In the world of parenting, there are those who believe you should speak at your child's level. There are others who subscribe to the notion that if you bombard your children with enough adult words, they will grow into them. I think the wisdom is somewhere in between.
Since this tragic event in our house, my daughter has been using the word "die" more liberally than I'd like her to. Yesterday, on the way to the car, she fell in the snow with her baby doll. I scooped her up, brushed the snow off her as fast as I could (dang stuff absorbs) and got her to her feet. She cried. "Morgan, why are you crying? Look! You're up! You're all better," I noted. And then she said the "d" word: "My baby fell in the snow and died."
I hate that word. Dan and I are trying to find creative alternatives to such a power-punched word. For instance: We received flowers and some of them are starting to d**. Before I reach that word, I scour my brain for synonyms. "The flowers are fading, Dan. We should throw those away."
I'm torn about whether I should have ever told Morgan about our pregnancy and miscarriage in the first place. I put it in her terms: "Mommy lost the baby" and, later on, "the baby died". I try not to show alarm when she uses this word, but it's rather disconcerting when a young child talks loudly about babies dying. Makes me not want to bring her out in public a while until we have a new word.
On Sunday, Morgan is supposed to sing "Jesus loves the Little Children" in front of the church with several of her friends for a baptism. She just learned the song and I'd love to see my little girl sing it. But so help me, if there is one mention of the "d" word that morning before the service, I am going to withdraw her.
On a ligher note, there is a second reason I would withdraw her and that is because Morgan has taken to practicing this religious song in a "Whitney Houston" fashion. (You remember Whitney- tall, good looking singer, hooked on coke.) Sometimes Morgan closes her eyes as she sings it into her Veggie Tales karaoke machine. And sometimes she tilts her head back. And on rare occasions, she even has a falsetto. T'ain't pretty. I'm desperately afraid that it's going to be "Morgan Spotlight Hour" instead of "Baby Jacob's Precious Baptism Moment". I told Dan that if rehearsal bombs, I'm taking my American Idol off the podium. I think I'd d**.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Tyra's Wisdom
I just noticed that Tyra Banks is in the news. I didn't bother to see why she was in the news because I am SO unimpressed with her. Did you notice my capitalization? SO unimpressed.
I had the misfortune to land on her show several months ago while innocently surfing for other channels. I can't recall why I actually watched the five minutes that I did, but it was a mistake. I guess I thought that I'd like to hear a super model speak. Or maybe I wanted to know if their years of eating disorders would affect their speech or brain activity. (Stuttering or Tourettes would be entertaining.) Enough excuses. I watched.
Tyra has her own talk show and I think she thinks she is the second Oprah. She's black and she's a woman, but she's no Oprah.
Her guest was a tall blond woman in her early twenties who was looking to break into modeling. Naturally she'd like to speak to Tyra. She had had enough experience to have a folio but since her day job required her to work the 9-5 (when she would need to show up for photo shoots) she didn't know how to reconcile the two worlds. How to pay the bills and pursue modeling.
I'm so glad she went to Tyra. So I could laugh. Tyra's got legs but the woman is stupid when it comes to, say, other people.
Tyra actually told this young woman that if she really wanted to pursue modeling, she should do WHATEVER it took to do it. Including quitting her job. Aghast, the guest asked Tyra how she would pay her rent. Tyra avoided the question, telling her to seize her dream. "But I'll have no place to live." More dream-filling vomit-talk.
Then we TV viewers were told to hold on because, after the commercial break, Tyra had a special gift for this young budding model. I'm so glad I waited. Ms. Banks told her that every good model needed a good wardrobe. (Cue crescendoing music leading to large wardrobe giveaway.) Ms. Banks gave this woman her wardrobe starter, alright. A $6 wife beater from Kmart. That's right, this doe-eyed, hopeful youth was expecting a trousseau and Ms. Banks gave her slut-wear. She then proceeded to tell her that all she needed was a pair of jeans, this tank and some heels to get her modeling gigs. Please. Maybe if she was a hooker. But she was a model which, granted, is only one step away from prostitution, but still.
I'm still disturbed by Ms. Banks' ticket to homeless-ville advice. And the woman? We can only hope that poor thing went to Oprah afterward. At least Oprah dresses her guests.
I had the misfortune to land on her show several months ago while innocently surfing for other channels. I can't recall why I actually watched the five minutes that I did, but it was a mistake. I guess I thought that I'd like to hear a super model speak. Or maybe I wanted to know if their years of eating disorders would affect their speech or brain activity. (Stuttering or Tourettes would be entertaining.) Enough excuses. I watched.
Tyra has her own talk show and I think she thinks she is the second Oprah. She's black and she's a woman, but she's no Oprah.
Her guest was a tall blond woman in her early twenties who was looking to break into modeling. Naturally she'd like to speak to Tyra. She had had enough experience to have a folio but since her day job required her to work the 9-5 (when she would need to show up for photo shoots) she didn't know how to reconcile the two worlds. How to pay the bills and pursue modeling.
I'm so glad she went to Tyra. So I could laugh. Tyra's got legs but the woman is stupid when it comes to, say, other people.
Tyra actually told this young woman that if she really wanted to pursue modeling, she should do WHATEVER it took to do it. Including quitting her job. Aghast, the guest asked Tyra how she would pay her rent. Tyra avoided the question, telling her to seize her dream. "But I'll have no place to live." More dream-filling vomit-talk.
Then we TV viewers were told to hold on because, after the commercial break, Tyra had a special gift for this young budding model. I'm so glad I waited. Ms. Banks told her that every good model needed a good wardrobe. (Cue crescendoing music leading to large wardrobe giveaway.) Ms. Banks gave this woman her wardrobe starter, alright. A $6 wife beater from Kmart. That's right, this doe-eyed, hopeful youth was expecting a trousseau and Ms. Banks gave her slut-wear. She then proceeded to tell her that all she needed was a pair of jeans, this tank and some heels to get her modeling gigs. Please. Maybe if she was a hooker. But she was a model which, granted, is only one step away from prostitution, but still.
I'm still disturbed by Ms. Banks' ticket to homeless-ville advice. And the woman? We can only hope that poor thing went to Oprah afterward. At least Oprah dresses her guests.
How to Know if You're REALLY Pro-Life
My brother Andrew was born on January 22, which is the anniversary of the legalization of abortion in our country, also known as Roe v. Wade. Since I grew up just north of Washington D.C., we often spent this special day marching on Capital Hill against abortion.
Poor Drew. Spending his birthday morning marching in the cold, surrounded by people either holding very gross signs showing pictures of aborted babies or other people yelling at us could not have been the way he wanted his day of birth commemorated. If memory serves, sometimes my siblings couldn't eat their dinner very well that night either because of the graphic images they saw that day.
I bring this up because as a surly 16-year old, I was "encouraged" to go to this function. I didn't care much about abortion because I didn't understand it.
I've changed.
Here's what I have observed:
1. You're pro-life if you see life as beginning at conception.
If you see life as starting when the heart beats or when the 12-week mark is reached in pregnancy or any other marker, I think you're off base. The moment God brings the female and male contributions together, He has started His tapestry.
2. You're pro-life if you truly grieve at anything less than birth in a pregnancy.
3. You're pro-life if you see each child as a gift, no matter if the gift is not the gender, condition or presentation you were hoping for.
I'm really fed up with people who think children are supposed to be dolls to dress up or check marks on their "to do" list of life.
More than ever, I marvel at the gift each life is. It may be hard for me to see my friends who are pregnant right now, but once I put myself aside, I can acknowledge the truly beautiful gift inside them.
Now, if you'll excuse me, a beautiful gift of life has just entered the room and asked me, "Mommy, do you want to play with me when you're done with you're email?"
Definitely.
Poor Drew. Spending his birthday morning marching in the cold, surrounded by people either holding very gross signs showing pictures of aborted babies or other people yelling at us could not have been the way he wanted his day of birth commemorated. If memory serves, sometimes my siblings couldn't eat their dinner very well that night either because of the graphic images they saw that day.
I bring this up because as a surly 16-year old, I was "encouraged" to go to this function. I didn't care much about abortion because I didn't understand it.
I've changed.
Here's what I have observed:
1. You're pro-life if you see life as beginning at conception.
If you see life as starting when the heart beats or when the 12-week mark is reached in pregnancy or any other marker, I think you're off base. The moment God brings the female and male contributions together, He has started His tapestry.
2. You're pro-life if you truly grieve at anything less than birth in a pregnancy.
3. You're pro-life if you see each child as a gift, no matter if the gift is not the gender, condition or presentation you were hoping for.
I'm really fed up with people who think children are supposed to be dolls to dress up or check marks on their "to do" list of life.
More than ever, I marvel at the gift each life is. It may be hard for me to see my friends who are pregnant right now, but once I put myself aside, I can acknowledge the truly beautiful gift inside them.
Now, if you'll excuse me, a beautiful gift of life has just entered the room and asked me, "Mommy, do you want to play with me when you're done with you're email?"
Definitely.
Waste
I'll be honest, this post won't be pretty.
Today, in the disturbing roller coaster of emotions we call "the grieving process", I have disgust at the waste of this whole miscarriage. So much waste.
There's the waste of time.
Each morning I awoke at 4am to start taking my pregnancy meds, then I'd go back to sleep for 3 hours and take more meds. By then, Dan would be gone to work and I would groggily watch Morgan until the sleepiness of my drugs wore off. (Enter Sesame Street.) Throughout the day, I would have light nausea and eat strange foods. Sometimes all the food in the house seemed unbearable and I'd go out to buy new cravings: cottage cheese was one day's favorite. And then at night, I'd take some more meds that required me to lie still for a half hour. All that sickness and sleepiness and medicine taking. What a waste.
There's the waste of funds.
Between doc visits and medicine I spent around $100 a week to keep this prengnacy, which is nothing, I know, when friends tell me about their expensive medication. But still. Waste. The D and C surgery did a lovely job of helping us reach our deductible for the year. But it's nothing I'd write home about. More waste.
There's the waste of weight.
I probably gained 5 or 10 pounds, but my legs are just not pretty. My jeans fit funny now. And there's no way to make first trimester pregnant legs look pretty. They're chunk-style. I went to buy a new bathing suit because Dan and I are hoping to get away to the beach for a week. Dan's folks invited us to Alabama. I just don't fit in my old suit. I don't mind forking over the money for a new suit, but it's going to take a while to make this body feel like itself again. A waste of weight.
There's the waste of grieving.
I've been through this before. Really only time heals. So let's fast forward life to the "healed" part. Because grieving is a waste.
There's the waste of thought.
All the time thinking at night about how we'd rearrange our life for this little one. All the thinking of doc visits and remembering to take meds. Thinking, thinking, thinking. All for nothing.
And now I'm challenged to ask myself the hardest question of all: Hope- was it a waste? Because if HOPE is a waste, then forget going to the next specialist. Forget trying again. Hope is not seen, the Bible says. But how important it is. No, without the hope, I never would have even had the opportunity to try. Hope was not a waste.
Oh, Simon, you were worth it all. You were NOT a waste, my dear.
Today, in the disturbing roller coaster of emotions we call "the grieving process", I have disgust at the waste of this whole miscarriage. So much waste.
There's the waste of time.
Each morning I awoke at 4am to start taking my pregnancy meds, then I'd go back to sleep for 3 hours and take more meds. By then, Dan would be gone to work and I would groggily watch Morgan until the sleepiness of my drugs wore off. (Enter Sesame Street.) Throughout the day, I would have light nausea and eat strange foods. Sometimes all the food in the house seemed unbearable and I'd go out to buy new cravings: cottage cheese was one day's favorite. And then at night, I'd take some more meds that required me to lie still for a half hour. All that sickness and sleepiness and medicine taking. What a waste.
There's the waste of funds.
Between doc visits and medicine I spent around $100 a week to keep this prengnacy, which is nothing, I know, when friends tell me about their expensive medication. But still. Waste. The D and C surgery did a lovely job of helping us reach our deductible for the year. But it's nothing I'd write home about. More waste.
There's the waste of weight.
I probably gained 5 or 10 pounds, but my legs are just not pretty. My jeans fit funny now. And there's no way to make first trimester pregnant legs look pretty. They're chunk-style. I went to buy a new bathing suit because Dan and I are hoping to get away to the beach for a week. Dan's folks invited us to Alabama. I just don't fit in my old suit. I don't mind forking over the money for a new suit, but it's going to take a while to make this body feel like itself again. A waste of weight.
There's the waste of grieving.
I've been through this before. Really only time heals. So let's fast forward life to the "healed" part. Because grieving is a waste.
There's the waste of thought.
All the time thinking at night about how we'd rearrange our life for this little one. All the thinking of doc visits and remembering to take meds. Thinking, thinking, thinking. All for nothing.
And now I'm challenged to ask myself the hardest question of all: Hope- was it a waste? Because if HOPE is a waste, then forget going to the next specialist. Forget trying again. Hope is not seen, the Bible says. But how important it is. No, without the hope, I never would have even had the opportunity to try. Hope was not a waste.
Oh, Simon, you were worth it all. You were NOT a waste, my dear.
Monday, January 29, 2007
A Little Birdie
My mother left today for Baltimore. I love my mom. I'll miss her. I'm so glad she came. Morgan was glad, too.
She called me from the airport to say she was about to board. Before she did so, she told me an interesting story. "Emily, did you read the card I left?" I had. On the front it had a picture of a bird. The inside began, "...Much too delicate for the harsh realities of this life, our little Simon has, like this little bird, flown to safer refuge." It was a beautiful description. I had to agree.
My mother continued, "I wrote that card last night. This morning when Morgan awoke I asked Morgan if she slept well. 'Yes I did! I had a dream about a little birdie! Tweet tweet!'"
My mother teared up telling this story. To be honest, I got shivers. I have no idea how my 3-year old, unprompted, dreamt about a little bird, the same bird that had been on my mother's mind the night before. I can acknowledge spiritual activity in my life, but to see the sensitivity of my daughter in this manner was difficult.
If you feel uncomfortable with this story, simply disregard the spiritual element. What youngster doesn't talk about all manner of creatures?
I feel absolutely skittish about it. But then, I felt uncomfortable with the strange peace God has already given me, the suffocating comfort of friends and, above all, the loss of our child.
I think I'll believe the story.
She called me from the airport to say she was about to board. Before she did so, she told me an interesting story. "Emily, did you read the card I left?" I had. On the front it had a picture of a bird. The inside began, "...Much too delicate for the harsh realities of this life, our little Simon has, like this little bird, flown to safer refuge." It was a beautiful description. I had to agree.
My mother continued, "I wrote that card last night. This morning when Morgan awoke I asked Morgan if she slept well. 'Yes I did! I had a dream about a little birdie! Tweet tweet!'"
My mother teared up telling this story. To be honest, I got shivers. I have no idea how my 3-year old, unprompted, dreamt about a little bird, the same bird that had been on my mother's mind the night before. I can acknowledge spiritual activity in my life, but to see the sensitivity of my daughter in this manner was difficult.
If you feel uncomfortable with this story, simply disregard the spiritual element. What youngster doesn't talk about all manner of creatures?
I feel absolutely skittish about it. But then, I felt uncomfortable with the strange peace God has already given me, the suffocating comfort of friends and, above all, the loss of our child.
I think I'll believe the story.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Snapshots of Lament and Healing
The first night we found out about the loss, I couldn't stop crying. Naturally.
I lay in bed and wept bitterly. Dan joined me in bed, held me and said "Em, you can go limp and I'll catch you. I've got you."
I think he loves me.
___________________________________________________
Friday morning Morgan was crying to Dan. "I lost my baby."
A little background: Morgan pretended she was pregnant with me. I was going to have a boy. She, a girl.
Anyway, she was crying to Dan: "I lost my baby. I lost my baby." Dan handed her her baby doll and said, "Here you go, honey. Here's your baby." "No," Morgan explained, "it was a REAL baby." She lost her pregnancy, too. She did understand.
Dan just held her while she cried.
___________________________________________________
Email snippets from friends:
"Why, Lord?"
"If you need to talk..."
"We're praying for you..."
"I don't know what to say..."
"...devastating..."
"thanks for naming him..."
"terrible news..."
"my heart breaks for you..."
___________________________________________________
A woman called me on the phone last night. Scratch that. A new friend called me on the phone last night. Some church friends told me about her. She has had multiple miscarriages and called to encourage me.
In the world of infertility, the abbreviation for multiple miscarriages is MMC. And while I hate very much that she is somewhat experienced in the field of "MMC", I very much needed to hear from her.
What a breath of fresh air. What a woman of courage. She spoke strongly of wanting children. Her first two pregnancies were rather breezy- no trouble conceiving, really. But as she approached her third pregnancy, she lost it. She had her last child when she was near 40, but her other two miscarriages (one of them with twins-so sad) were after 40.
She explained that she wanted children and that by all accounts she shouldn't have even had her last one, but there was one "hormone level" that the docs couldn't monitor, and that was the will of God.
The will of God. That bewildering, comforting, frustrating, heart-rending will of God. "...Children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband's will, but born of God..." John 1:13
I have no idea if we will be granted more children. But I have heard of the courage of women who, through great suffering and loss, tried again and again.
And I am that woman? By God's will, yes.
I lay in bed and wept bitterly. Dan joined me in bed, held me and said "Em, you can go limp and I'll catch you. I've got you."
I think he loves me.
___________________________________________________
Friday morning Morgan was crying to Dan. "I lost my baby."
A little background: Morgan pretended she was pregnant with me. I was going to have a boy. She, a girl.
Anyway, she was crying to Dan: "I lost my baby. I lost my baby." Dan handed her her baby doll and said, "Here you go, honey. Here's your baby." "No," Morgan explained, "it was a REAL baby." She lost her pregnancy, too. She did understand.
Dan just held her while she cried.
___________________________________________________
Email snippets from friends:
"Why, Lord?"
"If you need to talk..."
"We're praying for you..."
"I don't know what to say..."
"...devastating..."
"thanks for naming him..."
"terrible news..."
"my heart breaks for you..."
___________________________________________________
A woman called me on the phone last night. Scratch that. A new friend called me on the phone last night. Some church friends told me about her. She has had multiple miscarriages and called to encourage me.
In the world of infertility, the abbreviation for multiple miscarriages is MMC. And while I hate very much that she is somewhat experienced in the field of "MMC", I very much needed to hear from her.
What a breath of fresh air. What a woman of courage. She spoke strongly of wanting children. Her first two pregnancies were rather breezy- no trouble conceiving, really. But as she approached her third pregnancy, she lost it. She had her last child when she was near 40, but her other two miscarriages (one of them with twins-so sad) were after 40.
She explained that she wanted children and that by all accounts she shouldn't have even had her last one, but there was one "hormone level" that the docs couldn't monitor, and that was the will of God.
The will of God. That bewildering, comforting, frustrating, heart-rending will of God. "...Children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband's will, but born of God..." John 1:13
I have no idea if we will be granted more children. But I have heard of the courage of women who, through great suffering and loss, tried again and again.
And I am that woman? By God's will, yes.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Goodbye, Simon Michael
Tonight I was at Central Dupage Hospital with my friend Stephanie. (Dan went to pick up my mother at the airport.) I saw the baby, the same baby I saw earlier, without the heartbeat. I knew I wouldn't see that little beating heart again, but we had to "verify" for all sorts of medical reasons.
I saw two little arm buds and two little leg buds, a big fat belly (so cute) and an oversized head.
I'm sure it was a boy because my nausea occurred at night and only 20% of the time that it had with my pregnancy with Morgan. Dan and I were planning on calling him Simon Michael. And now that he's with Jesus, why not still name him?
I like to think that this little bugger was so darn cute that God had to hold him back, spend a bit more time with him.
We grieve, we mourn. But we know whose very great hands he is in.
I saw two little arm buds and two little leg buds, a big fat belly (so cute) and an oversized head.
I'm sure it was a boy because my nausea occurred at night and only 20% of the time that it had with my pregnancy with Morgan. Dan and I were planning on calling him Simon Michael. And now that he's with Jesus, why not still name him?
I like to think that this little bugger was so darn cute that God had to hold him back, spend a bit more time with him.
We grieve, we mourn. But we know whose very great hands he is in.
Baby Dykstra
This morning Dan and I found out some very sad news. It appears that our 9 week pregnancy has lost the heartbeat it showed last week.
We're going into the hospital this evening to confirm, but my doc is almost 100% sure.
If he isn't, this child is going to be called Lazarus.
I came home crying. Morgan asked why I was sad. To put it simply, I told her that I thought I lost our baby. In true 3-year old innocence, she ran to her room and brought out one of her baby dolls. "Here, Mommy. You can have THIS baby." The beauty of this anguishing moment I will never forget.
The sadness is not as overwhelming as our July miscarriage. It's more of a numbing feeling. The deja vu of the moment is horrific, but it's also a bit comforting: I've been down this path before; I know that only time will heal.
I told Dan that I feel like a person who has lost her spouse shortly after taking a sunny vacation. The ring is gone, but the tan line shows where the ring was. Only time will erase its line.
The hymn "It Is Well With My Soul" has been going through my mind today; it's an appropriate hymn, written by Horatio Gates Spafford after he lost four daughters at sea. It's a beautiful hymn to know during this time.
We're going into the hospital this evening to confirm, but my doc is almost 100% sure.
If he isn't, this child is going to be called Lazarus.
I came home crying. Morgan asked why I was sad. To put it simply, I told her that I thought I lost our baby. In true 3-year old innocence, she ran to her room and brought out one of her baby dolls. "Here, Mommy. You can have THIS baby." The beauty of this anguishing moment I will never forget.
The sadness is not as overwhelming as our July miscarriage. It's more of a numbing feeling. The deja vu of the moment is horrific, but it's also a bit comforting: I've been down this path before; I know that only time will heal.
I told Dan that I feel like a person who has lost her spouse shortly after taking a sunny vacation. The ring is gone, but the tan line shows where the ring was. Only time will erase its line.
The hymn "It Is Well With My Soul" has been going through my mind today; it's an appropriate hymn, written by Horatio Gates Spafford after he lost four daughters at sea. It's a beautiful hymn to know during this time.
Go Back to Bed
It's 8 am and already this morning I have had three "discussions" with Morgan.
First Discussion: Where is Daddy?
Morgan: (crying) Mom, where is Daddy?
Me: Where do you think he is?
Morgan: At boring work? (more crying)
Me: Yes. Now if you're going to keep crying you can go to bed.
Second Discussion: Washing Clothes
Morgan: Mom, where are you taking my clothes?
Me: (with full laundry basket in hand) I'm going downstairs to put them in the washer.
Morgan: No! No! Please, please don't wash my clothes.
Me: But if we don't wash your clothes, you'll smell like poopies and no one will want to play with you.
Morgan: (more crying)
Me: If you're going to keep crying you can go back to bed.
Third Discussion: Pineapple
Me: (I popped a piece of pineapple in my mouth from a large bowl on the kitchen table)
Morgan: Mom! That's mine! Give it back! Give it back!
Me: Pineapple is for everyone. If you're going to keep crying you can go back to bed.
Now excuse me while I don some sweatpants and pop a bon-bon. As you can see, this is paradise.
First Discussion: Where is Daddy?
Morgan: (crying) Mom, where is Daddy?
Me: Where do you think he is?
Morgan: At boring work? (more crying)
Me: Yes. Now if you're going to keep crying you can go to bed.
Second Discussion: Washing Clothes
Morgan: Mom, where are you taking my clothes?
Me: (with full laundry basket in hand) I'm going downstairs to put them in the washer.
Morgan: No! No! Please, please don't wash my clothes.
Me: But if we don't wash your clothes, you'll smell like poopies and no one will want to play with you.
Morgan: (more crying)
Me: If you're going to keep crying you can go back to bed.
Third Discussion: Pineapple
Me: (I popped a piece of pineapple in my mouth from a large bowl on the kitchen table)
Morgan: Mom! That's mine! Give it back! Give it back!
Me: Pineapple is for everyone. If you're going to keep crying you can go back to bed.
Now excuse me while I don some sweatpants and pop a bon-bon. As you can see, this is paradise.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Worth the Weight?
Recently I have been calling friends randomly (when
the spirit moves) and leaving messages:
"Will you still be my friend when I gain 100 pounds?"
Most say yes, but some have yet to answer my message.
My sister knows of a girlfriend who, when she was
expecting, craved Ravioli... straight from the can.
She would actually buy the COSTCO bulk cans and eat it
straight from there. If memory serves, I believe she
even had trouble getting the cans home; sometimes she
ate it in the parking lot. My sister had a baby shower
for said friend and when she arrived, my sister had to
ask who she was. I'm not kidding. She had gained so
much weight that my sister did not recognize her.
Please don't let that happen to me.
The problem is that this fetus can tell the difference
between something that is "Splenda-rific" and vats of
fat. Last night I managed to find some dairy products
that were lower fat and were palatable, but if given
the opportunity, I would eat ganache like soup.
I use humor to mask my true feeling of horror. So next
time you see me, if I'm tubby, lie. Say I look svelt.
Deny I have a large derriere.
But if you try to offer me low fat dessert and pass it
off as full-flavor, you will know the wrath of fetus.
the spirit moves) and leaving messages:
"Will you still be my friend when I gain 100 pounds?"
Most say yes, but some have yet to answer my message.
My sister knows of a girlfriend who, when she was
expecting, craved Ravioli... straight from the can.
She would actually buy the COSTCO bulk cans and eat it
straight from there. If memory serves, I believe she
even had trouble getting the cans home; sometimes she
ate it in the parking lot. My sister had a baby shower
for said friend and when she arrived, my sister had to
ask who she was. I'm not kidding. She had gained so
much weight that my sister did not recognize her.
Please don't let that happen to me.
The problem is that this fetus can tell the difference
between something that is "Splenda-rific" and vats of
fat. Last night I managed to find some dairy products
that were lower fat and were palatable, but if given
the opportunity, I would eat ganache like soup.
I use humor to mask my true feeling of horror. So next
time you see me, if I'm tubby, lie. Say I look svelt.
Deny I have a large derriere.
But if you try to offer me low fat dessert and pass it
off as full-flavor, you will know the wrath of fetus.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Dear, dear Potbelly
I wrote a letter to Potbelly. Something to this effect:
Dear Potbelly Sandwiches,
I'm in a real pickle.
Turns out that I'm 9 weeks pregnant and I crave (and I mean CRAVE) your turkey and swiss cheese subs. My taste buds are very fickle right now, but they appear to cry out for your sandwiches regularly. I had one turkey sub on Saturday (could have eaten THREE) and Sunday I bought two.
Since it appears that I'm going to be frequenting your establishment, I wonder if you might have a frequent buyer's club program? If not, I'm going to have to take a second mortgage out on my residence. Just a thought.
Most Devotedly Yours,
Emily Dykstra
Dear Potbelly Sandwiches,
I'm in a real pickle.
Turns out that I'm 9 weeks pregnant and I crave (and I mean CRAVE) your turkey and swiss cheese subs. My taste buds are very fickle right now, but they appear to cry out for your sandwiches regularly. I had one turkey sub on Saturday (could have eaten THREE) and Sunday I bought two.
Since it appears that I'm going to be frequenting your establishment, I wonder if you might have a frequent buyer's club program? If not, I'm going to have to take a second mortgage out on my residence. Just a thought.
Most Devotedly Yours,
Emily Dykstra
Eenie Meenie Minie....Pica!
Okay, brace yourself. I know I've had strange cravings for food, but I've just recently read that there are women who crave NON-food items. It's called pica. Here, read if for yourself:
"A more serious type of craving, called pica, in which women crave nonfood items, like dirt or laundry starch, can be dangerous and even fatal. Several theories have been proposed as to what causes pica, from a deficiency of calcium or iron, to the ability of certain nonfood items to quell nausea and vomiting. However, there has never been any medical reason determined. Needless to say, cravings of this nature are not to be indulged."
Not to be indulged? Nu-duh. They're fatal. I've read of women craving paint chips. I crave regular chips, so I figure I'm ahead there.
I actually wonder if Morgan has pica because she tastes the strangest things. (See earlier post on mirror licking.)
Well, that's all from the peanut gallery today. Back to my cottage cheese.
"A more serious type of craving, called pica, in which women crave nonfood items, like dirt or laundry starch, can be dangerous and even fatal. Several theories have been proposed as to what causes pica, from a deficiency of calcium or iron, to the ability of certain nonfood items to quell nausea and vomiting. However, there has never been any medical reason determined. Needless to say, cravings of this nature are not to be indulged."
Not to be indulged? Nu-duh. They're fatal. I've read of women craving paint chips. I crave regular chips, so I figure I'm ahead there.
I actually wonder if Morgan has pica because she tastes the strangest things. (See earlier post on mirror licking.)
Well, that's all from the peanut gallery today. Back to my cottage cheese.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Onions
One of the first symptoms of pregnancy for me is very odd and, quite honestly, annoying:
Dan smells like onions to me.
Now if you know Dan, he is a hygiene freak. He is the freshest smelling man I know. So it goes without saying that my smellers are doing me wrong. In fact, today when I walked outside to the car, the "fresh air" also smelled like onions to me.
Taste is also affected. Yesterday in the chocolate cake, I tasted undertones of cherry. I highly doubt Duncan Hines would sneak cherry flavor in their Moist Deluxe Chocolate Cake. Call it a hunch. Ghiaradelli, maybe. But Duncan Hines? No.
For now, I bow to my fickle taste buds' whims. Friday is was sour cream. Saturday it was Potbelly's turkey sub with cheese. Sunday I had to have another Potbelly's sub followed by ice cream. And today? A strange combination of cottage cheese and cucumber sandwiches with butter. Don't forget the butter. All of these cravings have two things in common: some form of dairy and fat.
This pregnancy is very different from the first one. I didn't know what cravings were with my pregnancy with Morgan. With this pregnancy, if I don't satisfy the 'buds, I can't stop thinking about the food. The cravings are insatiable unless I give them EXACTLY what they cry for.
*sigh* The realization is hitting that I am about to be pounding on the weight. I'm not too happy about this, but for now, I have two choices: satisfy the all-powerful taste buds or bow to the porcelein god.
Dan smells like onions to me.
Now if you know Dan, he is a hygiene freak. He is the freshest smelling man I know. So it goes without saying that my smellers are doing me wrong. In fact, today when I walked outside to the car, the "fresh air" also smelled like onions to me.
Taste is also affected. Yesterday in the chocolate cake, I tasted undertones of cherry. I highly doubt Duncan Hines would sneak cherry flavor in their Moist Deluxe Chocolate Cake. Call it a hunch. Ghiaradelli, maybe. But Duncan Hines? No.
For now, I bow to my fickle taste buds' whims. Friday is was sour cream. Saturday it was Potbelly's turkey sub with cheese. Sunday I had to have another Potbelly's sub followed by ice cream. And today? A strange combination of cottage cheese and cucumber sandwiches with butter. Don't forget the butter. All of these cravings have two things in common: some form of dairy and fat.
This pregnancy is very different from the first one. I didn't know what cravings were with my pregnancy with Morgan. With this pregnancy, if I don't satisfy the 'buds, I can't stop thinking about the food. The cravings are insatiable unless I give them EXACTLY what they cry for.
*sigh* The realization is hitting that I am about to be pounding on the weight. I'm not too happy about this, but for now, I have two choices: satisfy the all-powerful taste buds or bow to the porcelein god.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Legal Schmegal
Dan and I have this funny fetish of reading legal paraphernalia on consumer products. Nearly every product will have a random "do not" in the legal mumbo jumbo. And this is what we find funny. As Dan notes, "The reason they have to put it on there is because some nuthead tried to do it."
Tonight, I read Orville Redenbacher's legal schmegal. Actually, it was classified "Helpful Hints" but we all know legal scoured it with a fine toothed comb. Anyway, under "Helpful Hints" for microwave popcorn it said, among other tips, "It is normal for some unpopped kernels to remain in a fully popped bag. Do not reheat unpopped kernels or reuse bag." Now this has Depression Era Aged people written all over it. Seriously, whose grandparents are not super cheap and find every possible way to reuse what others might consider un-reusable? (In high school Dan actually got a donation of USED UNDERWEAR from an older couple for his all-school yard sale.) But picture this... there's actually people out there who probably collect these orphan kernals and, once a fair amount are collected, pop them for an evening snack.
I'd be remiss if I didn't tell the orange story. My maternal grandparents live in Florida. When I was a teenager, I was visiting them with my family. My grandfather drove us kiddos to the park one afternoon. We were playing on the equipment when my grandpa ran over, "Quick, kids! A truck dropped oranges and we need to pick them up!" It occurred to me for a brief moment that maybe this effort was for humanitarian reasons (the truck driver was a migrant worker and his small truck dumped his produce). But, no. It was an 18-wheeler that dumped a significant amount of oranges on a local highway. Now I say local, but it still was a highway. Cars are dodging little round spheres of juicy fun. My grandfather is not a poor man; but he is frugal. If memory serves, we were loading the trunk of his new Lincoln Towncar. I was so embarrassed. Now, this being said, the man is probably a millionaire, like most of our penny-pinching grandparents. But I could have done without the citrus fun. Call me cold-hearted.
And so, Mr. Redenbacher's legal team, probably remembering their own "orange story", made sure that we knew to NOT reheat these kernals.
But then there's this other helpful hint on the popcorn: "Do not use popcorn button". Are you kidding me? The greatest invention ever- the microwave with a one-touch operation for popcorn... and we're encouraged to NOT use it? I use mine so regularly, it says " OPCORN". I'm picturing complaining coworkers in office buildings with billowing black smoke coming out of the break room because someone pushed the popcorn button on the microwave and they had one of those mini bags. Laughing... Mr. Redenbacher's legal team probably was still wafting the smoke out of the air of their own break room when they wrote this one. What a hoot.
Well, I recognize that this blog is becoming very Seinfeldian, but it's fun nonetheless. Please send me your funny legal schmegal lines. Meanwhile, do NOT use the popcorn button.
Tonight, I read Orville Redenbacher's legal schmegal. Actually, it was classified "Helpful Hints" but we all know legal scoured it with a fine toothed comb. Anyway, under "Helpful Hints" for microwave popcorn it said, among other tips, "It is normal for some unpopped kernels to remain in a fully popped bag. Do not reheat unpopped kernels or reuse bag." Now this has Depression Era Aged people written all over it. Seriously, whose grandparents are not super cheap and find every possible way to reuse what others might consider un-reusable? (In high school Dan actually got a donation of USED UNDERWEAR from an older couple for his all-school yard sale.) But picture this... there's actually people out there who probably collect these orphan kernals and, once a fair amount are collected, pop them for an evening snack.
I'd be remiss if I didn't tell the orange story. My maternal grandparents live in Florida. When I was a teenager, I was visiting them with my family. My grandfather drove us kiddos to the park one afternoon. We were playing on the equipment when my grandpa ran over, "Quick, kids! A truck dropped oranges and we need to pick them up!" It occurred to me for a brief moment that maybe this effort was for humanitarian reasons (the truck driver was a migrant worker and his small truck dumped his produce). But, no. It was an 18-wheeler that dumped a significant amount of oranges on a local highway. Now I say local, but it still was a highway. Cars are dodging little round spheres of juicy fun. My grandfather is not a poor man; but he is frugal. If memory serves, we were loading the trunk of his new Lincoln Towncar. I was so embarrassed. Now, this being said, the man is probably a millionaire, like most of our penny-pinching grandparents. But I could have done without the citrus fun. Call me cold-hearted.
And so, Mr. Redenbacher's legal team, probably remembering their own "orange story", made sure that we knew to NOT reheat these kernals.
But then there's this other helpful hint on the popcorn: "Do not use popcorn button". Are you kidding me? The greatest invention ever- the microwave with a one-touch operation for popcorn... and we're encouraged to NOT use it? I use mine so regularly, it says " OPCORN". I'm picturing complaining coworkers in office buildings with billowing black smoke coming out of the break room because someone pushed the popcorn button on the microwave and they had one of those mini bags. Laughing... Mr. Redenbacher's legal team probably was still wafting the smoke out of the air of their own break room when they wrote this one. What a hoot.
Well, I recognize that this blog is becoming very Seinfeldian, but it's fun nonetheless. Please send me your funny legal schmegal lines. Meanwhile, do NOT use the popcorn button.
Two Bedroom, Two Bath Home. Three Year Old Conveys.
I have no idea how we are going to sell our home.
Dan and I are hoping to put our house on the market in the next few months. We have some touch up work to do. Considering that lately I can barely keep up with cleaning it, we're hosed. I figure that I've been able to maintain the basic disorder we found it when we returned from Christmas. But there's something magnetic about children and order; they're attracted to it. They want to destroy it.
I marveled tonight as my daughter discovered a fun way to eat her rice dinner. If she stuck her bare elbow in the rice, it would stick. And then, what fun! She gnawed and licked her elbow until some morsels reached her mouth, the others reached the floor.
And there's something about the back room mirror. It seems the MOMENT I clean it nice and shiny, she finds a way to put her imprint upon it. Recently, she found licking it to be satisfying. It was humorous. I was on the phone, having just shined the mirror and Morgan comes into the room and, magnetically possessed by the mirror's perfection, applies her tongue all over the lower half. She giggled at herself in the mirror doing so. I don't recall who I was on the phone with, but I do remember growling.
My friend Ann has twin boys and her stories ALWAYS top mine. She puts me in stitches. Last week her 3-year old boys found the shredded paper bin (oh no!) and proceeded to empty it, make SNOW ANGELS in it and (wait, there's more!) then they messed their pants and it stuck to their bodies.
She also tells a story which begins, "Does Sharpie marker come out of things?" to which I reply, "There's a reason they're called permanent." We've both sworn to ONLY buy washable Crayola markers. They're wonderful.
So if anyone has any way to keep me from joining Merry Maids with me as the sole client, I'd appreciate some tips on selling a home and still keeping a three year old intact.
Meanwhile, the advertisement will read: Two Bedroom, Two Bath Bungalow. Washer, Dryer and Three-Year Old Convey.
Dan and I are hoping to put our house on the market in the next few months. We have some touch up work to do. Considering that lately I can barely keep up with cleaning it, we're hosed. I figure that I've been able to maintain the basic disorder we found it when we returned from Christmas. But there's something magnetic about children and order; they're attracted to it. They want to destroy it.
I marveled tonight as my daughter discovered a fun way to eat her rice dinner. If she stuck her bare elbow in the rice, it would stick. And then, what fun! She gnawed and licked her elbow until some morsels reached her mouth, the others reached the floor.
And there's something about the back room mirror. It seems the MOMENT I clean it nice and shiny, she finds a way to put her imprint upon it. Recently, she found licking it to be satisfying. It was humorous. I was on the phone, having just shined the mirror and Morgan comes into the room and, magnetically possessed by the mirror's perfection, applies her tongue all over the lower half. She giggled at herself in the mirror doing so. I don't recall who I was on the phone with, but I do remember growling.
My friend Ann has twin boys and her stories ALWAYS top mine. She puts me in stitches. Last week her 3-year old boys found the shredded paper bin (oh no!) and proceeded to empty it, make SNOW ANGELS in it and (wait, there's more!) then they messed their pants and it stuck to their bodies.
She also tells a story which begins, "Does Sharpie marker come out of things?" to which I reply, "There's a reason they're called permanent." We've both sworn to ONLY buy washable Crayola markers. They're wonderful.
So if anyone has any way to keep me from joining Merry Maids with me as the sole client, I'd appreciate some tips on selling a home and still keeping a three year old intact.
Meanwhile, the advertisement will read: Two Bedroom, Two Bath Bungalow. Washer, Dryer and Three-Year Old Convey.
Friday, January 19, 2007
A Hostile Takeover.
This pregnancy is quite different from my first. For one thing, nausea is not as bad. This is both good and bad news. I put on a little holiday weight (darn rum balls, so tempting) and I was hoping to drop it off due to nausea. Not only am I not dropping the weight, I am craving things like sour cream. That's right... gooey, creamy, fattening sour cream.
Last night I had Dan bring home a Baja Fresh burrito. My favorite is the grilled vegetable. And it comes with... sour cream. By the time he brought it home either my taste buds changed or they changed the recipe. I couldn't finish it. Didn't taste right. My favorite, fail-me-not burrito was terrible.
Smells are a little funny lately, too. I put a corned beef in the crock pot before I went to the ultrasound yesterday. But I could still smell it when I reached the office. I won't give you the details of my negative experience. My loving husband went home ahead of me to take it out of the pot and light a candle in its place. Darn. I love corned beef normally.
And this morning, Dan put Morgan in bed with me until we woke up (a groggy 8:30...ugh). She and I woke up together. She puts her little face close to mine and says, "Mom! Smell my breath!" Ah, the joys of a three year old and pregnancy.
For now, my body is just a host to this little one, but the point is clear. My life will be changed forever. Again.
Last night I had Dan bring home a Baja Fresh burrito. My favorite is the grilled vegetable. And it comes with... sour cream. By the time he brought it home either my taste buds changed or they changed the recipe. I couldn't finish it. Didn't taste right. My favorite, fail-me-not burrito was terrible.
Smells are a little funny lately, too. I put a corned beef in the crock pot before I went to the ultrasound yesterday. But I could still smell it when I reached the office. I won't give you the details of my negative experience. My loving husband went home ahead of me to take it out of the pot and light a candle in its place. Darn. I love corned beef normally.
And this morning, Dan put Morgan in bed with me until we woke up (a groggy 8:30...ugh). She and I woke up together. She puts her little face close to mine and says, "Mom! Smell my breath!" Ah, the joys of a three year old and pregnancy.
For now, my body is just a host to this little one, but the point is clear. My life will be changed forever. Again.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Kidney Bean, Anyone?
Today, Dan and I saw something beautiful: A kidney bean with a heartbeat.
That's right. Our 8-week old pregnancy is growing beautifully. We're still holding this little one up in prayer, such a fragile thing, the fetus. But we're also celebrating, taking a breath of air for once instead of holding it.
I won't kid you. It isn't pretty. But that little kidney bean shaped blob on the screen represented life and hope. We're so grateful.
While we tell certain friends the good news, we also ask for continued prayer for the formation of this little life.
Oh, and the other beautiful thing we saw: just ONE baby. Whew!
That's right. Our 8-week old pregnancy is growing beautifully. We're still holding this little one up in prayer, such a fragile thing, the fetus. But we're also celebrating, taking a breath of air for once instead of holding it.
I won't kid you. It isn't pretty. But that little kidney bean shaped blob on the screen represented life and hope. We're so grateful.
While we tell certain friends the good news, we also ask for continued prayer for the formation of this little life.
Oh, and the other beautiful thing we saw: just ONE baby. Whew!
Monday, January 15, 2007
I Love Insurance
I think one of the reasons I haven't been able to fully celebrate the joy of life growing inside me lately is because I spend nearly every morning either at a doctor's office or on the phone with the insurance company. I know insurance companies get a bad rap and I am here to confirm that they fully deserve it. After I get off the phone with them, I either need to go for a run on the treadmill to run off the steam or have a glass of vino. Rats on the vino.
Example One- Paid Prescription?
The doc has me on some medication to help me keep this pregnancy. It's called progesterone. I called my insurance to verify the coverage before I purchased it. (Last pregnancy we had some medication that cost $1000 and we were grateful to have insurance lower that to a $20 copay.)
I was on the phone for three hours with insurance. Turns out my prescription costs $26 without insurance. With insurance? I pay $25. That's right. My three hour phone call determined that I could save an entire dollar. Grrrrr.
Example Two- In Network?
Morgan needs to have ear tube surgery. There's an excellent ENT (Ear, Nose, Throat) doc named Dr. Chow who is in our network and get high praise. Last week, he saw Morgan and determined that ear tube surgery was the way to go. I get home to ask insurance about the coverage for the surgery. Turns out that because Dr. Chow recently moved his office (not far, mind you.. a few miles) they weren't sure they would cover THAT location. They would cover his other locations, however.
After a few phone calls on the part of my CSR, "Kristie", I was allowed to continue to see Dr. Chow and be covered. I felt like a circus poodle jumping through hoops. Next thing you know, a secret handshake will be required to see certain doctors.
Laughing... This is a DIRECT result of sin in the world. Oy vey.
Example One- Paid Prescription?
The doc has me on some medication to help me keep this pregnancy. It's called progesterone. I called my insurance to verify the coverage before I purchased it. (Last pregnancy we had some medication that cost $1000 and we were grateful to have insurance lower that to a $20 copay.)
I was on the phone for three hours with insurance. Turns out my prescription costs $26 without insurance. With insurance? I pay $25. That's right. My three hour phone call determined that I could save an entire dollar. Grrrrr.
Example Two- In Network?
Morgan needs to have ear tube surgery. There's an excellent ENT (Ear, Nose, Throat) doc named Dr. Chow who is in our network and get high praise. Last week, he saw Morgan and determined that ear tube surgery was the way to go. I get home to ask insurance about the coverage for the surgery. Turns out that because Dr. Chow recently moved his office (not far, mind you.. a few miles) they weren't sure they would cover THAT location. They would cover his other locations, however.
After a few phone calls on the part of my CSR, "Kristie", I was allowed to continue to see Dr. Chow and be covered. I felt like a circus poodle jumping through hoops. Next thing you know, a secret handshake will be required to see certain doctors.
Laughing... This is a DIRECT result of sin in the world. Oy vey.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
I Like Raspberries
Dan and I got a little surprise for Christmas. Turns out I am approximately 8 weeks pregnant. The baby is about the size of a raspberry. I love raspberries. And I especially love this one.
To be truthful, I am having a hard time wrapping my brain around this pregnancy. My body has fooled me before, telling me it was pregnant when it was and wasn't. Fortunately others are excited. Dan's folks congratulated us heartily and my folks were happy as well. Morgan has already named our little one: She wants to call it "Girlie", which also answers our question as to which gender she would prefer.
We have been working closely with our doctor using progesterone therapy to help the pregnancy stay strong. That, and prayer, are my hope. The doc says my hormone levels are nice and strong, which might explain my erratic eating habits and generally "plump" feeling. Ugh. I do NOT feel pretty.
For now, we have told very few people. But if and when I get sick as I did with Morgan, I figure I might as well tell people even if it is before the customary 12 weeks.
For now, this blog and my baby are a secret. Shhhh!
To be truthful, I am having a hard time wrapping my brain around this pregnancy. My body has fooled me before, telling me it was pregnant when it was and wasn't. Fortunately others are excited. Dan's folks congratulated us heartily and my folks were happy as well. Morgan has already named our little one: She wants to call it "Girlie", which also answers our question as to which gender she would prefer.
We have been working closely with our doctor using progesterone therapy to help the pregnancy stay strong. That, and prayer, are my hope. The doc says my hormone levels are nice and strong, which might explain my erratic eating habits and generally "plump" feeling. Ugh. I do NOT feel pretty.
For now, we have told very few people. But if and when I get sick as I did with Morgan, I figure I might as well tell people even if it is before the customary 12 weeks.
For now, this blog and my baby are a secret. Shhhh!
Saturday, January 6, 2007
Official
Yes! I made it. After trying feebly to start a blog on my old Mac, I am now able to successfully clog the web universe with pointless sayings and thoughts. This is great.
I'd like to thank the Academy, my husband Dan, my darling three-year-old and my new iMac, which I named Oliver. Thanks, Oliver. *sniff* You've made this technologically challenged country bumpkin very, very happy.
I'd like to thank the Academy, my husband Dan, my darling three-year-old and my new iMac, which I named Oliver. Thanks, Oliver. *sniff* You've made this technologically challenged country bumpkin very, very happy.
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