I keep waiting to have a good day, so I could post and say “Never mind about that last post, the second trimester finally hit and now I’m woooooooonderful!” but, um, that hasn’t happened. I’m really struggling to post anything else about this because I feel like such a whiner, and really self conscious about admitting it all. I keep thinking of the scene in How I Met Your Mother, where Lily admonishes Marshall for telling people she is throwing up, because as soon as you TELL someone this, they can’t help but imagine you DOING it. All of you! Stop imagining me throwing up!

To answer some questions: we’ve tried everything. Thank you for your suggestions, but please, know I have spend hundreds of hours, and dollars, trying everything out there. I am always happy to hear the unusual ones, but if you take a look around the Helpher or Mothering forums and see it mentioned there, I’ve probably tried it. Yes, even that. And that. I love that people want to support me and give me tips on what has worked for them, but I am having a hard time gracefully declining suggestions I’ve already tried (and which has failed for me) lately. I’m walking that line between acceptance and utter depression, and most of the time I just try to act like nothing is wrong, because focusing on this too much makes it hard to focus on anything else. And I still have some amazing things in my life that need my attention.

Not those dishes in the background though. Thank god for a patient and loving husband who doesn’t mind doing dishes (and cooking, and laundry, and basically keeping the house standing lately).

When I look back through the archives to see if Becky’s pregnancy was as hard as I remember it, I come up short. I made reference to it occasionally, but not often, and when I did I tried to keep it light. I never wrote about how my lips bled from dehydration, losing 30 lbs, or how many times I called Tom at work crying, light headed and scared. I never wrote about the drug cocktails we tried, and about the horrible side effects. I never wrote about the fear and guilt that I was hurting my baby by not being able to eat (and the possibility that the drugs were not riskfree). I never wrote about the dozens and dozens of times I threw up quietly in public toilets, or in ziplock baggies I carried in my purse. I never wrote about the crushing depression, the feeling like I was nothing but a drain on my family, and the quiet fear that that pregnancy had been a mistake. I never wrote about it because I hate to feel like I am whining (which is why it’s taken me a month to publish this was well). I never wrote about it, because I wanted to forget it. We were in the middle of selling one house and renovating another (we officially moved over here when I was 7 months pregnant (and still throwing up daily)) and there just wasn’t room in our lives for me to be that sick, so I tried not to focus on it. I tried to act normal, take care of my kids, and be happy.

And, in the end, I had my beautiful Becky (and a body ravaged by malnutrition). It WAS worth it. And, in that old cliche of motherhood, I forgot how bad things had been. I was sure another pregnancy could not be that bad since the first two had been so easy, and slowly forgot the reality of that 40 weeks of Becky’s pregnancy.

I remember now.

Things are not good over here. I’m 13 weeks pregnant, and down 20 pounds. On a good day I puke less than 10 times, but on bad ones it’s worse. I have bruises from IV attempts, I spend all of the time Tom is home on bedrest trying to stay hydrated, I feel useless in taking care of all but the kids’ most basic needs, and all those same fears and guilts are coming back. I take the drugs when I need to, but the side effects are almost worse than the hyperemesis. I feel like we’ve tried everything reasonable, and I am still failing, so I am having a hard time even wanting to try. I just want to go to sleep, and wake up 39 weeks pregnant and in labor. I am so sad that this will be my last pregnancy, but so relieved as well. I have a constant chant going through my head, that this will be worth it. This will be worth it. This will be worth it. It will be. It has to be.

(For more information about hyperemesis, check out Helpher.org, and these great blog posts. It helps to know I’m not alone in this.)

Oh hey, how about a Christmas post 2 weeks late? Well, if you insist!

For the most part our Christmas was entirely predictable – gifts, sugar, music, last minute crafts, messes, and lots of excited screaming.

The thing that we changed this year was Santa. Now, I know it is a heated topic of debate in the parenting world, this Santa thing. And honestly, Tom and I straddle the fence. We are not religious, so we don’t feel like we are taking anything away from “the true meaning of Christmas”, but we also are not entirely comfortable with the cultural attitudes around Santa, and the holiday in general. We strive to live simply, and an entire holiday based on consumption is a hard thing to juggle when the mascot for the holiday brings you everything you ask for because you have somehow earned it with good behavior. We love the magic of the holiday, but wish it could be more focused on celebrating our family and community than anticipating the gift grab. In the absence of a religious tradition, it seems even more important that we to create traditions in our family that shift the focus.

Which brings us to Santa. In the past, our tactic has been along the lines of treating him like all the other magic our kids believe in. We play along with their games, and when they ask if something is real, we ask “Well, what do you think?” Ella is our believer, Alice our skeptic. (Becky just wants to be part of the game, so she’ll agree to anything.) We talked a lot about how Santa was the spirit of giving, how we had a bit of Santa in us as well, and how the guy at the mall was just for fun, etc. And in years past this worked.

This year, Santa took on a different tenor, probably a direct effect of the hours of Christmas movies the girls watched on Netflix this year because I have been couch bound.  Somehow Santa had morphed from magic, to reality, and a reality which would be bringing them a room full of new toys. This was immediately after their birthday party, when they had more new toys to play with than they could keep track of, yet somehow the gifts Santa was bringing made these gifts seem paltry. They saw not one, but TWO mall Santas this year thanks to Grandma, and each had a list of toys he had promised them. And I knew it had to stop.

I came up with the plan when Tom and I were looking into charities we wanted to donate to this year. We give to charity because we like to. We certainly do not need the tax break, and  we are not giving enough to have our names listed on the plaque in the hall, but we give because we are blessed to have a warm home, a full freezer, and a community that won’t let us starve if worse came to worse. And until now, the girls have not been very involved in this process.

Again, without a religious tradition it it hard to find ways to discuss hardship, illness and poverty without scaring them. If we could practice the act of prayer I would be much less worried  - the comfort found in giving these anxieties up to someone who can control them can be huge, but is not one we can currently teach out children. We try to be honest, to give them a vocabulary to discuss the man on the street corner, the child we know with cancer, the news story of animals being mistreated, but we also shield them, because that is what parents do. We are trying to walk that line between sheltering and shocking.

Considering all of this – the need and want in the world – in the midst of my children arguing over who would get the biggest gifts was enough to make me want to make a change. I talked it over with Tom, and we agreed: Santa had to be reined in.

So, this year Santa brought three things: one was a book about a little girl named Beatrice who was given a goat, and as a result of the milk they could sell she got to go to school; the second was a small carved ornament for our tree in the shape of a goat; and the third was a letter from Santa explaining that he saw how happy and blessed they were, and knew they were special enough to want to share that joy with someone else. Maybe a little girl like Beatrice. He asked them to think all year long about who they would like to help next year, and to let him know when they saw him again.

And the girls ate it up.  They talked about Beatrice all day, wondering if her goat had had more babies, and whether someone else in their village had gotten the goat we had bought, and if they could be goat friends. They wanted to write to Santa that day and tell him that next year they want to buy chickens, or maybe books for Beatrice instead.

Let me be clear: they still got way too many presents. We’re not depriving our children of toys. Gifts are wonderful – I love giving and getting them – but we are not entitled to them, and knowing the intent of love behind them makes them that much more special. We are giving them things because we knew they would enjoy them, not because they have earned them.

Time will tell whether this new version of Santa works. We hope to made Santa into a true spirit of giving, instead of the spirit of getting, and lay a foundation for gratitude and charity. I hope, in 15 years, we have a tree full of ornaments commemorating all the years we chose to give to others. I hope to keep the magic of Santa alive for a few more years, and as the girls outgrow the innocence of belief, they can still see the magic that exists in this new tradition.

 
I hope they don’t confuse Santa too much next year by asking for a cow.

I feel like I’ve been such a sap here lately, but trust me when I say that my daughter’s generosity and empathy blows me away, okay?

A year and a half ago Ella asked me if she could “donate my hair to kids who are sick and need hair“. What could I do but agree? “Of course baby, that would be a very kind thing to do, but let’s wait until your hair is  little longer so they have enough to work with.”

I honestly thought she would either forget, or decide to keep her long hair. Which would have been okay. Compassion isn’t a trait you can force into people, and I wasn’t going to hold her to this plan if she changed her mind. This is the kid who cries when she sees panhandlers with signs that say “Help, please” and gave her tooth fairy money to Toys for Tots – I’m not worried about her ability to give.

But, not only did she remember the plan to cut off her hair, she told people about it. “It’s just hair, I can grow more, I’m healthy and strong.” She was proud, and gosh I was proud of her.

Her hair has been long enough for a few months now, and she has been more than ready to do it, though I have to admit I hesitated. I worried she would regret it, that she would think she looked like a boy, that she hadn’t really realized what she was in for.

But, once again, I underestimated her. She loves her hair, and is rocking her new pierced ears (and pink streaks) as well. I couldn’t help myself, I had to reward the kid.

~~~~~~~~~~~

If Ella’s generosity moves you, please consider donating to Mindi’s 46Mama’s page. Helping children fighting cancer feel more comfortable in their bodies is noble, but what we really need for these kids is a cure, and a cure that does not have lifelong health repercussions. Hair grows back, but kid’s do not. Small donations ARE making a difference at St. Baldricks!

I have spent the last month on the couch, wondering just how crazy someone can be before they are certifiable. Would planning another pregnancy after one like this (spoiler alert: it never got better)  be considered insane or optimistic? Maybe a little of both.

Which is to say: We are expecting another baby, in late July.  We are both thrilled, and terrified, unsure what the next 7 months or so will look like. I’m still hopeful that this time the hyperemesis will abate somewhere near the end of the first trimester, but I know it’s unlikely. I’m trying to prepare myself, but daily wondering why it has to be THIS version of fire for me to walk through for my kids.

Enough complaining! Because in July I get to have a BABY, and we couldn’t be happier. (Well, maybe we could be if we had a live-in maid and cook, and a separate wing of the house for said cooking, because food is gross.) But happy! And crazy.

*Adorable peg dolls made by my super talented friend Jen.

Ordinary Miracle – Barbara Kingsolver

I have mourned lost days
When I accomplished nothing of importance.
But not lately.
Lately under the lunar tide
Of a woman’s ocean, I work
My own sea-change:
Turning grains of sand to human eyes.
I daydream after breakfast
While the spirit of egg and toast
Knits together a length of bone
As fine as a wheatstalk.
Later, as I postpone weeding the garden
I will make two hands
That may tend a hundred gardens.

I need ten full moons exactly
For keeping the animal promise.
I offer myself up: unsaintly, but
Transmuted anyway
By the most ordinary miracle.
I am nothing in this world beyond the things one woman does.
But here are eyes that once were pearls.
And here is a second chance where there was none.

I don’t know why this didn’t go through on Friday, so I am republishing it.

Six years ago, I felt every cell of my body turn 90degrees, as I held my slippery, crying daughter to my chest. I know for nonparents that sounds dramatic, or corny, or romanticized, but I can only hope that someday they have an experience like that. It doesn’t have to be parenting – maybe it’s finding the career that resonates with your soul, or traveling to a country that opens your eyes to humanity, or creating a piece of art that somehow expresses all the things you haven’t been able to say before. There are things in this world that change us, and scare us, and force us to evolve right now, this instant. For me it was looking into my newborn daughter’s face and suddenly knowing that everything, everything had changed, and I could not believe how lucky I was.

She still refuses to grow up past 5, but four is okay, since four is when she can go to the Nutcracker with Grandma, learn to write her name, and maybe drive a car. I nixed the last one, but if i were you I would hide the carkeys when we come over.

12 May 1996 - Ellen Doré Watson

Yes, we can loll here for six more chapters, before— yes,
waffles, yes you can stay naked all day or until you think
you need clothes, yes to butter on the video popcorn today
and me beside you for not just the scary parts, then yes
to a rain- walk, yes, even to the culvert rushing water and
the long way home, yes to candles with dinner, yes to no
lettuce, yes, I’ll save the opera and switch to jazz, yes—
a bath bead?— take two, and yes I will sing the song, yes,
just this once, three times.

Just in case you are curious what it looks like inside my head when it comes to birthday party planning:

It’s a little messy.

So, this happened today:

And as much as I wish I could say it was a wiggly tooth, a bite of apple and a shocked “MOM!”, really it was a kiss at the door when she came home from the dentist with a droopy lip and her teeth clutched in her fist. “Good news: I’m not a shark anymore. Bad news: that was a little scary.” *

* Good news/bad news is something i do all the time and drives Tom crazy, and it cracks me up that Ella has picked it up. He is so outnumbered.

I am that mom. The one with the brood of small children following her through the store, dressed in tutus and cowboy boots and sunglasses at 8am. I’ve come to terms with this fact over the last few years, because honestly, this is not a battle I care to fight. I will insist they take baths, that they wear gloves outside in the snow, and that they eat something other than cinnamon toast for every meal, but what they wear is largely up to them.

That means that often, if you pop by to visit unannounced, you’ll find multiple kids without pants, or wearing dressup clothes for pajamas, or with their winter coats on in July. And I don’t care. Because it turns out, that crazy clothes stage is just that – a stage. You hear it so often as a parent, that kids grow out of “stages”, but when you are in the thick of it it can be impossible to see that this crazy thing they are doing has an end. But it does.

Ella has been much more conscious of her wardrobe lately, and while she still sometimes comes out clashing so badly that I my reflex is to wince, more and more often she comes up stairs looking like a mini adult. And I’m telling you the truth: I miss the fairy wings, layered tights, and crazy hats.

Previous editions of What They Wore.