Let's Get It Started

For several years, I have thought of myself as the type of person who has a hard time finishing things. I told myself that I go into projects excited, then when the newness wears off, so does the excitement, and then I have trouble finishing what I’ve started. But the older I get, and the more honest I am with myself, the more I realize that my biggest problem has nothing to do with finishing; actually, when I get started on something, I am pretty much bound and determined to see it through to completion.

No, my problem is with getting started in the first place. You see, I feel an enormous amount of excitement over new ideas and plans. I’m starting to wonder if perhaps I have mistaken this initial emotional high/excitement for “getting started.” I have a propensity to go over an idea in my head, dream big dreams, then get bored and want to move on to something else. Problem is, I haven’t actually started anything!

And actually, I think saying that I “get bored and want to move on” isn’t entirely honest. No, I’m not usually bored; I’m discouraged. I get all excited about an idea, start projecting way into the future, come up with grand plans– and then reality slaps me in the face. These ideas and plans will take money I don’t have, time I don’t have, abilities I don’t have, resources I don’t have. The excitement fades, the plan is shelved, I get discouraged, and I move on to something else.

This is part of the reason I struggle with getting started. The obstacles seem totally insurmountable. Even if I try to break a plan down into small, manageable steps, it usually doesn’t take too many steps until the huge obstacles pop right back up. I cannot magically produce money or time or resources. Combine that discouragement with my perfectionism and my all-or-nothing tendencies… and yeah, it’s really no surprise that my biggest struggle is with getting started on a plan. I get stuck at the point where I have to make the leap from dreaming to doing.

I’m not sure what the solution is here. I just know that I don’t want to keep dreaming and never doing. I am sick of just thinking and talking, but (for one reason or another) not acting.

Death and Life

I’ve been thinking about death recently. I’m only 28, so I more than likely have many years left to live. But what if I don’t? Young people die every day. Cancer, car accidents– these are not uncommon occurrences. I have cried many, many times lying in bed at night thinking the unthinkable; what if one day my young children are left motherless? Will they be okay? Will they be able to move forward? Will they remember me? And how will they remember me?

And then the thoughts of death turn to thoughts about life. Do I make the most of it? I don’t mean in the “every moment is an adventure” kind of way; obviously there are many mundane, common moments in everyday life. But overall, as a general pattern, am I living in the moment? Am I truly present with my children? Many times I am only partially present; I am physically there, but my mind is a million miles away, thinking about hopes and dreams, planning for the future. And of course there is nothing bad about hoping, dreaming, and planning; that’s not where I’m headed with this.

But I do think I could be more present in the moment more often than I am. I get preoccupied with whatever’s going on in my head at the time, and I have a propensity to drift into discontentment when comparing reality with my ideals,  and then it can be hard to pull myself back into the beauty of the present… listening to my 9 year old talk animatedly about his current interests, enjoying my 3 year old’s exuberance toward life, appreciating the wonder of a nursing baby.

Balance always seems to be the answer. I need balance in my life; I must find a way to dream and plan while also making the most of the everyday moments with my children. I want them to look back at their childhood and remember a mom who listened to them, who was patient and kind, who appreciated them for who they were and knew them well, who took time to read to them and take them places they’d enjoy, who loved them without condition or reserve. I don’t want them to ever wonder if they were important, appreciated, or loved– I want them to know they were. I want them to know they are.

That is the life I want to live. For the next fifty years, or for the next five– that is who I want to be.

Existential Crisis

Lately I suppose I’ve been having a bit of an existential crisis.

It’s really hit me that this is the only chance at this life that I will ever get, and the only one my children will get too. And what am I doing with it? Am I letting it pass me by? Am I doing anything meaningful? Am I giving my children what they need? Am I simply moving on from day to day without appreciating it or doing anything significant? What have I really accomplished?

Perhaps I am too young to be having such a crisis, but nevertheless, here it is. Maybe it is driven by the fact that I am officially creeping up on a “milestone” age (30). Maybe it’s the fact that, whoa, I am responsible for three children’s lives and not just my own. That still hits me like a ton of bricks occasionally, and the baby is almost five months old. Three children. That feels like a HUGE responsibility to me. Or maybe this all has something to do with the fact that the not-quite-five-month-old baby is nearly crawling. His babyhood is flying by at a dizzying speed– all of their childhoods are, really– and I wonder if I am giving them what they need, all the care and attention and love and opportunities these children deserve.

Or maybe it’s coming from having to decide whether or not to pursue graduate school anytime soon. I am in my last months that I could apply without having to re-take the GRE. So many other people and circumstances need my time and attention right now, and I am unsure whether or not to throw graduate school into the mix. But oh, how I want to go.

Or maybe it’s coming from the realization that we have reached the point where the financial demands on our family are so great that it would be wise for me to bring in an income. While the rhythm and structure of working in an office certainly appeal to me (and excite me), the prospect also terrifies me a bit. It would be a huge change from the life to which my children and I are accustomed. And change is scary, even change that could be good for my family.

At any rate, whatever is causing the existential crisis, it is here. And I face it every day. I ask myself these questions every day. What am I doing with this one and only life I have been given? What am I doing for my children in the one and only life they’ve been given?

Is it enough?

No pressure.

Updates on My Life

Busy doesn’t even begin to describe it.

I’ve recently realized that I’ve said to at least six different people, “We should get together sometime soon!” And I mean it. I truly do. And then life continues on with all the busyness, and before I know it, weeks have passed and I’ve never made plans with anyone. I haven’t forgotten them, and I do want to spend time with them– but right now my life is like a juggling act, with so many balls in the air, and I can’t afford to drop any of them.

I just looked back at my calendar for the past few months. Between doctor’s visits, the chiropractor, a couple trips to the mechanic, and other random appointments and commitments, I’m averaging 2-3 appointments a week. This is on top of all that it takes to parent three children, while trying to keep my house at a manageable level of chaos, and my husband is gone 12 hours a day plus sometimes on the weekend. Oh, and the baby had RSV… and the whole family caught a stomach bug… and there are some other issues/concerns that I won’t detail here but that are consuming a LOT of time and energy. I am drained.

So to the people I’ve been meaning to get together with… I am truly sorry.    I can barely catch a minute to think these days. I’m hoping things slow down a bit soon.

To wrap this up, here’s a message from my 3 year old, who has been sitting on my lap as I edit this post and he desperately wants to participate:

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Meet Our New Arrival: Joshua David!

It’s a long story, I know– but it was a long labor!

I began having contractions that were timeable and real (not random Braxton Hicks) on Friday, December 2. By Friday evening, they were averaging 4-5 minutes apart and 45-60 seconds long. And then… they pretty much stopped. I had a few here and there during the night and the next morning, and by Saturday afternoon they were becoming more frequent again. But again, they faded by the evening. Saturday night I slept soundly, and if I had any contractions through most of the night, I didn’t notice them.

On Sunday morning, I woke with contractions. “Here we go again,” I thought, wondering just how many days of prelabor I’d end up having. But a trip to the bathroom led me to believe that I might be losing my mucous plug– only it was greenish in color. This was something I hadn’t seen before. Contractions continued, and they were getting slightly stronger, but they were probably 10-15 minutes apart. Still, the color of the mucous plug concerned me a bit, so I went ahead and called Debi, my midwife. She reassured me that it was within the realm of normal, and she offered to come out to my house. I thought that sounded like a good idea. I also called my mom. I didn’t know if it was the real thing or not, but I knew I wanted her with me. Within an hour, she and my dad arrived; his job was to entertain Elijah and Isaac.

Debi arrived and checked me around 9:30. I was 4-5 centimeters dilated and nearly 100% effaced. She began unloading her supplies and equipment from her car, and it hit me that this really was happening. I was actually in labor. It was December 4, the due date. As my best friend said, that’s a little conventional for me.

Things continued moving along very slowly. Contractions remained at least 15 minutes apart, and sometimes they came even less frequently than that. Throughout the morning and afternoon, I took a couple naps, walked around the neighborhood twice, sat and talked with everyone for a while, did hip circles on the yoga ball… and waited. My dad took the boys out to lunch and I hoped things would pick up while they were gone, but no such luck.

We made arrangements for the boys to spend the night with Clark’s dad and stepmom. After they left, probably around 6:00 or so, I began to sense a shift in my mood. I didn’t feel very talkative anymore, didn’t want many people around, and I felt the need to retreat within myself through contractions– which were becoming noticeably stronger and slightly closer together.



By this time I was feeling awfully discouraged.  I’d had a long, slow labor with Isaac, and I had really hoped this one would go quickly.  I began thinking that maybe contractions would stop yet again, just as they had on Friday and Saturday.  Perhaps I wouldn’t have a due date baby after all.
Debi checked me again around 8:30 and I was at 6 centimeters.  I felt so discouraged.  All those hours and I’d only progressed 1-2 centimeters?  She encouraged me to shower, to relax, and maybe get some rest.

I went to the bathroom to shower.  Looking back, I think I was rapidly hurtling into transition, but at the time I just felt miserable.  I cried in the shower and silently wished for pitocin to speed things up and an epidural so I wouldn’t have to deal with feeling any more contractions.  They were coming harder and faster; I had four of them during the time I was in the shower.

After the shower, I tried to rest, but a contraction soon brought me right back out of the bed.  I couldn’t sit or lie down; I had to be on my feet to get through them.  At this point, contractions became much more frequent and much, much stronger.  I leaned against Clark, swaying from side to side, breathing and groaning my way through each one.  Debi filled the birth pool, and I got in the water around 10:30.

At first it felt amazing.  The constant ache in my lower back was immediately relieved.  But then another contraction hit and I found  myself scrambling to find a comfortable position.  Between contractions, I was fine with leaning back against the side of the pool, but once a contraction began, I couldn’t stand to stay there.   I sat up straighter, supporting my weight with my arms, and swayed back and  forth.  Keeping my hips moving brought some relief from the stronger and stronger contractions.



They were coming quickly now.  After I’d had just a few contractions in the water, I noticed that my vocalizations were moving from groans to something a little more fierce and growly, and I began to feel like pushing.  I got out of the pool to go to the bathroom at Debi’s suggestion.  Once I was on the toilet, I very stubbornly refused to move for about three contractions.   I did not want to return to the pool where I’d had those last few miserable contractions, or even to the bedroom where much of this long labor had played out.  I was afraid of being told it wasn’t actually time to push yet, but I was pushing a bit anyway and it was such a relief.  So I just wanted to stay put.  Clark asked if I felt like pushing and I cried.  “I don’t know, I don’t know, I AM pushing some, it feels good to push.  I just want this to END.”

He pretty much made me get out of the bathroom and we returned to the bedroom.  I didn’t want the pool, so we got on the bed.  Another contraction, a little pushing, 9 centimeters but so very close to 10.  Another contraction or two, and I heard those beautiful words: push, give it all that you’ve got.  And I did.  The contractions were awful and I was so ready to push back, to get my baby out, to finally bring this labor to a close.  While I was relatively quiet with Isaac’s birth, I was not quiet with this one.  I let it all out; I moaned and groaned and growled and yelled this baby down and out.  At one point, in all my exhaustion and gripped by the start of another contraction, I yelled, “I HAAAAAATTTTTTE THIS!!”  I could feel the baby moving down low, and I felt stretched beyond reason.  Debi said she could see the baby’s hair.  And then his head was out.  And then, he was out.  “Oh, thank God!” I exclaimed.  Within moments, he was in my arms and I was telling him how happy I was to see him.



We have no idea when my water broke; this is a real mystery to me.  I never had a gush of water during labor, but Debi told me that when she’d checked me at 6 cm, it felt like my water had broken already.  That would definitely explain why the contractions were so much more difficult than the ones I’d had with Isaac!

After all that, he was indeed born on Sunday, just barely– at 11:48 PM.  I had gone from 6 centimeters to birth in about three and a half hours.  He weighed 9 pounds 8 ounces and was 21 inches long.  A big baby!  And a nameless one; he didn’t have a name until Tuesday afternoon, at
 which point we finally settled on Joshua David.

Letting Go of Fear

Near the end of pregnancy, I find myself working through a lot of anxiety. I have realized that I’ve been fearful of labor and birth because I’ve been thinking of it as something that will happen to me rather than something I will do. Perhaps it sounds like a subtle distinction, but it makes a huge difference in my thought process. Labor is not something foreign that will invade my body; it is my body.

The sensations of labor and contractions are not to be feared; they are simply muscles in my body working hard and doing precisely what they were designed to do. Even transition, that last bit of labor that so many women dread, is not something I need to fear; a transition is nothing more than a change, a shift from labor to birth. During that time, yes, the contractions become more intense, but that is because the muscles involved are working at their maximum capacity, getting that last bit of work done to open the way for the baby to be born.

Even though I have birthed two babies already, I needed this reminder. Labor and birth are natural, normal processes. Labor is hard work, and at times it is intense, but it is not something to fear or dread. And I do not need to fear that I am weak. The truth is, if my body is capable of doing something so strong and powerful, how can I possibly think of myself as weak? I remember very well the feeling of accomplishment when all is said and done, when I am holding my baby in my arms and feeling so strong. Birth is truly an amazing, transforming, powerful thing.

Peace

I’m generally the type of person who prefers to have a rock-solid plan in place for everything. I like making lists and schedules; I like knowing precisely what to expect. I like feeling as though I have control over things.

But in the final weeks of pregnancy, I have noticed that I must learn to let go. The truth is, there really is very little that I can control. I cannot nail down a plan that gives me an exact date and time, and I have no way of knowing precisely what my labor will be like. You would think that I would feel very anxious when I realize how little is actually within my control, but the opposite turns out to be true. It actually brings me a sense of peace. I can let go. I don’t need to worry about making plans for every little thing. It’s okay if I don’t have the house perfectly clean and organized, or if I don’t have a bunch of meals prepared and frozen in advance, or if I don’t have every little detail all planned out. All those details that seem like such a big deal to my OCD self are really not that major after all, and becoming overly focused on them distracts me from the preparations that are most important–preparing my mind, body, and soul for the hard work and life-changing experience that is ahead of me.

If every square inch of my house is scrubbed and spotless… if I have enough meals stored up for several weeks… if I have a plan in place for every little logistical detail… but my mind and body have not been given adequate time to pause, relax, prepare, and find a place of peace, then I still haven’t accomplished what I need most.

And so I breathe. I pray. I identify my worries and fears, and I work through them. I focus on the beauty and significance of what is about to happen, of bringing a new life into the world, a new person to my family. I lay a hand on my belly and feel little feet pushing back, and I am awestruck by the realization that this new and unique little person will be in my arms soon.

The work of labor will be hard, no doubt. They do call it “labor” for a reason. And while I cannot precisely plan how my labor will go, I can prepare my mind and body for it. I can breathe and relax, two major things that will help my body do what it needs to do most efficiently once labor begins. I remind myself that the sensations of labor, while strong and intense at times, are nothing more than a specific set of muscles in my body doing exactly what they were designed to do in order to birth a baby, and that my job is simply to relax and breathe in order to better equip my body to do its job. I work on releasing fear and tension because I know those things will make labor more difficult than it has to be. And I remind myself that when labor becomes hardest, that is a sign that it is coming to a close and that soon, so soon, I will be holding my baby.

But even when this pregnancy is over, I want to remember these lessons I’m learning about letting go. I want to live my life with less stress and tension over anxiously planning every little detail. I want to find a place of peace in my life where I am better equipped to focus on the things that really are important without getting dragged down by things that are often not within my control in the first place. I’ve been through several situations this year that have reminded me that I can’t control everything, and even though I’ve battled feelings of anxiety and depression as I’ve struggled through them, I get the feeling that I am coming out on the other side with a better understanding of patience, trust, and peace.