My miscarriage story: I’ll always remember you

This Thursday is the due date of my miscarried baby.

When you’re pregnant, your growing belly is an obvious indicator for the people in your life to check up on you. How are you feeling? Getting any sleep? Are you ready?

But when you lose your baby, there’s no easy way for those closest to you to remember an important day is approaching.

For nearly a month now, I’ve felt nothing short of emotionally unstable. Even the quickest thought about my baby will leave me in tears.  I haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve felt anxious and ready for the due date to come and go, hoping that with it some of my grief will also finally pass.

I remember taking the pregnancy test at my parent’s house. I was dropping off my kids so my husband and I could go on a quick weekend getaway. I was bouncing around the bathroom just feet away from my entire family trying to keep quiet while I waited.

I remember smiling after registering the pink plus sign, and then feeling so proud of myself for keeping it a secret from my family while I said my goodbyes before heading out to pick up my husband from work and hit the road.

I didn’t tell him the entire three hour drive. I thought about it a million times, but this was pretty big news and I honestly wasn’t sure how he was going to react. The last thing I wanted was for him to drive off the road. While we had been talking about baby number three for a little while, we were intending to wait until our other kids were a bit older.

I remember his reaction when I turned down a margarita {my favorite} when we went out to dinner later that evening. I told him to drink up, because he was set with a designated driver for another nine months. He laughed. He asked if I was kidding. Then he shuffled between excitement and panic throughout dinner before settling on genuine happiness. It didn’t take us long to start throwing out baby name ideas.

I remember the first time I woke up and ran to the toilet to vomit. Just like my two other pregnancies, morning sickness came early and aggressively. I quickly got back on my anti-nausea meds that I was all too used to and settled into a routine of puking and rallying to head to work or chase my kids.

I remember my neighbor coming over after work with her two kids so that our children could play together and she could supervise while I lay on the couch trying not to throw up on myself. I was so happy that I had someone I could count on when my husband wasn’t home.

I remember when I stopped being able to make food for my family because the odor was unbearable for my pregnant nose.

I remember thinking it was amazing that my husband had to take care of our kitties’ litter box. It was a small consolation prize for all of the vomiting I was doing.

I remember when I called to make my first doctor’s appointment and found out that they no longer accepted our insurance. I was incredibly frustrated. This was my third child. The last thing I wanted to do was start over with someone new. What choice did I have?

I remember the doctor’s appointment like it was yesterday. It was my first time at a new OBGYN. It was supposed to be a 12-week check up. I was feeling pukey, but fine. Within the first few minutes of meeting me, the doctor had to give me the worst news of my life. At the time, I wasn’t sure if I felt worse for her or me.

I remember thinking how crazy it was that my husband had made accommodations at work to be at that appointment with me. He went to maybe three other appointments between our daughter and son, and most likely just for the ultrasounds. But for some reason, he was with me to receive the devastating news. I remember being so thankful that I didn’t have to sit in the room by myself. Or drive home.

I remember struggling to decide if I wanted the baby to pass naturally or if I wanted to have the procedure done. How was I supposed to decide something like that? What way would you like to lose your baby? Quickly or slowly? Risky or messy? I remember thinking that it was the worst day of my life. I felt sorry for myself. I finally decided to have the procedure. I wasn’t going to begin any sort of healing process with the baby still inside of me. I couldn’t change what had happened. I wanted to move on. My husband called the doctor for me and scheduled an appointment for the following morning.

I remember my three-year-old cuddling with me in bed. She cried with me and asked if she could touch my tummy and say goodbye to the baby. She told the baby she loved him. I’ve never been so amazed by my daughter – her maturity and empathy – as I was that night.

I remember not sleeping. I was scared for the surgery. I was nervous about something going wrong and thought of my two beautiful, healthy children being without their mom.

I remember being surrounded by women. My doctor, the nurses, the anesthesiologist. All women. Several of them grabbed my hand as if it to say they’ve been there. It will be okay. It was overwhelming.

I remember giving my baby a gender and a name. I talked to my husband about it. We understood that we both needed to grieve in our own ways and that naming our baby was a connection that made the loss more difficult for him. It made it easier for me, more personal, so I keep it to myself. It’s just between me and my baby.

I remember going back to my parent’s house after the surgery so that I could rest. Like my pregnancy, my miscarriage became incredibly public. Not because of any decisions I felt liked I’d intentionally made, but when you’re as sick as I am during pregnancy it’s pretty hard to keep hidden for long. Just days before my doctor appointment, I finally put our pregnancy out there on social media, but it was hardly news to anyone at that point. I sat in the dark in the guest room of my parent’s house composing an email to my coworkers. I shared the email on my Facebook page. It wasn’t news I wanted to share for my own benefit. I was trying to prevent an awkward foot-in-mouth moment for everyone in my life.

I remember going outside to play with my kids that afternoon when I got home. Surprisingly, my nausea and exhaustion subsided immediately after the procedure. I wasn’t pregnant anymore.

In the days that followed, I received hundreds of private messages, phone calls, emails and text messages. Dozens of women reached out to offer sympathy or even share their own miscarriage stories with me. Some I knew about and others were complete surprises. It was strangely comforting to not feel so alone. As my mom said, “it’s a really big club, but one I’d hoped you would never have had to join.”

I remember secretly wishing that people would stop saying things like, “God has a plan for you” or “everything happens for a reason.” The truth is, while I’ve attempted to console friends with those same cliches, I just wanted to feel sorry for myself. I wanted to be sad. And angry. And confused. I wanted someone to say, “this totally sucks.” I didn’t want any reasoning. An explanation wasn’t going to bring back my baby.

I remember thinking that life is uncertain. All of the plans we had made for the new baby over the months we knew about him shifted out of view. This lack of control gave me an inexplicable amount of courage; I quit my job the next week. {Something I had been thinking about for months but was too afraid to do until the timing was “right.”}

I remember the first time I brought up my miscarriage casually during a conversation with friends. I could see them growing uncomfortable, shifting eye contact or body language, not sure how to respond. But I still did it. It helped me to acknowledge what had happened.

I remember the first time I felt simultaneously happy and heartbroken. With each baby announcement or gender reveal photo that pops up on social media, my body aches a little bit and I wonder what if my baby’s story had played out like that. It’s strange when someone else’s joy can bring you joy and pain, but I’m getting used to feeling it.

I remember when I got to hold my neighbor’s new baby for the first time not even a month ago. We told each other we were expecting at the same time last summer. We were supposed to go through out pregnancies together, our babies’ births together and all of the milestones to follow. Except I won’t. Her son is healthy and beautiful and I am so happy for her. But it also reminds me that I am sad for me.

Throughout the last seven months, I’ve come full circle. I had stopped crying every day and now I cry every day again. In the months in between, there were even some days with the chaos of day to day life that I didn’t think about my miscarriage at all.

It really had gotten easier, but then my due date crept closer. The day that would remind me of the baby that I’d lost. The baby that I will always remember.

 

I bought my kids’ Valentines for school, and that’s okay

Valentines

Have you been on Pinterest lately?

It’s brimming with the sweetest Valentine’s Day crafts for you and your cuties to do together. Even my Facebook news feed has been full of links to videos and blogs with heart-inspired DIY.

Last year, I spent a full episode of The Bachelor cutting out little tags I’d printed that read “Sip-sip horray! It’s Valentine’s Day!” and fastening them to crazy straws. My daughter was two and half and not exactly a huge help. But I didn’t mind. They were adorable! The kids were going to love them.

And they did. But they also viewed the darling tags I’d spent hours on as an obstacle to getting to what they really wanted: the straws. The tags ended up in the trash.

Would I have done it all over again? Absolutely! It brought me joy to feel as though I was doing something special for my daughter and her friends.

Here’s the thing.

Rather than spending hours painting, cutting, glittering, sticking and/or packaging with Daphne this year, I decided to swing by the store and let her pick out a bag of prepackaged snacks for her friends.

And that’s okay.

The truth is, I have a love/hate relationship with DIY. As in, I hate that fact that I love it, because I’m not particularly good at it.

Whatever the craft, recipe, fill-in-the-blank, the photos always look so perfect. The directions make it seems so quick and simple. And it should definitely be less expensive than something store bought if I’m making it myself, right?

Well, if you’re not a regular DIY-er {I’m not}, you probably don’t already have a craft room full of supplies to pull from {I don’t}, which means you’ll need to hit up Hobby Lobby before you get started. Consider how those little buttons, stickers, clothes pins, and ribbons add up and try to think of ways you may use the leftovers so you don’t waste, or you could end up spending way more than you’d planned.

And then comes the actual Doing It Yourself….Is it just me, or does it rarely look as good as the example? I usually end up disappointed or frustrated or regretting that I didn’t just go buy whatever it was that I was attempting to create myself.

As moms, we put a tremendous amount of pressure on ourselves to be perfect parents. But parenting isn’t a one-size-fits all job description. And social media has only perpetuated the idea that the grass is greener in other moms’ yards.

While I’ve loved looking at the beautiful photos online of Valentine’s Day crafts, I’m also comfortable in sitting back and saying I don’t have time for that. And knowing my kids aren’t going to be worse for it.

Are you a DIY mom? I totally envy you, especially if it comes easily for you! Handmade gifts are cherished because they are personal. Kudos to you for your artistic vision and patience. I’m sure your kids will inherit both from the time you spend creating together.

But this year, I’ve aligned myself with the store-buying Valentines moms.

My daughter was so proud to pick out her treats for her class all by herself. She even gave me an unprompted hug and thank you! And while I cannot be certain, I’m pretty confident that she wouldn’t have done the same if I’d spent hours cutting out tags again.

Plus, the time not crafting was spent riding bikes around the neighborhood and playing outside with my daughter instead.

This Valentine’s Day, I wish you a stress-free day to cherish your family and friends and do something together that you all enjoy. Whether you spend the day crafting, shopping, riding bikes or just sitting at home, make sure you’re surrounded by those you love

3 things to remember when your little ones get sick

sick kids

Last week was a long, runny-nose-filled sick one. In fact, I can’t recall a day when someone in my family wasn’t feeling a little {or a lot} under the weather since Thanksgiving.

Remember when the school called me last Monday about Henry’s fever? Well, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday came and went, and poor Henry still wasn’t quite looking ready to go back to school. I spent Friday morning taking him the pediatrician and the afternoon snuggling with him on the couch.

While he was incredibly cute and cuddly, I couldn’t help but feel distracted by the huge amount of work I had originally planned to do that day. And then I felt guilty that I felt so distracted. And then I felt stressed.

I mean, just as you cannot {or should not} bundle up your sweet sniffling toddler and send him off to daycare sick, you also cannot {or should not} neglect your work responsibilities, right?

My husband and I are incredibly lucky when it comes to sick days. We’re both self-employed, which means we don’t have anyone to call to request time off and we don’t have to eat away at our vacation time in order to be there for our children. This definitely is not the case for many parents.

But with this great flexibility, also comes an enormous amount of pressure.

My husband is fortunate that he has some great employees who can temporarily pick up the slack in his absence. I, on the other hand, am a one-woman show. If I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done.

Fortunately, I’m a planner and typically schedule out my clients’ needs days if not weeks in advance. But what about those emails? What about that meeting? What about this blog post?

Here’s what I want all working moms to know when their little ones gets sick:

1. Keep your guilt in check

The reality is that there are times when you will need to get work done in order to meet an important deadline and there are meetings that you absolutely cannot miss. But there are also times when you will need to be better at letting it go to be there for your child who needs you. No matter which situation you’re in when your little one gets sick, try to remember that you’re exactly where you need to be. Let the guilt go – whether it’s about the kids or work.

2. Know when to call for back up

We live in a society that assumes that mom will stay home. Maybe this is still true for some families, but that doesn’t mean it will always be true for you. Know who your alternates are ahead of time, because that nasty cold likely won’t call you in advance to schedule a babysitter. When you wake up in the morning with an unexpected sick kid and cannot be the one to stay home, you need to know who may be able to help you.

For me, it’s usually a matter of my husband and I comparing schedules. Can we trade off throughout the day? Does he need to stay home today so that I can be at that event and then we will switch tomorrow? I’m also incredibly lucky to have my parents just down the street as a plan B {although they too work}, as well as some fabulous neighbors.

 

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3. Life happens

My kids coming down with a fever has hardly been the only reason for a work day gone awry. I’ve had my car break down on my way to work {before dropping my kids off}, inclement weather {I remember spending hours in the basement of the building I worked in during a tornado in the middle of an incredibly important meeting}, power/internet outages at the office, and on and on.

A sick kid is hardly the only thing that gets in the way of a productive work day. As working moms, we make adjustments all the time. {See? This blog post still got written.}

At the end of the day, someone has got to take care of the little one when he’s not feeling well. And I, for one, am glad it was me.

Don’t treat me like the default parent

default parent

Ever since my husband and I welcomed our daughter into the world, I’ve been talking about my role as the “default parent.” I actually coined the phrase at home before realizing it was an actual thing.

Early on I’d have to plan ahead for an evening out {I was still nursing/pumping} and we’d joke that my husband was “babysitting” that night. As both of our responsibilities grew at home and at work, the babysitting comment became less funny.

To me, it was frustrating to have to coordinate with his schedule to make sure he was available to watch our child when he seemed to come and go as he pleased.

And to my husband it was condescending, as if he wasn’t worthy of the same parent title I held {which is ridiculous and untrue}.

So how did I become the default? Is it because I chose to breastfeed and was immediately – and physically – tied to my children since birth? Is it because I’m the planner in the family and coordinate everything from doctors appointments to holidays? Or is it simply because I’m the mom?

I have no doubt that there are a handful of daddy-defaults out there. But I’m also willing to bet that the majority of the time the default parent is the same person who carried around that sweet babe for 9 months in her uterus, regardless of what her story is afterwards.

Just yesterday I had an eye opening experience with my children’s preschool. Now that my work-week is a bit condensed so that I can spend more time with our tiny tots at home, I take those working days very seriously. I typically do not answer my phone and have even nearly forgotten to eat lunch {gasp!} because I was so focused on what I needed to get done.

Around 2 p.m. I heard my phone go off in the kitchen, but figured it was likely A. a sales person reminding me for the 3,000 time that the deadline is approaching for health insurance through the exchange, or B. my husband. I decided that both could wait until I left the house an hour later for carpool line.

Around 2:45 I popped up to freshen my water and glanced at my phone. Crap.

It was the preschool calling to say that poor Henry had woken up from his nap with a high fever and needed to be picked up as soon as possible. I immediately grabbed my keys and headed to the garage.

Before calling the school to let them know I was on my way with my parent-of-the-year award, I called my husband to make sure he wasn’t heading that way already, too. As it turns out, the school didn’t call him. Or either grandparent listed as a family contact. Just mom. The default.

For some reason, this made me really, really frustrated. The school is well aware that I’m a working parent. They request that information on all of the paperwork. So why did they assume I was the only one available to pick up my son in the middle of the day? {Disclaimer: we are very happy at our kids’ school and do not hold them accountable for relying on the default.}

At home, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will likely always be the one in charge of our children’s whereabouts, school paperwork, appointments and activities unless otherwise communicated with dad. And let me be clear that this isn’t because my husband wouldn’t be capable of doing so if he’d been coined the default, because he would totally rock it. Just like he rocks trash day, making breakfast every morning, reading books with my daughter every night and a million other things he does for our family.

When it comes to the bigger picture, however, I think it’s time for others to stop relying on the default. In a world where women comprise 50% of the workforce and nearly 3 out of every 4 moms are working outside of the home, maybe we could start calling dad on sick days.

 

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Why you should care what other people think

care what other people think

Today I took my kids to Story Time at the library. This was a first for us in my new part-time stay at home mom role. In my attempt to keep my kids involved in predictable, school-like activities on their days at home, we’ve assigned Tuesdays as library day. Lucky for me, Tuesdays also happen to be Pre-School Story Time day at the library.

To call my family loud would be an understatement. My voice carries. My parents’ voices carry. Growing up, for a few weeks following parent-teacher conferences my teachers would even inadvertently let up on asking me to lower my voice or be quiet out of their newfound realization that the apple does in fact not fall far from the tree. This gift of never needing a microphone was lovingly and unintentionally passed along to my children, as well.

In case you haven’t visited your local library lately, they are relatively quiet places. Even in the children’s section. Like most moms who has been to a public place with toddlers, I laid out my expectations before we got there.

#1. Listening ears.

#2. Inside voices.

#3. Walking feet.

#4. Please for the love of God do not pull all of the books off of the book shelves.

We arrived a few minutes before Story Time was going to begin and took our places in the tiny children’s chairs. As more families arrived I bumped my pre-schooler to the floor criss cross applesauce and pulled my 1 1/2 year old onto my lap so the other moms and grandmas could take a seat. The librarian entered – almost silently – and began.

About two pages into her first of three stories, my son saw a Thomas the Train made out of paper mache in the corner of the room and lost his mind. He said {or yelled to the unfamiliar ear} “train, train” over and over again.

Now, I’ve been a mom long enough to know that whenever your kids are acting undesirably, it is 10 times worse in your own head.

Still, I redirected his attention to the display of books on the table behind my tiny chair in an attempt to keep him quiet. It worked for a minute, but then he saw a book with a train on it and his gleeful reiteration continued. Train, train, train!

I lovingly whisked my son out of the small, nearly quiet room and bounced with him just outside the door so he could still see the librarian and her audience.

A few moments later I noticed my daughter looking around frantically. Apparently she had turned around to an empty chair and thought I’d left her there alone. She scanned the back of the room until we made eye contact through the glass. I gave her a little wave and a thumbs up of encouragement, but it was too late. She started crying.

I motioned for her to come out and stand in the hallway with me and her brother. We walked the aisles for a moment until they both had calmed down and then went back into the room with tiny chairs to finish up Story Time.

We made our selections for the week and were heading to the check out counter when the librarian introduced herself to Daphne. As she engaged my daughter in a series of questions so that I could scan our books  {How old are you? What’s your little brother’s name?}, Henry lost his patience and made sure we all knew it.

I awkwardly joked with the librarian, “I guess it’s time for us to run out on you again.”

The librarian smiled and said, “I thought you handled it really well. You’d be surprised what some parents let their kids do. It’s like they don’t care what anyone thinks.”

Hmm.

Hours later when my kids were played with, fed, read to {the new library books obviously} and tucked in for a nap, I was still thinking about what the librarian said. Do people really just let their children be disruptive during such a calm activity? Do I care about what people think? Is that why I left?

It’s not that I was terribly concerned with what the parents thought of me or my parenting choices {we’re all just doing our best, right?} and I’m certainly not losing sleep over the fact that my son couldn’t keep perfectly still or quiet {he’s 1, ok?}. So why was my reaction to make my kids leave the room?

It wasn’t that I cared what people thought about me personally. I did, however, care a great deal about what they thought about their experience and my family’s ability to impact it.

Suddenly, I was reminded of flying on an airplane with my daughter when she was a baby. It was awful. Awful. Even though she cried the entire flight, I never worried that the other passengers were thinking that I was a horrible mom. They may have been, but I just didn’t care what they thought about me personally. I did my best to acknowledge the disruption {verbally with the flight attendants and through a gesture or facial expression with several passengers nearby}. I was clearly trying to calm her down {a.k.a. not a horrible mom} and I apologized to those around me after the flight.

Unless you live and work alone and rarely venture outside, you’re going to encounter a lot of different people everywhere you go. Have you ever had someone not hold the elevator for you? Rude. Or been standing in line at the bank and the person behind you is yapping away on his cell phone? Come on!

Both on that plane ride and at the library, my choices were telling the people around me that I cared what they thought.

So while you don’t have to {and shouldn’t} care what people think about you {you do you, girlfriend} I do think that the librarian was correct. Many people don’t care what anyone thinks. But they should.

If we all cared a little more about what people thought, we might just make their day a little better.

Not your typical mommy-blog blog

When I had finally made up my mind that I was going to quit my job and start my own business, I knew I wanted to somehow document it. Whether I was to become a huge success or fail miserably, I knew I’d want to look back at my experiences {mostly to prove that my play-it-safe self actually did it}. So I did what so many people do when they’ve got something to say; I started this blog. And then it sat. For months.

They say the hardest part is just getting started and “they” aren’t freaking lying! It seemed impossible to begin something that I hadn’t begun myself. I started talking about quitting my job with my husband last spring. I didn’t make it a reality until September. Well, December has come and Santa’s practically hanging halfway down our chimney and I’m still struggling with exactly what I want this blog to be.

I want to support working moms. I want to help women start their own businesses. I want to encourage people to live the life they’ve always wanted and quit getting in their own way. I want to teach ways to be more efficient and squeeze maximum fulfillment out of each day. I want to share my personal and professional wins and losses {if you promise not to keep score} and maybe even help you learn something along the way.

One thing I am sure of is what this blog is not:

  • A mommy blog chock full of DYI projects and kids crafts. Don’t get me wrong, those sites are awesome! Check out my favorites here and here. I’ve spent hours dreaming of my children’s nurseries that could have been if I were capable of recreating my own Pinterest fantasies. Not my skill set. Moving on…
  • A mommy blog with tips on spending less money at the grocery store, tracking down the new “it” toy on a budget or anything related to being a better shopper. {You may find me sharing tips on how to be a quicker, more efficient shopper though!}
  • A mommy blog supplying your recipe book with tried and true favorites sure to get your kids eating their veggies and your husband asking for seconds all while you lose weight.
  • A mommy blog that speaks to all of your fears of parenting while making you feel normal {you are} for thinking you’re screwing up your kids {you aren’t}. It does exist though!

I appreciate everything these sites have to offer, and can even pull off one heck of a first birthday party with ideas borrowed from these creative geniuses. You just won’t find any of these things on this mommy blog.

So there. If the hardest part is getting started it should be smooth sailing from here, right?!