How I disengaged, reflected upon and was 'Thankful'

Illustration courtesy my Sabrina ♥

This Thanksgiving I decided to disengage rather than engage with the stress and chaos of extended family.  It's NOT that I'm not thankful or mean or a heartless bitch person.  No, quite the contrary.  I'm BIG on family and love to interact with people who actually care to interact with me (don't we all?!)

My decision to be recluse about my involvement with extended family stemmed from many factors but mainly from my needing some 'breathing room' from it ALL.  I was sincerely 'thankful' during this time.  I was able to reflect on the things that mattered most and less on the things that brought me heartache, sadness or ill feelings (yes, I do feel all of these emotions OFTEN but my outlook is positive.) Instead, I surrounded myself with the four most important people in my life, my husband and three incredible daughters.  We invited one guest to partake in our dinner as well.  It was perfect in every way...

I disengaged with everyone else.

Earlier in the week a person I love very, very much asked me how my Thanksgiving preparations were coming along.  It was all through text message.  This was the exchange (more or less):

She: So how's your turkey coming along?   

Me: Ha! No preparation here.  No frills for me this year. Keeping it simple.

She: Wow, guess it's too much work...

I'm surprised you're not creating warm memories of crazy but fun and memorable thanksgiving celebrations for the girls.  You know, the kind we used to have?

Me: Oh I'm doing that alright! Just without the extra people. Just us, simple and fun.

I gathered that she didn't understand the 'why' behind my wanting to stay away from large crowds or perhaps she hoped for a different approach on my part.  I gathered that she 'secretly' wanted me to join her Thanksgiving dinner but knew that I wouldn't oblige her.  Why did she think that I 'wouldn't be' creating memories for my girls?  I was struck but let it go because I believe that she hadn't expressed herself clearly.  Her intentions were actually wanting to be around the girls and I.  I know this.  I also know that she was probably hurting deep down inside.  Hurting for the loss of contact and engagement on my part.  Her pride gets the best of her, she's expressed this to me before.  My decision to stay away did not sit well.  I know her and how she ruminates about issues and how she doesn't 'say' things.  I know all this because I've shared the deepest of moments and conversations with her.  I love her, still... It hurts, still...  

Days later, I learned that her house was saturated with people (maybe about 40 to 50) and the person whom shared this information with me mentioned how overwhelmed they were with the entire experience.  They even mentioned how they needed to take a walk to get away from it all.  And THAT was exactly what I didn't want to feel during this 'thankful' season.  My emotions are much too shaky to handle this sort of chaos.   

I know how difficult it is to try and appease 'important' guests when your attention is elsewhere.  You can't.  I've been there.  Done that.  It's not fulfilling or fun.  I'm sure she was thankful for all the people that came to gather with her in her home, all the ways that they sought her out and the fact that she feels that she's 'adopted' people from different walks of life.  I get it.  She loves this.  She was deeply thankful, I'm sure of it.  I wonder, was she happy?  I mean, deeply, deeply happy?  I don't know?  I know that there was a piece of her heart missing.  Me.  My girls too. 

Illustration courtesy my Sabrina ♥

I thought about all the emotions that she may have been feeling.  I thought about my own.  I sat with them, looked at them, mourned them and was also thankful for it all.  I was thankful for the wonderful memories she and I have made.  I was thankful for the kindred spirits that we are.  I was thankful for allowing myself to love her no matter our differences and struggles.  I was thankful for HER even if I was not sharing a 'thankful' dinner alongside of her.  I wanted to feel appreciated, needed, loved and authentically involved with the people I was surrounded with.  I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't tell you that I too was missing a piece of my heart.  Her.  The laughter, the stories, the jokes, the silliness, the tears and nostalgia.  Old feelings but familiar all at once.  She was the one positive constant in my otherwise negative and variable childhood and for this I am forever thankful.  Today I'm missing that close contact with her.  Different but missing it...       

I did feel appreciated, needed and loved in a completely different light.  In my own little circle of love.  I felt all of that right here with my little family and one guest.  It was nice.  It was quiet and relaxing.  I soaked in every ounce of it.    

Family portrait

Illustration courtesy my Luna ♥

I reflected upon my inner thoughts during my Thanksgiving dinner and I was deeply, deeply thankful and happy even with a missing piece of my heart...

*To that very, very special person I speak of, I love you and miss you beyond my ability to articulate it here with the entire world.  Authentically, me.  

Reflection of labor: A Sonnet

My first Sonnet (2007)

In 2007, while in graduate school, I took a class in poetry.  Not only was the class required for my degree, it was the first time I had ever had to share my poetry with an entire class.  I was nervous and skeptical most of the time but my professor, Frank Montesonti, was encouraging and brilliant in his guidance and own poetry as well.  Thank you, Frank!

Nevertheless, I wrote my first Sonnet during the course.  Poetry is a secret love of mine and I often revert to in times of deep reflection and insight.  This sonnet is a reflection of my labor with my second daughter, Luna.  I dedicate it to my wonderful midwife, Sheila.  It was my first home water birth and it changed me.  I honor the power of birth...

Sage Femme

I must wait for present to become past

As the wind blows and I watch the heavy showers

The day becomes dim and the skies overcast

My body takes over and I begin to fall

I tumble into the land that they call ‘out there’

Time is still and meditation takes over

The only breath that I can watch

Blowing like daisies from my mouth

My full womb is saying nothing but ‘surges’

The pain is like watching the departure of birds

They come and they go and they sing

I chant ‘let it go’ and ‘let it be’—

‘let it go’ and ‘let it be’—

I must be patient and the patient

That does not watch the wall clock

In this meditative hour—

I trust the process…

And the sage femme simply waits.  

by: vanessa jubis-2007

The big O

Image via Google

Obesity.  It has sadly become the center of attention in children in this predicament.  The Huffington Post reported on a third grader weighing more than 200 pounds being removed from his home and placed into foster care.  My reaction?  Heartbroken.  Also, a 200 pound child?? Really? Sad...

The issue of weight and body image affects EVERYONE besides the person whose obese.  I have several loved ones that are currently considered 'obese' including my mother and younger sister.  It's difficult for me to see people that I love suffer and be stigmatized by the entire world.  I've never been obese but it has affected me greatly.

The saddest part is when a child, like the one mentioned in the Huffington Post is subjected to this type of enforcement.  It's a touchy predicament and it's easy to place BLAME on the parent.  I get it.  I'll admit that when I see a child between the ages of 1 and 12 that is overweight or obese, I look at the parent FIRST.  The judgments that one creates by simply 'seeing' an obese child are immeasurable.  Imagine the emotional psychological implications this child will inevitably have to deal with for the rest of his life?  He probably thinks that he's not loved or wanted or worse, a burden to society.  I cannot imagine.

Was the action taken for this child too harsh?  What did his mother 'try' to do about her son's weight?  I don't know any of these answers and I'd be lying if I told you that I don't partially agree with what was done to get this child 'healthy.'  But again, it's easier to judge and place ultimatums on the issue.

I worry about my children and the pressures of not becoming 'fat' because I also worried about this as a child.  I didn't want to look like my mother so I was always hyper aware of her 'obesity.'  My view of body image has been tainted by what I've seen in so many loved ones that have struggled with poor food choices.  Recently, one of daughter's playmates was diagnosed with Diabetes and he's only 7 years old, the same age as my eldest.  Unfortunately, diabetes runs on my maternal side of the family.  So that means that I have to be even more vigilant of the risk to my children AND myself.  Sucks!

According to the American Diabetes Association , 25.8 million children and adults in the US have diabetes.  That's 1 in 3 children and it's frightening.  The bottom line is educating oneself on food choices, reading labels, choosing sensibly and ultimately not falling for all the processed foods available especially for our children.  Yes, this is easier said than done but it CAN be done.  There are wonderful resources that one can learn from.  Here is a short list of my favorites:

www.mercola.com 
Michael Pollan's 'In Defense of Food'
Why We Get Fat

The Great Abyss: Parenthood

My older daughter gets frustrated and irritable about small things.  She's passionate, sassy, creative, sensitive, insightful and impatient.  Nevertheless, I love all this about her.  She's authentic with her emotions and how she displays them.  She's a kid and kids are raw and open.

As her mother I often find myself teetering on the ability to completely understand her or simply being emotionally exhausted by her.  She physically looks like her handsome father but she's a whole lot like me in her personality.  I too am passionate, sassy, creative, sensitive, insightful and impatient (go figure!)

The other day, while she was having a major meltdown, I 'patiently' watched her and took in every ounce of her irritability, frustration and exasperating tantrum.  Sometimes I want to have tantrums like the way she was displaying—stomping her feet (hard), furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips, flailing her arms and all of the body language of an 'I'm really, really not happy right now' person.  I on the other hand HAVE to be an adult about how I carry myself.  Period. I know, it sucks right?!

Instead I tried to reason with her.  I spoke to her in an unaggressive and non-judgmental tone.  Although, inside I felt lost and unable to appease her in general.  She kept on repeating how she didn't like that I got angry at her.  I then reminded her that I had immediately apologized when I realized that I had indeed 'overreacted' but she didn't care about my apology, she was stuck on the fact that I 'got angry.'

'Sabrina, what can I do to help this situation?' I asked her.

'I'm mad.' She said.

'I know.  I can see that.  I'm sorry.' I said.

'I don't like when you get mad.  I hate it.' She said.  Her arms tightly crossed across her chest.

I looked at her little face, admired her genuine expression even while in her state of 'angry' and reminded myself that I too was a child that felt this way more often than not.  The only difference was that my mother didn't take the time to understand the 'why' behind my tantrum.  I got REAL with her.  It was all I could do.

'Sabrina...Mommy doesn't always have all the answers.' I said to her.  Her eyes became soft and engaging and she was all of a sudden absorbed in what I had to say to her.

'I don't always know what I'm doing but you know what I know for sure?

'What?'  She asked.

'That I love you more than you'll ever know.'  I said.

Her blue eyes were fixed on mine and she threw her little arms around my neck,  'I love you, mama.'

Parenting is daunting and exciting.  I don't know what I'm doing a huge percent of the time but I have to trust that when I'm completely raw with my children that they'll understand me as I try my very best to understand them.  I'm okay with feeling lost half of the time because I know that at some point I'll find my way.  In the meantime, I just have to keep swimming in the great abyss of parenthood.  

Scribble me down...

The keys I strike.  Photo credit: Hubby (EJ)

Right here, in this space and section of this vast world wide web, I scribble.  My thoughts, my dreams, my fears and joys are scribbled.  I scribble my life in bits and pieces because bits and pieces of my life is what makes up my living kaleidoscope.  Shards of hope and love and dreams.  A collage of colors, emotions, tears, breaths, beats, giggles and smiles make up the tiny and enormous parts of my world.  I scribble the mundane moments in motherhood and the moments I'd like to sometimes forget.  I've scribbled myself to sanity and calmness and bravery.  I scribble because I CAN, because I NEED to and because it's a driving force that bewilders and frightens me.

I don't know whose really 'reading' or feeling along with me at any given moment.  I know that each time I scribble, I'm resting my heart on my sleeve when I share my stories and fears and possible side effects of my encumbered emotions.  I don't know what I'm doing half of the time because I'm perplexed about feeling too deeply, too much or too hard.  But I continue to do it.

I get scared and recoil because this is what happens when 'fear' and 'doubt' peer their snares at me and gloat about creeping into my thoughts.

Then I return and become brave again and strike their snares and gloats down with each key and each sentence I complete.  I return to a place of solace and comfort in this small but far reaching space because I know that someone is bound to 'listen' and feel and engage along with me.  No matter how many times 'fear' and 'doubt' sneak up on me, they will never scribble me down because only I can scribble them away.

Judy Blume & how stories saved me

  

Images via Google

The first books I remember reading as a child were Corduroy and Harold and the Purple Crayon.
Still two of my favorites today. These two (and some others) were some books that my mother ordered for me from Scholastic (I recall the packaging.)  I remember this because they were the 'free' ones with the purchase of at least one (I believe it worked that way back then).  The books stopped arriving quickly because my mother never paid for them in the first place.  I remember asking her for more books but she'd say something like, 'I can't buy them for you.'  So I read and re-read the few unpaid books that we kept.  I've since invested in many books from Scholastic for my own daughters, you know, to re-pay them for the books I kept in 1983.

Reading those little stories always gave me the hope that there was something bigger out there in the world if you really wished and tried hard for it.  I knew this in my heart starting at age six.  I believed this.  I still do.  Harold's adventure with his purple crayon and how he drew and decided what came next allowed me to hone in on the idea that we ultimately 'create' what we want in our lives.  Harold taught me that no matter how scary or dark things may get, you still have the power to 'draw' a different picture.  On the other hand, Corduroy's story gave me the hope that even when you feel lonely in this great big world, there is always someone out there that will show you a different path and perhaps some love even if you are from different worlds.  In spite of the little bear's sadness he never stopped believing in love.  Perhaps these stories didn't speak much to some people but they were surely seared in my emotional psyche at age six.

Then in 1988, it was yet another book that pulled me away from a rather unsavory reality and allowed me to hover over a world of silliness, humor, grade school drama and the simple act of just being a kid.  You see, during this time I was a fourth grade kid myself with a four year old sibling.  I empathized with the main character's frustrations and feelings of just how incredibly annoying a younger sibling can be.  The humor of it all saved me from my then troubling situation.

Image via Google

It was Mrs. Grivjack and my fourth class at Coral Park Elementary that allowed me to hide the darkness in my life because it was all I had.  Close to the end of that school year Mrs. Grivjack read to the entire class every afternoon as we sat encircled around her on the cold mint and cream checkered linoleum tiled floor.  She'd always sit in a large squeaky wooden chair.  She read Judy Blume's 'Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing', hard cover edition, retrieved from our school library and it saved me.  It saved me from drowning in the issues of my sexual abuse.  It saved from knowing that I lived under the same roof of a cocaine dealer.  It saved me from still not knowing who my real father was.  It saved me from my mother's proximal abandonment toward me.  It saved me from my mother's incarceration months later.  It saved me from feeling like an orphan.  It ultimately saved me from losing hope that one day, my life WOULD undoubtedly be far better than what it looked like to me right then and there.

Judy Blume's humor and love and words and story entranced me into her world of Peter and Fudge and all the other silly, happy and frustrating things that happened to them.  Mrs. Grivjack's voice was my escape.  The way her large framed bifocal glasses rested atop her ski sloped and heavily powdered nose, an image I got to view from way down below on the linoleum floor every day for months, was the one constant that I turned to for solace in my own silence and embarrassment of having a mother that was behind bars because she had been present during a drug bust.  It fucking sucked and there was no way in hell that I was going to tell a living soul, not even my delusional idea of contacting Judy Blume myself.

No matter how dreadful my situation was at the time, I had Judy Blume's story to look forward to.  I had the next chapter of Peter and Fudge and Mrs. Grivjack's sweet and enthusiastic cadence of a voice to carry on a story and keep her students, her children, her one tormented and introverted pupil completely enthralled and grateful for the gift of being read to.  I was grateful for the momentary escape and for what the story granted me.  Laughter, smiles, empathy, the feeling of not feeling alone and also not feeling guilty about wanting to spit a thick ass hawker in my little sisters hair.  I was just happy to laugh and shut off the 'rated R' reel that was replaying over and over in my head like an annoying click of a roller ball pen because escaping for that one hour of story time meant that I was relieved from one really fucking bad dream.  Like Peter, I was ten and tormented except that his torment was way better than mine. Hands down!

  

Nothing mattered so much as the next great story that would forever embed itself in my own creativity.

THAT is how stories saved me.  

✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿

I read to my girls.  

They read to me.  

Books are all around us.  They don't tire us.  

They bring us together.  

At the end of each day we get to step into any world we choose to free from it's shelf.  

We are lovers of stories and I am a lover of telling them.

Story time before bed ♥

Stories. Are. Awesome...♥

So what's your story?  

I leave you with the magnificent Louis and 'La Vie En Rose' 

Because my life is full of 'Pink' and love...

Regret is still beautiful...

re·gret |ri'gret| {verb}: 
feel sad, repentant, or disappointed over 
(something that has happened or been done, 
esp a loss or missed opportunity)

I looked into the eyes of regret at a very young age.  Regret rested in the eyes of my mother.  She held all the moments of her life that she wished she could have, in half a second, returned to and done something completely different about it.  At that very young age I would learn of my mother's one enormous regret.  I remember asking her why she was always so sad.

'Mommy, why are you crying?'  A 5 year old me would ask her.

'Mommy is just missing a big part of her.'  She'd respond. I never understood exactly what she was talking about.

I'd watch her eyes well up and her lower lip quiver with heavy emotion over something I had no clue about.  I didn't know it then but I was witnessing her regret swim about her heart and encapsulate her entire being.  Her exquisite face eclipsed by her regret.  I don't believe that any child enjoys seeing their mother cry.  I wanted to understand her.  I wanted to make her happy.  I wanted her to smile but it was nearly impossible to attain such a reaction from her no matter how gently I'd try.  Her eyes were always sad... But she was still beautiful to me, tears and regret and all.

My mom and I circa 1981

My mother would share with me that she had lost two pieces of her heart before I was born.  Her first two daughters.  My sisters.  I still didn't understand.  I wanted to understand but how does a 5 year old try to understand something this enormous?

'You have two sisters, Vanessa.  My two babies before you.' She'd say one day as she was kneeling down to my 3 1/2 foot level, wisps of her dark curly hair sticking to her fresh tears and rosy cheek, her mascara running like black thin streams.  

'But where are they?' I'd ask her.  Confused.  Dumbfounded.  Sad too!  

(As I write this, tears streaming down my face 

for the regret and sadness I felt on that day along with my mother.  

Her regret and her sadness transmitted to a five year old me.)

'One day you'll meet them.  I promise.'  She'd say crying while wrapping her arms around my thin torso and pressing me firmly into her breasts.  The scent of her hair still familiar to me today.  

I believe that it was that day I learned what empathy was.  I believe that I experienced empathy in the rawest form and in the rawest moment of my mother's life.  I believe that there was nothing I could have done to ease her regret or her pain or her sadness or her broken heart.  I was simply there.  I was simply standing in the shadow of two lost daughters.  I was simply her little girl that wanted to understand her and hold her and love her no matter how much she was aching and regretting her loss.  I was simply a catalyst to her broken heart.  

As the child that witnessed this heartache so raw and so painfully close, I can only say that the one part of it that never escaped me was the overwhelming beauty I saw in my mother.  Her beauty that radiated in streaks and specs of glowing light.  Her regret, so heavy and so sad allowing me the window to peer into and walk beside her deepest emotion and my experiencing great empathy and oneness with her at the age of five.  Oddly enough, there was a peculiar beauty to her regret.  

Sometime in 1976 my mother abandoned her first two daughters from her first marriage.  It was a typical case of a scared young woman (20 years old) that was threatened by her husband and her desire to flee from her life into the arms of another man (my father).  There were more complicated issues but they're too long to mention here.  My mother's plan was not well thought out and she basically created her own destiny the moment she walked out on her little girls (ages 4 and 2.)  In the eyes of the law and several other clever legal individuals and an angry ex-husband, my mother lost legal custody of them both, as well as the right to ever see them again (until they each turned 18) and soon after the custody battle, they were adopted by her ex-husband's cousins.  I was born in 1977.  

Today I dedicate this post to my mother.  Mom, I have been burdened with the enormous effect that your emotions have had on me since I was so very young.  I believe that it was a gift of some kind.  A gift, that even with its heavy and dark sorrows, has allowed me the ability to feel deep empathy and compassion toward you.  It's allowed me to hold a space for you, for my sisters and for the love that you've always tried to attain within yourself.  I see you.  I see your pain.  I see your heart.  And I will always see just how beautiful regret still is... I love you... 

Pinterest {whore} & a little 'hand' craft

Image via Google

I'll admit it.  I'm an official Pinterest Whore! 


I was introduced to Pinterest  over the summer by a dear mama friend of mine.  When I first heard of it, I was like 'Waa??' but when I took a peek, I was like 'Whaaat was I missing?!' I was hooked and immediately starting pinning, re-pinning and sharing on my Facebook & Twitter.

I still have to organize my boards a little better (working on it).  I can't speak enough about how incredibly AWESOME this site is.  What geniuses that came up with the entire concept! Kudos to them!

I've already been searching and pinning fun stuff for Christmas and the holidays in general.  I love getting ideas from here and so will you.  I promise!  Sometimes you'll even score a short 'picture' tutorial which is fab because if you're like me, a visual learner, it's super fun and easy to follow.  I suck at reading directions. Ugg! It's annoying but I try when I have to.

Pinterest Boards

Cute Craft with brown lunch bag

Rice Krispy Snow Men! The girls want to make these! So cute! 

Above are my $1 mini mittens turned X-Mas Banner.  I've been meaning to post this easy tutorial.  

I made a simple banner by sewing fabric letters onto the mittens and then running red/white bakers twine as the banner hanger.  It's super easy if you're sewing savvy (at a basic level).  

I LOVE this wreath! I may re-vamp my x-mas wreath to something like this.  Naturally my Sabrina wants the wreath to have HER initial.  She's too much! It'll be a 'J' instead.  

So waste no more time and type your fingers on over to Pinterest and get yourself an account and start pinning and sharing your finds.   I said, GO!! 

HAPPY PINNING AND RE-PINNING Pinterest'ers! 

My Sun, Moon & Star: Mother daughter ♥

We woke up silly today.  So we decided to have fun with snap shots in 4's.

Happy Saturday everyone! Love from this mama and her 3 lovelies...

Enjoy ♥

Sabrina, my sun...my ♥

Luna, my moon...my ♥

Kalina, my star...my ♥

One mama in love with her three hearts...

Cardboard play & fun

The other day darling hubby came home from work and walked in a very 'merry and cheery' mood along with a flat rectangular box in hand.  The item?  A Discovery Kids Playhouse.  The cool part about this item was that it's cardboard and it comes plain (meaning colorless) for your kids to color and decorate it as they please.

And oh were the girls pleased! They loved, loved, loved it!

Of course, hubby was in his 'kid at heart' mood (so sweet) and he built it right away.  It was really simple to pop up and took about five minutes.  Really.

The girls could not wait to start coloring it the next day because Crayola and Company were not coming out of their boxes at 10:00 p.m. that night.

As soon as they woke up the next day, it was straight to the box.  Color, color, color, play, play, play.  It was great!  Kudos to the genius that took the simple idea of a cardboard box and said 'Duh, kids = simple fun!'  Brilliant!

Babble's Family Style blog posted a 'charming playhouse' find and I found it to be absolutely adorable. Thank you Gabrielle Blair!

So I checked out this cute 'Cardboard Café' and went ahead and ordered one for the girls.  This one comes painted already but it's too cute to pass up.

Bonjour! Café olé anyone?

World Premature Awareness Day...My Sabrina's early arrival

Today we honor all the babies born prematurely.  Statistics show that 1 in 8 babies are born prematurely in the U.S.  A baby born before 37 weeks gestation is considered premature.

When I was 14 years old I participated in a campaign and walked 5 miles for a particular cause.  It was the March of Dimes that I walked for along with my aunt and little did I know that 12 years later I'd be giving birth to my first baby girl almost 6 weeks prematurely.  Life is funny that way...

My first born daughter's 'estimated' due date was February 15, 2004.  On the January 7th, 2004, my water broke while I was in TJMaxx (she wanted to shop too!)  I had been experiencing all the signs of pre-term labor but I guess that my then 'naive' mommy brain was still adjusting to the idea of being overly worried.  Plus I had an obsession that day: I needed to buy baby booties and newborn hats.  Really? What a freak!

I had the following symptoms during this time (NOTE: this is what I experienced so if you're expecting and experiencing something similar and you're unsure of what may be happening in your body then please consult your midwife or OB).

• lower back pain (like a band around my low waist)
• menstrual like cramps
• intermittent contractions (more than just Braxton Hicks) 
• pelvic pressure between my legs (like a bowling ball hanging down)
• fatigue and difficulty walking 

We were planning a Home Birth but in Florida a midwife is legally not allowed to assist in a birth if the mother is not 37 weeks or more.  I was outta luck yo! My birth location quickly went out the door along with my mucous plug.  Smell ya later!

So I HAD to go to the hospital.  I. was. not. happy.
(I'll write another post about Sabrina's birth and all the details for you birth junkies alike or not)  


Sabrina was born on January 8, 2004 @ 10:56 a.m.  She was PERFECT...

Because she was considered a premie, the hospital took precautions in how they handled her.
Her APGAR score was 9/9 (an apgar is a quick test performed 1 & 5 minutes after birth) which is near perfect.  She had no trouble breathing BUT she was still whisked away to the NICU.  Considering her early arrival, she weighed in at 5lbs 6 oz and was 18 1/2 inches.  Not bad!

Sabrina spent 9 days in the NICU.  9 days... (sniff, sniff)
Her stay was mere 'protocol' on the hospital's part as they had her on antibiotics.
Oddly enough, all her tests were negative for infection and any other risk to her little life but the hospital followed their 'protocol' and that was that.  Either way it was difficult for us as new parents to have to start out our early parenting days this way.  But she was here and we were thrilled!

Sabrina minutes out of the womb

We couldn't believe she was here!

Her first visitor in NICU was Daddy...

Blue light special: 5 lbs 6 oz baby girl = Perfect! 

Dear Sabrina,

We love you more than this gigantic universe little ladybug! 

Your birth was your unique signature and we adore every part of it.  

Happy Premie Day baby girl! 

~Mommy & Daddy~

My pre-term birth: 5 things I wish I'd done differently

‘Ohmygoodnessthebabyregisteryneedsbedonenolaterthantwentyfiveweeks!’ was all I could think of.  When I was pregnant with my first daughter I was nothing less than neurotic, a tad bit controlling and a little too unrealistic.  Aside from the excitement that I was growing a uterus-encapsulated little being, there was the planning and the baby gear and all the stuff that had to be pondered, tested, chosen and registered for.

Since I didn’t want to know the sex of the baby in advance, I also had to consider the gender-neutral baby shower themes.  Serious stuff.  Lastly, there was also the baby’s room that needed decorating. I had so much to do and less than forty weeks to do them.  There was no time for lounging around. 

I had thirty-four weeks from the time I learned that I was going to squat and pop a baby out, to get things done.  Not only was I gestating a soon to be chubby footed little being but I was also gestating my incessant neurosis about gestating the soon to be chubby little toes.  There were several other obsessions that I probably could have done without nevertheless, I was hormonally challenged and overly concerned and whisking these two ingredients together did not make a good baby-growing recipe for this gestating mama. 

I’ve often wondered if there was really anything I could have done differently.  After having had two subsequent births, I believe that there could have been a few.  Looking back, perhaps there were at least five things that I believe contributed to my shortened gestation and the wildly unexpected early arrival of my first daughter.

My Sabrina born at 34 weeks. 1.8.04

1. Not to obsess so much over my gestating weeks

I was never satisfied with any pregnancy week.  I’d peruse my pregnancy calendar every other day counting down the days until the next week was approaching.  I couldn’t wait to be two more weeks pregnant and then more four weeks pregnant and so on and so forth.  I was in a gestating marathon.  I rarely stopped to enjoy the week I was actually experiencing because it seemed more important to prepare for the next.  I’d mention to my husband, ‘We’re almost twenty-weeks, I can’t wait!’ and he’d always look at me like I was clearly insane.  My having to wait for yet another Sunday so I could take my Sharpie and scratch a line through the completed week on my calendar was like making me wait in long line for a vanilla and hot fudge sundae.  Not fun. 

2. Not to be over-confident about my birth plan

I had the perfect plan.  I knew exactly where my baby was going to be born.  I thought that because I was planning on having my baby at home with a midwife, I was definitely immune to anything ‘not going as planned.’  I mean, what can possibly go wrong when you’re absolutely positive about your birth plan right? WRONG.  I was delusional, ignorant and inexperienced for not being realistic about ‘what ifs’.  Most things are unknown and especially in pregnancy.  Fetuses are not a little genie in a belly that’ll grant your wishes.   Fetuses definitely have their own agendas.  Believe me.  I believe that if I had had the wherewithal to be more realistic, I would have had less angst about my baby being born prematurely.  Plus, I would have experienced the, ‘I. Am. So. Over. This.’ syndrome. 

3. Not to ignore all the signs

Is that a sign? ‘Eh, what the heck, ignore it.  I’m not a drama mama!’  I ignored all the signs.  I ignored the fact that I was too tired to walk another ten minutes.  I ignored the severe lower back pain and brushed it off as ‘well, this comes with pregnancy.’  I ignored the menstrual like cramps that formed a band around my lower abdomen and brushed those off as ‘oh, some more Braxton Hicks.’  I ignored my need to rest.  I ignored my need to put my feet up.  I ignored my need to drink more water and my need to sleep more.  I could have also let go of the fact that there was too much dog hair to pick up in one day, as well as, my incessant need to scrub the grout on the tile floor for the fourth time in a week.  I simply ignored my need to chill out because the primary thing that was happening in my uterus was the fact that I was growing a baby and everything else was secondary.  I needed to listen to my body and my baby but I didn’t. 

4. Not to stay in a stressful job so long

My job at the time was beyond stressful.  Working for a female lawyer didn’t always entail the most compassionate regard for the pregnant female counterpart.  I forced myself to do my job every single day until I was six and a half months pregnant.  I was advised by my midwife to either shorten my workload or quit.  The stress of my work caused numerous physical ailments during my pregnancy but the worst one of all was the permanent golf ball sized knot I had on my right shoulder.  The pain was a burning nuisance and the stress inevitably created some havoc in my uterus, which probably made my baby beg to get the heck out of the dungeon. I wish I hadn’t taken so long to finally quit. 

5. Not to worry about my baby’s full term size

I wanted a healthy baby but not a big one.  I created a phobia about growing a baby that would be too big for me to push out.  I’d often mention to my husband and close relatives how I hoped the baby wouldn’t be too big.  I obsessively asked any mom I met how much their baby had weighed at birth and remember being horrified at the idea of having an eight or nine pound baby.  In my delusional mind, I was not able to birth a full-term baby.  I constantly doubted myself, as well as, the possibility of actually having to push out a baby over six pounds.   Because of my neurosis, I inevitably made my fear a reality because I went into labor at thirty-four weeks gestation and birthed a five-pound six-ounce healthy baby girl. 

I don’t know that I really could have reversed any of events that took place during my first pregnancy.  I was a first time mom dealing with a cascade of emotions, physical changes and an overall sense of ‘could I really be a good mom?’  My need to control the process of my pregnancy and birth was my own insecurity about having to face the unknown and surrender to whatever was going to be.  I wasn’t happy about the ‘letting go and letting be’ aspect of my pregnancy or birth because the only thing I wanted was to be in absolute control, which in the end was foolish of me.  Like the cliché adage says, ‘If I knew then what I know now’ but really, is there ever a way to really know? 

In retrospect, I understand that we all need to trek down the pregnancy, birthing and motherhood paths in our own ways.  What I learned was that while I feared, obsessed and ignored some parts of my pregnancy and pre-term labor, in the end I became aware, accepting and a bit more prepared the for next the pregnancies.  I understand that while there were several factors that contributed to my pre-term labor and birth, I feel that this first experience only forced my feet to be tethered to the ground in a way that made me wiser and much more realistic about being pregnant in general.  The truth is, you can never know what to expect but you can have an idea.  I’m fine with this now but I still wish that I could’ve seen it all differently. 

Remember: November 17th is Premature Awareness Day.  Stay tuned for my thoughts of this important day.      

The show must go on

Ugg...don't you just love those days when you wake up feeling all congested and stuffed up and nose drippy and ass dragging and noise sensitive and all that jazz?

Of course you do! 

That would be moi.

Today.

I was completely fine last night.  I mean, really.  There were no signs of an onset of anything.  Until...

I half peeled my eyes open this morning and immediately wanted to sink further into my 'mouth breathing' slumber (yeah, the one where the roof of your mouth is all dry and feels like someone just waxed it and your tongue could be hung in the sand paper section of Home Depot.  THAT one.), the girls were all clamoring for breakfast and Spongebob (yes, that pesky little yellow obnoxious thing.) Three voices exclaiming 'Mommy!' were vibrating at high decibels with rumbling tummies.

So I stumbled out of bed, blew my drippy nose into my moth eaten t-shirt (no time for tissues), continued on into the kitchen, washed my hands, grabbed individual goat yogurt cups from the fridge (blueberry, strawberry, blueberry, respectively) and set them on the counter.

'Good morning, girls.  Here's your breakfast.  Eat.'

Three pairs of blue and green eyes looked up at me and then quickly plunged their spoons into the creamy yogurt.  They ate.

The girls didn't even question my blasé breakfast because they knew what was up with mommy.

The dog?  The dog didn't utter an 'arf' which is her lingo for 'food.'  Nope.  She knew what was up too and it wasn't my spirits.

Hubby?  No peep out of Hubby either.  He didn't even ask me to whip up his daily spinach & goat cheese omelet.  Instead, I got a sweet kiss on my forehead and an 'I love you.'

It sucks feeling sick and 'blah.'  It sucks because no matter how bad you're feeling you still have to tend to all the little people and things and moments that are calling for your attention.  All.  The.  Little.  Things.  There is no time for shouting out 'I'm sick today!' because it just wouldn't make a difference.  We do the best that we can even when our best is a blasé breakfast and allowing the kids to give the dog goldfish crackers for breakfast.  Goldfish crackers?  Oy...

Things get a little more chaotic when us moms are under the weather and its quite okay to use your pajama t-shirt to blow your snots out.  Who cares!  We're bound to have these 'darnitwhyintheworlddidIhavetogetsicknow?!' moments.  It comes with the territory.  No matter what, the show must go on.


How do you manage when you're sick and 'blah'?  

Because it heals me...

Tonight, while I changed the sheets on my daughters' bunk beds I couldn't help but remember moments of my turbulent childhood.

I was mindful of how I tucked the fitted sheets on their mattresses because while I did so, I vicariously tended to the bed I would have slept in as a little girl and added the attention I needed...

It healed me.

I was mindful when I spread out the wrinkles on their flat sheets so that they may sleep comfortably because my childhood sheets were often tangled up from my having to wrap myself up so tightly like a burrito to secure the safety of my little body...

It healed me.

I was mindful in making sure that their little pink glowing night light was plugged in and working properly so that they may not fear any 'imaginary' shadows even though the one 'real' shadow that lurked in my childhood bedroom was not scared away by pink night lights...

It healed me.

I was mindful in adorning their beds with their favorite stuffed animals and decorative pillows I sewed for them because my childhood bed was absent of dolls or anything dedicated to me by my mother...

It healed me.

I was mindful in re-taping the pictures they had put up on their walls of their daddy and I and others of themselves with their sisters because my childhood room never reflected any images of a memorable moment captured by the click of a shutter...

It healed me.

I was mindful in reminding myself that this life I chose, this life I've created, this life I am living and these daughters I am raising and loving and proud to call myself their Mama IS what heals me.

They heal my sorrow.  They heal my pain.  They heal the neglect.  They heal the absence.  They heal my fear.  They heal my heart and soul and mere existence.

I partake in all the mundane, all the wondrous, all the exciting and draining and joy and love and disappointment and anger and beauty and sadness and all the other things in between mothering my three incredibly inspiring daughters...

Because THEY heal me...

**I'm proud to announce that this post is syndicated on BlogHer**