's never been more evident then this last year. Personally, I hadn't minded being cooped up here, but the kids have. Since Ava started walking she took to running laps around our couch all day long and now Baxter has joined her in this common occurrence. I've tried to explain to them that our allergies are so sever it's best to stay in-doors. However, God created children to run free and unabashed. And it seems with my babies, they each got a double dose of this hard wiring.

After getting our finances where they needed to be, which I thought would be the hard part of home buying, we began our search. To say I was wrong about the hard part would be an understatement. Going on-line we found a sweet little bungalow near where our friends live. Little being the operative word. So was bungalow. On the bright side, we found our Relator. We quickly opted for a home in Paradise, a beautiful A-Frame home. To be honest, I never gave those types of homes any notice. But Aaron loved it the moment he saw the photos on-line. It wasn't until we drove up to the house that I fell for it too. It was the first home we put an offer on. It was also the first heartbreak we had in home-buying.

We were too late. It was a short sale and the owner accepted an offer just before ours and we fell into the "back-up" slot. Completely devastated we continued searching for the home that was meant for our family. We saw houses, condos- you name it, we saw it. We had even put in several offers but nothing materialized. I was so completely frustrated and swore I'd never look at any more homes again.

But then, we got word the bank foreclosed on the owner, rejected the original offer and took the property off the market. Then it happened. Three very long months later the house came back on the market. Frantic we scramble to get everything in order and our sweet Relator worked hard for us. The second offer we submitted was rejected, felt my heart break all over again. Turns out they changed the type of mortgage. Even quicker we rushed to change the paper work and for the third time, we put in our offer.

I got the news from a text Aaron sent me. It was simple: Guess what.
I knew what he was telling me but I held my breath. We got it! We got it. Those three little words filled me with great joy and great trepidation at the same time.

So, We are moving from a two bedroom apartment to a three bedroom house in the foothills. That is, we are moving from my home town of Chico California, to Paradise California, which is just up the hill from Chico. What made me decide we needed to buy this home was it reminded me of the ski chalet we spent the first night of our honeymoon in before heading up to Oregon where ‘Goonies’ had been filmed. Our daughter, Ava, was born on our first wedding anniversary so we haven’t ever really been able to celebrate our time together and with this home, I feel as though it’s a daily visual reminder of our love and covenant we share.

The house is absolutely beautiful; unfortunately the same thing that makes our future home amazing also makes it frustrating: It’s an A-frame.




















































































But, you know, we are in escrow so anything can happen...

My Dear Sweet Boy a.k.a Terry Bradshaw

I had perhaps put it off too long. But this was something that I as a mother had not experienced until now. I had been a hair dresser for over ten years and part of that time I worked in a kids salon. I can't even begin to recall how many first haircuts I've given. I had gotten to the point where all I had to do was look at the child and would be able to know exactly how it would go. There were the screamers, the climbers and the terrified. With each case there were perks and draw backs. With the screamers, you'd have a headache the rest of the day, the climbers you were destined to cut yourself and with the terrified, you'd have their frozen expression of pure terror suck in your mind, knowing YOU were the reason why they'd have nightmares when they went to bed that night. But with each case, I'd just jump in, work my fastest as I tripped over worried parents and dodging cameras. I think there was just a handful of times that I wasn't able to finish a haircut. With experience you can tell the moment they walk up to you. With this experience, I would ignore the parents instruction for their child's 1 fade to finger length on top and get a 3 on the sides and back before being kicked and punched.

So for the last month, I watched my son. He's such a sweet child who cries if you look at him the wrong way. And of course, he has my hair, fine and very blond. The kind of blond most hair dressers dread.

With his blond hair growing wildly on the sides and back, I couldn't ignore the fact that my sweet child looked more and more like Terry Bradshaw with every passing day.



























This was it. My in laws are visiting for the weekend and I figured it just had to be done.

My husband has his own set of over the counter Wahl's so I knew it would be better to use those instead of my industrial Oster's. Although, I do miss the grind of my clippers, their weight in my hand and the comforting smell of grease. It was an odd feeling for me. I held his clippers in my hand as Baxter sat unknowingly in Grandma Lord's lap. Since I retired from cosmetology, it was rare for me to cut hair. It had been years since I last stood behind an over-grown head. I found the guard, snapped it on and set the clippers down. I have a favorite set of shears and setting both pairs next to each other and then separately holding each one up to study the blade before selecting my favorite. I knew I wouldn't be able to do anything too fancy with Baxter but I wanted to cut off some of the rear comb-forward and that required shears. Just slipping my fingers into the handle, I knew this just might be one of the last haircuts I was to give. I hadn't felt that kind of restricted pain before but as it shot through my hand and fingers, my arm seized with familiarity. I ignored the pain, set down my shears and grabbed the clippers. Looking at my beautiful son I turned the Whal's on and tried to show my son how they worked. This did not go over well. I'll let you decide what kind of kid he is by the pictures:


















Shifting into stylist mode I dove in and got to work. The haircut didn't take long and as I trimmed the top of his blond locks, Daddy watched nervously. As soon as I was done I swooped my baby into my arms and flooded him with kisses. After he settled down we showed him how handsome he was with his new haircut. Turns out, he couldn't have cared less however, I can't stop looking at my boy and am in awe how a simple haircut could make such a difference. When I look at my child, I no longer see my baby, I see my sweet toddler. My little man, my pumpkin growing-up. I do miss the cuddle bug baby but at the same time I'm amazed how big my son is and as I pull him down off the desk for the tenth time today, I'm eager to see all he grows into.

And I Held My Breath

Sitting in the exam room I felt myself hoping for another surgery. It's not as though I love having surgeries, in fact, I dread them. Praying hard for the two weeks after my MRI, I begged God to open the surgeons eyes and help him see what's shown in the abstract black and white jungle on the screen.

A torn tendon would be simple. It's torn. The surgeon goes in, sews it up and my arm is fixed! The last five years of living in pain that has prevented me from being a wife and mother is finished, as if my prison sentence is fulfilled and I am released to be a functioning member of society. Although, I have forgotten how.

My stomach in knots, I pull out my eyeglasses and put them on. I sat fidgeting until he walked in.
Briskly he opened the door and made little attempt at small talk as he opened my chart and wheeled his stool next to me.

He reviewed the notes from my MRI and then he walked me thru what they read. Some scarring where my cubital tunnel/carpal tunnel surgery was, which was normal. I thought it odd how normal it was, after all, the reason for that surgery was to remove five inches of scar tissue that had compressed my ulnar nerve to less than half it's normal size. He also brushed off the finding of a bone spur and finished by saying my arm looked normal. My heart sank as he turned off the light and pulled up my MRI images. He nodded in agreement with the report: no visible signs of tearing.

In that instant I felt like I had when my problems first began. The numbness and tingling came about so gradual that it was hard for me to even pinpoint exactly when it started. Then the twinge of pain crept up in my elbow and wrist. And the weakness. And sensitivity. I had gotten to the point that during each haircut I would pause, drop my right arm down and shake it. I did this so often that I wasn't even aware I was doing it. During the last few hours of my shift I found it necessary to excuses myself from haircuts and stifle tears as I rummaged in the break-room for Ibuprofen.

I sat in bed, icing my arm after a long shift trying to relax, center myself in hope I could curb whatever it was that threatened my vocation. What this pain was I couldn't describe it. I didn't have the words to tell the Doctor what was going on. The pain was now constant. It only varied mildly in severity and even it's location. All my fingers were numb with a sharp pain in my wrist that felt like I was wearing a bracelet of fine wire that was cutting into my wrist down to the bone. My elbow hurt in every position it made. At times it felt as if a sledge hammer was crushing my joint. Other times the pain was piercing, sending streaks of pain throughout my forearm. But in every case, the pain spread it's way up my arm and stretched to my shoulder, neck and lower head. And every night after hours of tossing, trying to find a place that would help me sleep, I always ended up in the shower with the hot water cranked as high as it could go.

For the first two years of this, I was seeing workman's compensation Doctors at Enloe. Every week it was a new Doctor and every week it was a new diagnosis. I didn't know what to do. I cried a lot. Not only was I in ceaseless agony, I was slowly being pulled away from the one thing I was really good at. I was a hairstylist. I was in my element with hair and I did my job with ease and skill and my client list was longer then I had realized. But now, this thing that I loved, my body just couldn't do and no Doctor could tell me why.

My surgeon flipped the lights back on but I was still in the state of confusion and hopelessness I was in five years ago. I choked back the impending tears and I asked him how long ago had he done my surgery. Nine months ago. Then what's wrong with me? Is this just tendinitis? I don't understand. I feel the same as before my surgery. The only difference is the tingling in my fingers has subsided.

He nodded. Wheeled closer to me again and examined my arm. Pressing, stretching and manipulating my useless arm. "Yes. I'd say it's tendinitis," he answered. "Don't lose hope. We'll treat it with the shots. We might need to really work on this tendon but for now, I'll give you the injection and come back in a month and we'll see where you are."

Four long years I felt alone. Hurting and thinking that I was the only one who believed what I was going through. I felt overwhelming relief and joy when I had my second nerve condition test. The first one was done very poorly and rudely since it was a workman's comp Doctor. This second one was done years later by a specialist who, after testing my right arm and finding it tested borderline he looked at me and said it didn't seem right so he tested my left arm to get a comparison. And thats when my heart leapt for joy! Right there, it was evident that my right arm was so much slower then my left arm and my diagnosis was clear: cubital tunnel.

I longed to have that same relief again. I wanted a clear answer. I sincerely believe that tendinitis dose not inflict this amount of pain. Although I understand that the difficulty of diagnosing my arm lies in the fact that there's multiple things going wrong with it. Each problem needing to be fixed in order to see the next issue. I still found myself begging God for a clear and simple answer.

These past years, my prayers have ended the same way: me begging God and His silence. But I still pray, and I wait.

The Siege and Uncertainty.

As I lay here, in my darkened room I realized I'm in a very difficult moment in my life. I have ran out of my pain medication again and find myself waiting on the pharmacy, again. The relentless pain drilling into a blurry throb I am tearing up and relying on God. I had, in the past relied on Him unknowingly. That is, I lived in chaos. I was lost in my depression; fueling it with alcohol, endless nights, self inflicting torment and inward rage. Never calling on my Heavenly Father to protect me and save me. My soul had called out for God and relied on Him.

This is vastly different. Every step I take I am praying and actively urging myself to rely on Gods strength and wisdom. From buying a home to dealing with my hated arm and everything in-between.

Perhaps one can live their life without relying wholly or even partially on God. However, as I live in a siege of pain, uncertainty and depression; I would be a fool if I didn't run to God.

A Mild Disclaimer

As a comment to my Blog link on Facebook, I wrote:

The thing about Depression that I'm afraid of the most is it's secrecy. Secrecy implies shame and shame implies wrong doing. At first I hesitated publishing this blog post because I was afraid of what others might think, if I'd scare them or usher them to action in calling CPS. But the thing is, I have done nothing wrong and despite the workings of my brain, I am a good mommy. For years I had longed for someone to tell me that's it's ok, & I'm not alone. Living under a shroud of secrecy is so binding and isolating. I hope someone benefits from my post. Recognize they need to talk openly, candidly and get the help that's out there so they no longer fell like I had. So when the Bible says that we have been set free, they can fully understand it and fully feel their freedom.

I feel as though it is necessary to publish it here as well, just to qualify my previous blog entry. You know, "just in case".

And It Never Stops.

It's just too hard and exhausting. As if my body wasn't heavy enough, weighed down with lead and my mind a deepening grey fog I just can't see past. I have to hold it all together, pretend everything is good. And for as much as it looks like I'm not holding things together, there's a cracking dam with the weight of fifty monsoons held behind it that you don't see.

But I'm desperate to hide what's going on and it takes more energy than I have. With two sweet babies to care for, every action and emotion I live is nothing more than ammunition against me. And with everything able to trigger an outburst of anger and tears, I try to let little things brush off. But most of the time, I'm unsuccessful. It's those little things that some how carry more than they ought to. I've lost it, breaking down over too many boxes of cereal or anticipating a treat which never comes and even missing a green light when I had nowhere important to be. But, it's the uncontrollable sobbing I hate and it lingers for days.

When I was first married, I tried to hide my tears. Locking myself in our bathroom I would turn on the faucet and shower. I tried so hard to keep my tears and the deep sadness that can only be vocalized in aching moans muffled under the sound of steady water. He knew. And he didn't quit understand. After three years of marriage he still doesn't understand and to be honest, I'm not sure I do either. I've tried so hard to recall a moment from my childhood where I was completely, fully happy. The kind of unabashed happiness that only a child could feel. And I came up empty handed for so long, I stopped trying.

Depression is something I've lived with for almost my whole life. It was normal, my normal and I thought that was how everyone felt. Many afternoons were spent laying on the fresh grass, feeling the leaves under my body, sliding thru my fingertips and watching the perfect soft white clouds float by while I fantasized about killing myself. Just to finally be done, to see past the iron fog and be free. My fantasies gave me comfort.

It wasn't until Junior High when I was finally given the label of depression. And it was that label which caused many people to tell me that I have this illness because of a secret, un-repented sin. It was when a family member told me that all I had to do was repent to God and my illness would go away, I listened. I repented for everything I could think of and even things I hadn't done but I possibly would do. I begged God but God hadn't taken this thing away, so I hid. I spent too many years closed off, living shackled to an illness I did not want.

I spent my early adult years going on and off my medication and drinking. Drinking so much I never remembered what happened those nights. Each night before going out I knew, I knew I wanted to drink until I forgot. I wanted to forget me.

It was the grace of God that delivered me from those circumstances and gave my life accountability. When I was twenty-eight I married the man I had always dreamed of. I met him at church years ago and I knew that night, that Halloween night he was the man God made me for. He didn't even know I was alive. When we both finally grew up we met again and a little over three months after our first date we were married.

It wasn't until after I was married and had my children that I saw a mental health professional. She explained that I had moderate to sever depression. This was nothing new to me. I even have a family history of mental illness. She adjusted my medication and what she said next was the most comforting thing I have ever heard. She told me that I am not "broken" or "defective" as I spent my life believing. She looked me in the eye and said: your fantasies of suicide are just symptoms of your illness. They are there to tell you something is wrong and your medication needs to be checked. She adjusted my medication, added a booster which is not in generic form and thus costing a little over a hundred dollars a month. Yes, those pills are worth it but the guilt is what is more costly. That money is being taken away from my kids, the household finances and is squandered solely on me. As if I did not feel selfish enough, with my many illnesses, physical problems and destructive emotional baggage. I feel it's as if Aaron would spend over a hundred dollars on allergy medicine every month just because he has a runny nose. Somehow, the booster just doesn't seem so worth it anymore. Not when there's diapers needed and fresh fruits and vegetables and clothes for my children because they just grow too fast.

My children, my babies. I never thought I would have these two incredible kids. And it was 'my babies' I answered when the Doctor asked me what stops me. The answer seemed obvious, a truth buried so deep in my heart and mind I didn't even need to think about it. Looking at me closely, she asked: When you think about killing yourself, what stops you from doing it.

I didn't expect my throat to close up, to spasm as I replied, Who would take care of my babies?I'm their mommy.

Out of the suffocating life of a disassembled, in-cohesive mind, that one clear truth is solid. The depressed mind is different. We process things in away that makes no sense to us. My mind is weak and unsteady. It seems as though everything is defined differently for me. My bad days do not stand for having a bad hair day or a series of inconvenient incidents. My bad days are marked by me being numbed, laying in bed and staring at the same spot on the wall for hours. Being drained of everything to the point when the tears trickle down my face on their own accord and not caring enough to stop them, not being able to stop them. My bad days are marked by me longing to die. And my good days, I'm dressed and able to smile, even if its for a moment.

Since my mind processes things differently, when I read "The Yellow Wallpaper", I honestly couldn't see that where she was, was a mental institution. I just didn't see it as everyone else did. And because of this, I am constantly assessing my responses and behaviors. I have a mental script of how normal people would react and I follow that to a large extent.

My husband asks me if I've taken my pills, usually when I have a normal response to something he's done or said, or didn't do. That's when I reassess my response, just in case and yes, it's what a "normal" wife would do, I angrily yell, YES! Because what he's really saying to me is he's perfect in his behavior and I'm just the crazy wife. Then I quietly think, did I? I think I took them when I gave Ava her Tinker Medicines. I must be taking them, my thirty day supply is steadily decreasing...

My Little Lost Boy

I was more than uncomfortable, I was miserable. Every few minutes I'd squirm and re-adjust my fat butt and even fatter belly. Nothing helped. Trying to focus on the finale of 'Lost' did not help either. I continued to push the excitement and fear out of my mind. Taking slow, deep silent breathes I tried to mentally prepare myself. We were scheduled to meet our son, Baxter in the morning. In my mind, I played the birth of our daughter over and over, taking mental notes of what I needed to do differently. Her birth was fast, a little painful but terrifying. By time I was moved out of triage, into a delivery bed and my neubane shot administered, she came. Ava came so fast I was not able to center myself, breath, focus and my pain medicine hadn't even had a chance to kick in. But this time would be different. It HAD to be different.

I took a deep breath, cuddled a little closer to my husband. Listening to the comforting thump of his heartbeat, I watched the last few minutes of the show with security. The security only a husband could give. Well, that and the knowledge that I was just several hours away from my inducement. I was relieved, knowing I would be in that hospital bed with my pain medicine and a chance to prepare during labor.

The show ended. Looking at the blank screen we were somewhat bewildered. Shaking my head I stood up. "Is that it? THAT'S how they wanted to end it? Whatever."

Laying in bed, waiting for Aaron to lock up I was feeling so lonely without Ava in the house. I also felt like I could not empty my bladder. As he nestled in bed next to me I contemplated making yet one more trip to the bathroom before surrendering to sleep. With a sound of frustration I flung back the covers, grabbed onto the bed post and hoisted myself up.

As I walked out of the bathroom I peeked inside the kids' room. I stood looking at Ava's empty crib. Soon, there would be another baby in that room. Turning to our bedroom, the strongest, loudest contraction overwhelmed my body. Grabbing onto the wall I braced myself. I breathed, closed my eyes and as soon as the contraction ended my body tried to push the baby out. I had missed the sign my water had broken. Perhaps I expected it to be like in the movies or on the television. Getting down the stairs and into the car was harder than I thought it to be. It was a dark, cold clear night and I struggled to keep myself from succumbing to what my body needed to do.

Possibly the worst experience of my life to date, but it was worth every F-bomb. Especially the one F-bomb which lasted five whole minutes. Baxter decided he did not want to wait six hours. Apparently, I had the look of a woman laboring as we made our way through the emergency room. Various strangers in various stages of emergency watched, stared as we headed straight to the Security stand which blocked our path to the Maternity Ward. The guard looked slightly stunned as he asked if I needed a wheelchair. Trying to smile the question off I mumbled the baby would come before he got us the chair. And waddled as fast as I could down the hall and thru the double doors.

At the desk I told her my name and it seemed they had lost my previously dropped off Admit paperwork. Standing there legs crossed I preceded to fill out the forms for the second time. Glancing at the triage waiting area I noticed a quiet, very pregnant young girl. Her face betrayed the fear she was holding in as she watched me. Trying to smile as not to scare her I looked at the nurse behind the desk and calmly stated that this baby was coming, RIGHT NOW. skipping me past triage they placed me in the delivery room they continued to call the on-call Doctor.

Being reassured he was on the way, I continued to stress the fact I wanted my neubane shot. NOW. I was and still am in shock at the unprofessional attitude of the nurses. More then once I was on the receiving end of snarky comments. They liked to point out that I was taking them away from their patients. Patients who were in labor before me, and thus ahead of me on their list.

Meanwhile, Baxter was on his way out and I was ordered to hold him in, breathe like I was blowing out a candle and wait for the Doctor. I remember pleading with the nurses to just let me push him out, all they had to do was stand there and catch him. When the on-call Doctor came, I felt relieved. However, that was short lived. I asked if I could PLEASE start pushing NOW, his reply: whenever. whenever, what kind of answer was that? So I pushed. I looked to the Doctor for guidance, he just sat there, waiting to catch the baby. Looking to Aaron, I asked how Schwabe did it. Was it three pushes and a rest? I think that was right. After flailing around, cussing and hurting a nurse I met my son in less than an hour.

He hurt, more than I thought he would. I actually was mad at the little big-headed boy. Soon Ava arrived and was able to meet her new little brother. She didn't know exactly how to react, but she did want to pick him up, hold him and kiss him, we let her. Since it was after one am, we had to let Ava go back to Grandma's and get to sleep. They gave me my after birth pills and sent me off to my private room. It was there where I was able to have our quiet, intimate bonding time. The sweet moments where I felt the deepest love for my son since he was born.

I could go on and on with more complaints of the hospital staff, but this blog post is in celebration of the birth of my sweet Baxter Isaac.

The hospital was quiet, lights in my room dimmed, and Aaron asleep on the pull-out. I laid Baxter on my chest, gently unwrapped him. Counting his toes on his chubby little feet, studying every sweet curve and dimple. Kissing his soft skin, trying not to wake him, but secretly hoping he would. Marveling at his blonde hair and dimpled chin, I held him to my heart, feeling his small heart beating, hearing it's rhythm, I fell asleep.














Born at 1:21am
7 lb 4oz 19in

I Know You Will Not Read This

But there are things I need to say to you. It took me so long to finally breakdown the wall which stood between our friendship. You were the only Dad I had. I don't remember my birth father all that much. Although I am thankful for the blocked memories of my childhood, I have carried around the pain my whole life. Because of what we lived through before you, it made it so hard for me to let you into my heart.

When I first met you, I was nervous and terrified. There were so many thoughts and questions flooding my mind, making it hard to focus. I hid. I didn't want to meet you because I was afraid I would grow to love you and then you'd leave. Do you remember that day? I close my eyes and I am instantly brought back to that moment. You brought us ice cream. You drove from Sacramento to meet us and take our mom on a date. I was on edge the whole afternoon, picking out the solid chunks of cookie dough, leaving the vanilla ice cream till the end. Waiting for your date to be over, waiting to see how my mom truly felt for you. But mostly, waiting to see how I felt for you.

My heart yearned to be close to you but as a defense, I withdrew and made life hard. For that I apologize. I don't believe you will ever fully understand how much you accepting us meant. You chose to love my sister and I, not out of obligation to our mother but because you grew to love us as if we were your children. When you called me Baby Girl, I knew to the core of who I was that I truly belonged.

My favorite part of the day was dinner time. You'd come home, turn on music and pull my mom away from making dinner to dance with you. You held her tight, twirled her around and both laugh so genuinely your eyes sparkled. I watched. I saw you love. And I watched you slowly fade away. You stopped dancing, you stopped laughing. It happened seemingly so gradually that our normal consisted of you coming home from work, shutting yourself away in your office only to be bothered by one of us bringing you dinner.

You stood with me at my wedding, so nervous I shook and words could not find their way. My Dad looked at me. You looked at me and asked if I was alright. Perhaps I should have asked that of you.

I know now you weren't alright, you haven't been for years. That my life as I knew it was pretend. You showed up for my wedding, the birth of my children but you weren't fully there. We only had the shell of you while the real you was in Sacramento.

It shouldn't be hard for you to understand that you did not only betray my mom, you betrayed all of us. The life you have chosen broke so many little hearts. Hearts that believed you were their world. So many tears have been shed. So many words have been yelled and you are not here to see them, to feel their sting, to look me in the eye and tell me what is going on.

The last phone call I made to you ended with me sobbing in a voicemail. Pleading with you, telling you that I needed my Daddy. My heart was crushed and I needed my Daddy. You never called. Is this the last thing you want me to remember of you?

Already I feel those good memories fading away. Becoming overshadowed by the bad and, and I am okay with that. At the first mention of separation I struggled with how we could be a family but not. I struggled with how I would be your Baby Girl while you were not with my mom. How often would we see you? How would Birthdays and Holidays work? Now I understand. The disgusting choices you have made helped make my decision. With every lie you told, with every moment you and she took from my family, you determined the outcome. You are a person of no integrity and I do not want that kind of person in my life. I do not want a person with such twisted, deceitful morals to be in my children's life.

I do not grieve the loss of a father, I do not cry pointless tears for you. I hurt because the people I love have been hurt by you and your actions. I regret you. I regret loving you. My adoration has been wasted on a figment and I will not allow my children's love and adoration be wasted on something worthless.

I am not as gracious as my sister.

It's Not My Fight

But it feels like it is. As a mother, my heart breaks when my children hurt. As a daughter, my heart aches when my mother's heart breaks. For so long, I have seen my mom through a stoic lens. But, as I have grown and become a woman and mother, I have slowly loosened the veil and am now seeing my mother for who she is, a woman. A person with her own identity separate from myself. This enlightenment has come from a tremendous betrayal in which I have tried to be removed from. My breath has been ripped from my lungs and I find it all too easy to hide in bed, hoping this nightmare is just that, a nightmare. One which dissipates when the soft glow of morning rises...but I know it won't. And we are left with vestiges honoring someone who is all too human.

I have always seen Divorce as a good thing.

Perhaps that's why I struggled so hard the first year of my marriage. While my older sister married at eighteen. I was twenty eight.

I try so hard at times, closing my eyes and lifting boulders off all my repressed memories. But I can't. I see instead old, worn snapshots I had spent hours staring at in the album. Memorizing each smiling face, each simple gesture caught, praying that I could be in that moment. I try and recall the smell of the spring air. The warm sun on my face as a gentle breeze blows my blonde curls across my forehead. But I'm not there. I studied his face the most. Searching for any resemblance. My sister is the one who looks like him, I am a replica of our mother. We were so young then.

Our mom always tried to protect us. She was a weak, beaten down young mother with a monster as her husband. The strength she lacked for herself, she made up in her love for us. She left him. We left him.

The one constant in my adolescence were nights huddled together in bed. Mom holding us tight and through the darkness she would whisper, "It's ok. We are together. The three of us." It was the three of us for so long. Boyfriends came and went, none fitting the task of husband and father.

I was born to be a daddy's girl. But when she did re-marry, I was terrified. I felt at any moment, he would leave. They were married when I was finishing Junior High, it was a time in my life when I desperately needed a dad. Daily I evaluated our family. 'If he left now, it would be okay. He's just Mike.' As years carried out, my evaluations turned from daily to weekly and slowly just once a year. Somewhere the distinction was lost. I grew to love and trust him. I could no longer bring myself to call him Mike. He was my Daddy and in my thirties, I still called him Daddy.

Now my evaluation is real and it is more involved than I ever could have imagined.

Yesterday

A heart torn, so bare and free

left dangling from a tree.

Sways to and fro ‘till tomorrows be.

Hung by contentment’s need.

Thin and lean by some deed,

a childish glare without the glee;

on the willows bend, they faint.

Under the load which barren be

whisper a song old and sweet.

A Mothers Warning...

I have been thinking about what to say. It's too cliché to say there are no words, no sentences to fully describe the circumstances. I barely made it through the blog one time. My whole body seemed to convulse, every inch of my being seized and I felt as though something had reached deep inside my body and ripped me apart. And that is just the beginning. With that being said, I strongly urge every mother to read it. As painful and gut-wrenching as Dana's blog is, grab a box (the WHOLE box) of Kleenex, and read about Tiggy.

Through the Valley

"He will swallow up death forever;
and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces,
and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth,
for the Lord has spoken". Isaiah 25:8

The truth is, I never really wanted kids. Or, perhaps, I never thought I could have them so I had convinced myself that I did not want them. Because of that, I spent too many years festering a hardened heart. In reflection, having a stone heart was easy. With the lack of certain crucial bonds growing up, my biggest fear would be that if I did have children, I would be incapable of loving them. Now, my biggest fear is I love them so much if God, in His infinite wisdom called my children home, I wouldn't come back from it. I fear that I would be so consumed by my pain I would let it swallow me. My children are my heart, walking around outside of my body. I feel their hurt, sadness, frustration and joy, deeper and more pure than I feel my own. As I go about my day, my mind is habitually running what-ifs. With every room I enter, I scan it for potential dangers so much that I am unaware of it. With every action I take, I take with precaution. I know how fleeting this life is and I know, that our Father laid out our lives before time was set. He has ordained it all. I also understand that these babies I conceived, carried in my womb and naturally delivered, are not mine. God has seen fit to entrust them to me. Ava and Bax belong to The Lord God, as do I, my husband and every child that is called to Him.

I sat on the couch today, as my babies slept, talking to my thirteen year old niece. This is a time where God has been calling so many babies home. Because she knows the intimate sting of death, losing her baby brother. I did not want to breakdown in front of her, but I did. It was a comment I read on a post. A mommyblogger I read was in the middle of trying to decide what to bury her 22 month old son in. She couldn't get herself to let go of his favorite shirt, and there were plenty of suggestions. The one that caused me to fully cry since I heard the news, was that she should bury him in soft jammies, saying: "I'm seeing him wearing warm snuggy jammies...and your baby boy snuggled up in the arms of our Heavenly Father..." Life was so much less heartbreaking when my heart was stone. I don't think I can handle this heart of flesh. I realize that no matter how hard you try to protect your babies from every single danger, imagined or real, when our Creator calls those who are His home, He will be glorified. I have known more children that have passed away then adults, and all in such a short time. I want to yell that's it's not fair, and ask God for a time out, to pause life for just a moment so I can really tell Him how unfair it is. But... how different life would be if we never experienced this. How selfish, indulgent and indifferent we would become if we weren't reminded who we are, how we are dust. I am thankful this life is temporal, thankful that our spirit is not.

Jonathan
Baby Girl Garcia
L.S.
Charlie
Mattias

thirty-four

Today is my husbands thirty-fourth birthday. Three years ago, we celebrated his birthday together as a couple for the first time. Before we were married, we decided to do things a little differently then the new social norm. We hadn't dated long before he proposed (he waited about a month). We didn't spend time alone at his place. Instead we spent time with each other where I lived, at my sister's house, in her front-room so we would have accountability. Accountability in the form an older sister, her husband and their five daughters. We held hands, took long walks in the tree park near my house and on chilly days we'd stroll through the Autumn leaves sipping warm cider. We both have had devastating relationships in the past so we set boundaries very early on. On our wedding day, we were able to share so many firsts as husband and wife. Perhaps my most cherished is our first kiss. We were together four months before that kiss.

For his first birthday after we were married, I made a list of thirty-two things I treasured about my husband. Sitting here, reading This list I made two years ago has me feeling conflicted. I can close my eyes and recall every emotion and memory which produced a number on that list. Every smile he gave, a tender brush of his hand on mine and the continual reassurance. With the joy that list brought, the eagerness and wonder of a new bride learning how to be a wife and care for her newlyweded husband. It also brought a pang of sadness. How life can change a person in a few short years. Three years of physical struggle and pain seeps into every crevice in a marriage. Because it doesn't effect you, it effects both of you. And the once eagerness of caring for a husband and children can slowly turn into a chore. A day cemented in dread as parts of your body rapidly deteriorate. It's easy to be shut away, and that is how I am, how I've been. Over the past few weeks I have been seeing glimpses of the newly married us. And even though I'm sad that I feel so far removed from the woman who stood before God and made a covenant with her husband, I'm beginning to feel that eagerness again.

Here are thirty-four things I treasure about my husband:

1) He passionately loves God
2) He is steadfast (he wont give up on me, no matter how hard I try to push him away!)
3) Loves me abundantly
4) So very smart
5) So very, very, very hot
6) Loves to read
7) Loves my cooking
8) Supportive
9) He's my Super Hero
10) A very good provider
11) He humors me...

12) He's tender
13) He's romantic
14) He remembers dates and special events so I don't have to
15) He loves being a daddy
16) Takes care of me when I have a meltdown
17) Sets goals and meets them
18) He's very precise
19) Ava Marie Lord:

20)Baxter Isaac Lord:

21) Super creative
22) Helps me out around the house when I'm having a hard time
23) Encouraging
24) Way more patient then I am
25) Loves to be silly with Mava
26) Has his priorities straight
27) Did I mention Hot?...

28) Cute butt
29) Strong
30) Passionate
31) Faithful
32) Is an amazing daddy
33) Cherishes his family...

34) I am his and he is mine.

The Bible

After we got Mava her new little 'big girl' bed, we began discussing bedtime routines. We talked about reading the Bible to her and singing with her while Daddy plays his guitar. All of a sudden I blurted out: I know exactly what Bible we're going to use! Which was met with Aaron's reply: Yeah because you're the head of this family. "Yeah, I am (playing) and this is the Bible we're getting." I then tried my hardest to describe the Children's Bible we had growing up. Aaron quickly pulled out his laptop and within moments my childhood Bible was on the screen. I jumped up and down, clapping my hands, "That's it! That's it! Can we get it?! Please, please, please?!?" Turns out it's the same Bible my sweetie pie had growing and now our babies will grow up with it as well.

Charlie

It's been years since I watched my sister and her husband go through the heart wrenching process of losing their newborn son. I still carry with me the memory of their last tender moments as Jonathan's earthy parents, before he was lowered into the ground. I knew then it all was a part of Gods plan, He had ordained this precious life to be with us for a very short time to give glory to Him and to show us His overwhelming love, but I had yet to see the tangible byproduct of this loss. It wasn't until a few days ago that I was able to see my sisters loss from the perspective as a mother and to watch our friends experience what my sister had those years ago. It was tonight, as I sat in prayer for Bryan and Rachel, that I realized it was Gods loving, full grace that my Sister and Pat watched their son enter into our heavenly Fathers Kingdom. His death is a blessing for our friends because God has put by their side two people who have experienced the bittersweet pain of losing a child. A pain that I could never fully grasp, one that I think would overtake me. I find myself praising God for His love and provision as my heart is weeping uncontrollably for our dear friends. And for my sister.

May God give you breath, or a swift journey, beautiful Charlie.

Soli Deo Gloria

Is it Howard?

I'm not sure when it was exactly that my parents divorced. But, what I can remember of my early childhood were nights huddled with my sister as we tried to fall asleep to the sound of them fighting. It's amazing how our young minds are able to remember glimpses of memories and some how edit them to distance us from the actual events, to gloss over the vile and horrible. I remember being scared but I also have a memory of happiness. George, my birth father used to call me criss-er, at least I think so. I can't tell what is memory or fiction, a fiction made up to add those happy memories that never existed. I have heard that when two parents fight and divorce, the children take the guilt and think some how, it was their fault. I never felt that. I felt that if George, who said he loved my mother, could hurt her and yell at her like he did, then he could do the same to me. As I grew up, and he had moved on to a new family and new kids, the void grew. While we were living off of Government cheese and rice, his new family flourished. Sometimes we would get a birthday card, or a phone call once in a while and a summer visit here and there. I always felt like I was in the way, I was a burden. So we grew, we grew up with my mom, single and going to school in order to support us on her own. The last time I saw George was at my sisters wedding, the visit was brief. Perhaps because my dad was there. It was that day I stopped talking about George altogether. The man my mom had married was my dad, seemed like he was always my dad. He raised me through the hardest time, the teen years, and he still loved me no matter how mean I was to him. However, I spent most of my twenties seeking approval, trying hard to have relationships, but I didn't know how and I ended up with guys that mirrored George. It wasn't until I got married that I knew what a loving relationship was. I fought so hard with Aaron, trying to push him away and get him angry enough because I was scared. I was scared about so much and I didn't know how to deal with it. It wasn't until I sat at the desk in the Social Security office that I knew why, why I was so broken and unable to give all of myself to my new husband. The clerk had asked me one question: What is your biological fathers middle name? I didn't know. I didn't know his name, or his birth date. I didn't know anything about him, just the hurt that was caused by him. I some how figured out that it started with an H, and the clerk helped me go through all the H names until she said 'Howard'. Yes, it sounded familiar, I thought. She typed it in, and the correct birth certificate popped up and I was finally able to legally change my last name. The last remnant of my childhood was gone. He was gone. I no longer had to think about him whenever someone asked for my name. Aaron and I had our daughter, and then our son. Our little family was growing. I recently found some of my little brothers, first on MySpace, then on Facebook. Timmy filled me in on a few things, George and his mom divorced too. He told me he still sees George and that I should contact him. I still do not know why I did, but I did. I just wanted to know if he ever thought about me and my sister. Several days passed before he wrote me back. Yes, he said he thought about us, and he missed us. He thought he would never see me again and was pleased that I had written him. There was so much he wanted to say to me. I still haven't written him back. I do want to hear what he has to say, but I realized that I have yet to fully cry, to really express the anger and hurt that I have carried around for so long. And I am not sure that I am ready to face the past. I look at my daughter, and I hold her, I cuddle with my children and I feel the love and tenderness I have for these babies, these beautiful children God has blessed me abundantly with. And I can't help thinking, that if you truly love your children, if they are your heart, then how, how can you just live your life without them?

Thank You Honey

For a while now, I knew that my best shot of taking both kids to the market and various other errands required Baxter to be in some sort of carrier device. However, the Snuggily that we have isn't suitable for him until he gets a little older. After going around and around, playing other possibilities in my head, I settled on the idea of a sling. I had never liked the idea of baby slings, they seemed too "hippish" for me, but now it seemed as though, that was the best option for me. I did like the concept of the Moby Wrap, but not only are they way more money then I would ever spend on something that I won't use everyday of my life, forever, but with a toddler to chase after, those wraps are too cumbersome. That is, they aren't easily thrown on and go. I happened to be at JoAnn's during their Fourth of July sale and got several patterns for $.99, one was a pattern for two different kinds of baby carrier, one a back/frontpack and the other was a sling. A few days later, me, my mom and the kids went back to JoAnn's. I found the perfect fabric for the sling. It was very inexpensive as well, it was on clearance, and then 50% off, and then it was end of bolt, and then it was a little dirty so I spent $4 total on over two yards of two different fabrics (the white was only a $1). I only really buy patterns when they are on sale for a dollar, and I try not to spend a lot of money on fabric, because if you do pay full price, then whats the use? you could go to the store and buy the desired item for less then it would cost you to make it. The sling should have only taken me an hour to make, if that, but with babies fussing, and no pain medicine, it took me three days. I wanted to have it done by time Aaron got off work today, but for some unexplained reason (baby brain) I just couldn't figure out the last step in the sewing instructions. I tried sewing the sling together three different ways until Aaron finally offered to look at the pattern for me and see if it made sense. He did, it did and he pointed to the picture. "see, it goes like that." I felt like the BIGGEST IDIOT ever. duh. Anyway, thanks to my hubby, I finished the sling. It even has a cell phone pocket.