Helping out in March

If you are anything like me, first of all…I’m sorry. It has taken me FOUR FIVE days just to write this post. Being me can be a challenge.

On the bright side, if you are anything like me, you are oftentimes inspired to contribute, to do good.

If you are anything like me, more often then not, you look to give a little more meaning to your life. Meaning beyond being a partner, or a parent, or an employee…or whatever. Because yes, being any one of those things, or all of those things, is amazing. But sometimes, sometimes maybe if you’re like me, you want to do, to be, just a little bit more. If you are like me, you are moved by organizations devoted to helping others, and find yourself wishing you could take part in making a difference.

Yet if you are anything like me, you are short on time. Busy with work, with kids, with Scandal, or Facebook, Instagram, or Pinterest. Well not really Pinterest, ‘cause holy depressing. And maybe for you, like me, disposable income is excruciatingly tight. Thankfully being short on time, or even money, doesn’t mean I can’t think about how I contribute to making a difference in this community, this world. At the end of January I wrote a blog post that touched upon reaching out and helping others ( http://gonnabethissideofnormal.blogspot.com/2014/01/sleepless-week-fourfifty-two.html ) and after searching and brainstorming and second guessing and flat out letting myself be scared for trying something new with my tiny little blog, I think I’ve finally worked up the courage to try something out...

That being said, with my limited amount of free time and my limited budget, and my love for writing and sharing, I thought I’d highlight an organization each month that is dedicated to bettering this world; dedicated to helping the disadvantaged. Each month I'd like to share with you an organization that could use our help. Let me be clear, I’m not looking to reinvent the wheel here. I’m looking to jump on someone’s coattails for 30 days and do what I can to help them out!

I’ll try to choose a little something for everyone…organizations that focus on hunger, or maternal-fetal health, or homelessness, or veterans, or animals or adoption or the environment. Some will be local, and some, like this month’s, will be half way across the world. I’ll do my best to provide some quick information on each organization, as well as links to their websites, blogs, Facebook pages etc. But I ask you to do your own research as well. Share what you find with your kids. Share what you find with your friends and family. And if you are anything like me, you’ll take a few minutes, and a few dollars and help out a bit too.

March Organization: Every Mother Counts

I discovered this month’s organization via a convoluted midnight scroll through Instagram. So next time you see the baby you can thank him for bringing forth Every Mother Counts. Please take a moment to visit their website at http://www.everymothercounts.org/. Please also follow Every Mother Counts on Instagram @everymomcounts, on Twitter @everymomcounts, or on Facebook Every Mother Counts.

I have given birth four times and had one miscarriage. I, like many of you, had fantastic prenatal and postpartum care. The thought of dying as a result of pregnancy or birth related complications never entered my mind. At least not in the way that women in some countries are faced with pregnancy or childbirth related deaths: For example: a Zambian woman’s lifetime risk of dying from pregnancy & childbirth is 1 in 37, while an American woman's lifetime risk is 1 in 2,400 (source: Every Mother Counts). Undeniably staggering statistics, and one of the many reasons the work Every Mother Counts does is so vital.

Every Mother Count's Mission: Every Mother Counts is a campaign to end preventable deaths caused by pregnancy and childbirth around the world. We inform, engage, and mobilize new audiences to take action to improve the health and well-being of girls and women worldwide.

Indeed "hundreds of thousands of girls & women around the world die every year from complications in pregnancy or childbirth, creating a rippling effect that devastates children, families, and communities. 90% of these deaths are preventable—with your help." (source: Every Mother Counts)

What I’m doing, and what you can do to:

For about $30.00 per kit (+ shipping to New York), you can put together an “Every Mother Kit” through the month of March (and February, but I am, of course, a little Johnny-Come-Lately-ish) Each kit will support moms in Uganda and Zambia. Each kit provides the most basic of supplies for these moms and babies. Find the list of supplies here:  http://everymothercounts.org/blog/201402/we-need-your-help-announcing-emc-s-every-mother-kit-drive

 



 Some of the very basic supplies each kit contains.

 

My kids drive me crazy, but they love to help out! Bring on the assembly line!!

Even the baby got in on the action!



Ready to package and ship!





Sleepless--Week Four/Fifty-Two

Sleepless--Week Four/Fifty-Two

"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2014" 

I can become so frustrated with this little guy, and this week has been no exception. Some days my baby refuses to sleep for more than 30 minutes at nap time. This same little guy can also scream and cry and thrash around like no one’s business, when I try to get him to sleep. True sleep-training failed miserably for my first two children, and thankfully my third was a lovely little sleeper. After her, I was lulled into thinking that with my fourth, the business of baby sleep, and getting the baby to sleep, would be a walk in the park.

Unfortunately, it has turned into a walk into the Seventh Circle of Hell. Pacing the floors. Rocking so much that every nut, bolt and washer in the recliner squeaks plaintively. The other night in a fit of desperation I surrendered and drove the baby around town, in the snow. While he screamed and choked and gagged on his own vomit.

Sometimes I feel as though the days and nights will never end. That they will never get better. But of course ultimately I know they will. I have three other children who took essentially the same sleep path as this little guy. And we survived. We will survive.



But in my desperation; in those moments when I choose to walk away, or text my best friend to vent, or call my mom, or turn the monitors off to soften the sounds of crying, or pour myself a glass of wine…or better yet stick a straw into the bottle of wine…I also think of those moms and dads and caregivers who cannot cope. And those babies and their crying. Perhaps their diapers are full or their bellies empty. Maybe there is diaper rash or an allergy. Or perhaps they are terrible sleepers. Or terrible eaters. Or they need to be cuddled all the time.

Perhaps they are children of first time parents who do not know it will get better. Or perhaps they are children of seasoned parents who are overwhelmed by the needs of their older children. Or work, or staying at home, or life in general. Perhaps they were born to parents who did not want children at all. I think of those little babies, helpless and for whatever reason unable to settle. To stop crying. To be soothed. And my heart hurts for them. Because in those situations, with desperate babies and  desperate parents, lies danger.  I have been mired in my own parenting doldrums lately, exacerbated by a sense of helplessness for the little ones in my community, and communities all over the world, who are crying.

Looking at the beautiful face of my baby, I wonder: Is it as simple as holding a diaper drive and providing diapers to local families who can otherwise not afford them for their babies? Babies who could be suffering from severe diaper rash, and thus cry. Is it as simple as setting up a network of local families, of parents who can text or call each other at any time, just to talk about how much parenting can suck at times? Is it as simple as donating instead of selling unwanted baby gear to families, so babies can swing, or bounce, or play? I don’t know. I wish I had the answer.

I feel compelled to try to help these babies, these parents. Ultimately I have to believe that every parent loves their child. Every parent tries to do their best, but in crisis parents can lose sight of what is important. For now I will dedicate myself to being brave enough to keep thinking of these babies and their parents. I will keep researching organizations to support. I will hold space in my heart, and hope that these parents remember to love their babies. The way that I love mine.

I am joining Jodi and her 52 Project at Practising Simplicity

 http://www.practisingsimplicity.com



A Shoddy Birth Story

In June of 2003 I wrote my first birth story. At the time I didn’t realize birth stories were a thing. I also didn’t realize that having written one for my first child, I’d be compelled to write one for my second, third and fourth children as well. What a pain in the ass.

My first child’s birth story was all but written by the time I left the hospital. I had it drafted in my head, focusing on every detail and committing them to memory. Her birth story is also ten pages long. I was nervous that I’d forget something about that day, and was also paranoid that I was going to drop dead from some mysterious post-partum ailment (besides sleep deprivation). My fear was that there would be no one to explain to her how magical that day had been. Yes, her Dad could try…but when I made him write his version of her birth story (cause I’m cruel like that), I realized he got it almost all wrong. Especially when it came to documenting how much it frigging h-u-r-t.

In August of 2005 I gave birth to my second child, and while I jumped on his birth story pretty quickly, it took me some time to get it together.  I was more sleep deprived than ever. His birth story is lengthy simply because I repeat myself over and over again. I think I wrote his story with my eyes half closed. To this day I do not remember most of his first few months home.

When my third arrived on a beautiful stormy day in July 2009, I was over birth story writing. Sadly I saw it as something I had to do; more of a chore than an opportunity to record (what I thought would be) my last baby’s grueling entrance into this maddening and glorious world. 

Plus, she was my favorite and I savored every single moment with her. I held her while she napped. I held her at night. I picked her up just to smell her. I picked her up just to run my cheek over her amazing head of hair. I held her all the time; my third baby…the peace keeper, my mood stabilizer, the bringer of pure joy. I had long since become the queen of multi-tasking, but I hadn’t quite mastered typing one handed, and her birth story took months to compile and complete.

Now it is seven-plus months since the birth of my fourth child. And I can come up with very little for his birth story, one tiny little stack of post-it notes on a shelf in my closet. But never fear, my dear baby. You are now my favorite, because there is no way a four year old, an eight year old, or a ten year old could ever endear themselves to me as much as you do, with all of your baby giggles, squish, folds, rolls and snuggles.

I loved you from the moment I knew you were. But you terrified the hell out of me. I was silly to be scared of you. Because…well…I have a four, eight and ten year old, and they are far more menacing. Right now they are yelling at each other. Arguing over you. So please know that even though your birth story in no way compares to theirs, it is not for lack of love. It is from lack of energy, time, and brain cells. I am done, sweetie. I love you, but my birth story writing days are over. I will do your birth the honor of this though, the best I can do right now:

I walked around for many weeks feeling like you were clawing your way out. Then you were due and you didn’t want to come out. I really, REALLY wanted you to come out. My doctor was a turd and refused to take you out. I waited three extra days, and finally it was time to encourage you to come out with Pitocin.

I was 3cm on Monday night, without a contraction in sight, and so relieved when I was admitted to the hospital. There was a playoff hockey game on. The doctor sat on my bed and watched the game with your Dad. I sat on the edge of the birth tub, looking out the window, too lazy to suggest we fill the tub with water and use it. So I walked. The Bruins won. I walked. Finally I asked for drugs. Finally they whipped out the water-breaking-crochet-hooky-type thing. 29 minutes later you were born and I barked “get the camera and take a damn picture” to your Dad. True love right there. No drugs; things moved so incredibly quickly that the anesthesiologist could do nothing but fidget in a corner.

You were out. Your Dad and I ate lots of take-out from downtown restaurants we haven’t frequented in years. We drank lots of coffee and sent lots of texts. And we savored every last second in that tiny hospital room. We took the long way home. We were wise to the chaos that awaited us at home.

We love you baby boy. You are amazing, and we couldn’t imagine life without you. Sorry about the sloppy story…I’ll make it up to you by loving you forever. And always. And forever more.

 

Opening Day

Game one for the Cubs is in the books…

 

As Opening Day commenced, I had every intention of capturing just one snapshot of father and son together on the field, as this is the first time my husband has coached one of our kids. I dutifully clutched my phone for the first ten minutes of warm ups. Well, no, that is a lie. For the first ten minutes of warm ups I spread blankets, positioned a stroller, a chair and a shade umbrella. I readied toys, rattled off available snacks and started to sweat. Like a lot. Looking back I realize I should have called it a day when my shins started sweating. Damn capris.

 

So, let’s say that for the next 10 minutes after the first ten minutes, I diligently clutched my phone waiting for the perfect shot: Dad and son side by side. One learning from the other; each searing these moments into their infinitely inadequate man-child memory. But in those first few minutes, as shin sweat puddled at my feet and back sweat zinged down my spine, their smiling faces, pats on the back, and all that camaraderie crap blurred.

It coulda been the sweat dripping into my eyes. Or it coulda been that I began bouncing a fussy baby. And then attempted to discreetly nurse a screaming baby.  Surely the realization that I had to put my phone down had nothing to do with an awkward mixture of exposed breast, squawking baby and uncontrolled milk spillage.

The game hadn’t even started and I had already changed two poopy diapers, sopped gobs of spit up out of my tank top, bought a stroller full of snacks and water for the girls (even though I brought from home a van full of snacks and waters for the girls), made at least one pilgrimage to the van to feed a baby, and changed said baby’s outfit cause he peed on himself.

To be fair to the baby, the part where he peed on himself was totally my fault.  I had been hot-shotting the diaper change and momentarily forgot that the baby was in fact a boy with a pretty solid track record of peeing or pooping all over the van, not to mention his impressive range-of-stream. Temporarily forgetting that I was not in fact at the game to say...enjoy myself...I took my eyes off the diaper region to chat, and was swiftly put back in my place by my three month old.

New outfit for baby, myself soiled from boobs to ankles; I mustered all my strength and dragged my soggy self, the girls and the baby back to the field. And I left my phone alone, giving up hope of making any moment a Kodak/Facebook/Instagram one. But I watched (and doled out quarters for sugar, and bounced a baby, and chatted a little with myself). I focused on my boy and my husband and the fun they were having.  And I will remember. Their smiles. The pats on the back. And all that camaraderie crap.

And if I worried about missing a moment of the game, I shouldn’t have. Because in the cool tranquility of the van on the ride home…I got the play by play. In great detail. Twice.

I volunteered my husband as a Coach this season. And even though I had clearly been drinking heavily when that idea seeped into my pickled brain, I am happy for them. They will remember. 

The First Ten Weeks

The First Ten Weeks: #newbornproblems

I have written the ever popular birth story for each of my children. This is not one of them. Having given birth to my fourth almost twelve weeks ago, it is clear that a birth story is not happening. I have come up with this instead.

 

Week One: #feedingdiaperingburpingbutitsallgood

This could possibly be the most sparkly, dreamy week you’ll experience postpartum. Partly because that load you’ve been toting around on the inside has finally made his or her, (or holy hell their,) appearance. Labor sucks. Delivery hurts like a Mutha. But Sweet Jesus the last few days of pregnancy feel like a living hell.  

This first week also rocks because for part of it you and your little nugget will likely be in the hospital. Unless you’re a special kind of brave and delivered at home. Either way, those first few days are magical. You are treated like the Queen you know you are. People bring you food. You have a chaperone when walking to the potty, or anywhere really. Friends, family and even the occasional rock star nurse, will jump at the chance to change diapers, refill water, sweep floors, empty trash, fluff pillows and just generally pay you more attention than you can expect to see for the next several years. Or at least until you give birth again.

During week one even the middle of the night feeding/diapering/burping/feeding/burping/diapering dance seems euphoric, cause holy crap you just had a baby! Sadly during week one you may be fooled into thinking, “yeah I got this. I just might not lose my ever loving postpartum mind this time.”

 

Week Two: #fatbabyproblems

This week may be the week the onslaught of meals brought to your home drops off dramatically. This is unfortunate, given the fact that you’ll be ravenous. So much so that the cliché “he is so adorable I could eat him up” becomes horrifyingly possible. Fat babies are especially at risk during week two.

 

Week Three: #thereaintnovillageat2AM

Your baby is gorgeous and adorable. And people love him. And they will tell you every chance they get how gorgeous and adorable he is. And you will agree. Although, you will also know baby’s dirty little secret. This baby becomes a little less gorgeous and adorable at 2AM. So you say to the people…”isn’t he gorgeous and adorable? You should see him at 2AM.” And the people will chuckle and nod. And you’ll say…”no, seriously. Come over, I’ll be up. Bring coffee and donuts and bacon. And a roast chicken… you can hold the baby.” But no one will come. Long about week three your husband will likely tire of getting up and helping with feeding/burping/changing. You’re on your own at 2AM sister.

 

Week Four: #holyshititseverywhere

By this week you may be hitting your groove. Your baby is a miracle. Surviving thus far as a parent is a miracle. But this week baby may shake things up a bit. This week could be a game changer. Perhaps you’ve dropped a kid at summer camp, and promised the other kids you’d visit the library. And getting screaming baby out of car seat (see week six) you realize he’s pooped. A lot. No problem for this veteran Momma.

 

You rearrange bags and flip seats down. With a flick of your wrist the changing pad is laying on the front seat of the car and you get after that poopy diaper. Somehow all of your car doors end up open, and children numbers two and three are all up in your face, which is dangerously close to baby’s ass. And you hear it coming.

This will be the week; baby’s legs held high in the air, he produces a poop of astronomical proportions. Yes, you jump mostly out of the way, but you are startled. And your big kids are startled. And so you all scream. Like a lot. And the poop…holy lord the poop. It grazes your thigh, dribbling down your shorts and onto your leg. And because you were bent in half, your face all up in some cute baby ass, parts of it land on the inside of your rain coat, penetrating the mesh and gathering in an inside pocket. Which has your phone in it.

But it doesn’t stop there. This poop keeps going. It hits the open car door. And trickles into the speaker. And it keeps going. Onto the running boards; and you’d swear it could have shot clear across the parking lot had the air not been so freakishly thick and humid.

 It is an unbelievable spectacle. And there’s the screaming. And now the baby is crying because his astronomical poop scared the shit out of him. As did your screaming. And you are hotly reminded that this is a busy parking lot. And you’re attracting attention. And you all are still screaming. And doing a funny little dance.

Finally getting things in order you begin to feel as though this nightmare is over. Then you go into the library and your three year old recounts the drama in vivid detail. To Every. Single. Person.

Week Five: #bladdercontrolfail

Around week five you may be done with the physical recovery from giving birth. You may think you have regained control over your bladder this week. You may be nursing your baby at 3AM and have to sneeze. And you try to do so quietly and without jostling baby off the boob, but it’s convoluted. And you full on pee your pants. And you just don’t care, cause it’s 3AM.

 

Week Six: #jesustakethewheelforreal

This will be the week that you curse enrolling your older kids in any sort of Summer Camp/after school activity/sports-type program. You realize this because your baby hates to ride in the car and has the most horrifyingly hysterical shriek that he saves only for car rides. Shrieking baby helps you realize you never should have anticipated leaving the house ever again. Baby’s shrieks sound disturbingly like “you should have avoided Summer Camps and bought each of the kids $500 worth of iTunes gift cards and told them you’d see them after Labor Day”.

 

Week Seven: #nuffsaid

Two words: Boob Sweat

 

Week Eight: #wardrobemalfunction

Yup. You will forget to refasten your nursing tank. Many times. You may also hear the doorbell ring, and forget you’re not wearing pants. And even though it’s just a quick peek to see who dares ring the doorbell when there’s a goddamned newborn sleeping in the house, the neighborhood boys will see. And their eyes will burn.

 

Week Nine: #milkflowproblems

Family day trip week. And you’re going to make the most of it damnit. Bags are packed. And no lie, so are the ear plugs. Cause baby still hates the car. You head north and baby screams. You make pit stop after pit stop. Changing diapers, switching seats, and trying to nurse. Finally baby sleeps for the best 20 minutes of the day, but it’s a long ride. Nothing is going right, but you’re almost there. One last stop cause Momma’s gotsta pee and you’ve decided baby needs Tylenol. Customer heavy gas station-slash-sandwich shop-slash-convenience store score.

You can duck into the restroom unnoticed but when you bend over to sit on the potty it’s like the Hoover Dam lets go on your chest. In two places. And you stumble out of the gas station-slash-sandwich shop-slash-convenience store (cause remember slinking is for pumas, and you’re not that,) in horror. You spend the next two hours arms crossed tightly across your chest. You have another shirt to put on, but that gets wet too. So when you reach your destination you are thankful for your Ergo, and hastily put it on and shove baby into it and finally relax. Except baby only likes the carrier for 20 minutes. So then you walk around like an ass with an empty Ergo.

Week Ten: #itsallgood

His cheeks. His eyes. His thighs and toes. His breath. His perfectly round head, and extraordinarily small feet. His coos and smile. His giggle. Oh my, his giggle. His sad lip. His fat rolls…all of them.

 

The way he looks at you. The way his head smells. The way his brother and sisters love him more than anything. The way he feels when he sleeps on your shoulder, or curled into your arm at night.

He holds your finger. He grabs your hair. He buries his face in your neck.

He stares into your eyes and opens your heart every minute of every day. He was meant to be with you. He is perfect. This is all so perfect.