Living Outside Your Comfort Zone

Some very interesting things happened to us when we moved to Missouri. One of them being there are no malls, no fabric stores, and no Targets within any "normal" amount of traveling distances. There are a few chain restaurants around of our little town, but not a huge selection. A lot of people I have met that are also in the military, or have spouses in the military, lament that there is nothing to do around here - "Everything is so far away" they say to me. Or a lot of people will tell me how boring this town is.

Initially, I had adopted a similar attitude - woe is me, nothing to do, so, so bored. Then, one day I turned on the local radio station, and was astonished to hear how much there was to do around here. We are a rural community, and while not the most refined area, it is adorable in it's own way. Every weekend there is something going on in our town, or the two towns next to us that are about thirty minutes away. I realized that my boredom within this community was due in large part to me not trying. I was actively trying to not like this place, and what a truly shitty attitude to have. It was like when we moved to Anchorage, and I was hell bent on hating it... Now I long for those long winters, the community, the Iditarod, and all the crazy people that are born and raised in Alaska.

Being a part of the military community means that sometimes you move to towns and cities that are not your cup of tea. It means maybe not getting to chose the exact doctor or hospital you want. It means that maybe you don't get to go shopping all the time, or out to lunch all the time. It means that you have to learn to be flexible or you will end up a miserable jerk. It is essential to learn this trait, flexibility, so your children won't grow up to be miserable jerks.

Living in a small town means that people care about you. They know you personally, or know someone that knows you. You always have a network of people to call on, and you truly get to experience what the phrase "It takes a village" means. It takes a different kind of strength to live outside your comfort zone.

All Dogs Go To Heaven

I tell people I rescued Dona from a pet store. I walked into the most ghetto pet store in Phoenix one day, looking to buy a fish, and stumbled upon puppies in a plastic pool for sale. How was I just going to leave one there? Puppies should not be kept in a plastic pool, in a store that usually only sells reptiles and fish. I wanted a girl dog. They brought me a girl dog from the back, Lord knows where she was actually kept in the back, and she pooped in the aisle as they brought her to me. I knew she was my dog.

I named her Dona after a character in a Philip K. Dick novel. I shortened it to one N, because I thought that suited a dog better. After six months with my little yellow dog, she caught Parvo. A week in the vet ICU, and she was better. When she was one, we met the man that is now my husband. She loved him right away, took to him better than she had anyone else I introduced her to. They were friends, and it made me happy. When I moved home during college, my mom and step-dad helped me take care of her. They watched her as I worked a full time job, went to school full time, and then student taught full time. We all loved Dona, even if she was grumpy and hated other dogs.

When she was two, husband and I moved to Alaska. Dona came with, of course. While in Alaska, she made friends with some other dogs, became nicer to new people, and was so patient with our daughter.

However, her aggression towards animals never fully went away. It would lie dormant for long periods of time, then flair up without warning, leaving a path of sadness in its wake. She is a good dog, don't get me wrong, she is just not a sweet dog. That is not a word that describes Dona. In our new neighborhood, in the first house we have ever owned, there is no fence. Fences are SO expensive - she is chained up to the tree in the backyard, because I know her behavior, and it is safest this way.

Yesterday, I made the mistake of allowing her some rare time off leash. It was during the day when I know not many people are out walking their dogs, and thought it would be okay. I was watching her the whole time... Suddenly she just took off. Ran right over to a neighbor walking his dogs on leash, and attacked his small dog. It was unprovoked. It was scary. I found out that this dog is okay, thank God, but it made me realize that Dona's time has come to an end. As it was pointed out to me, dogs can't speak. No shit, right? The point this person was trying to make to me was that they have no voice to tell us what is wrong, so to not give up on her, to not have her put down. I want so badly to believe she would be able, at nine-years-old, to find a couple with no children, no dogs or other animals, with a tall fence, and that she would be happy. But she wouldn't be. Because she has only ever had me, and then my husband. If anything, she would become people aggressive, and bite her new people. They would put her down, and she would go out of this world surrounded by strange faces and anger.

I do not want this for her. She is my girl. My first girl. She taught me patience. Compassion. Really, she taught me how to love unselfishly, and I needed that when I was 21. I am her voice, and I am letting her go peacefully, surrounded by my love, and my arms. Just as I rescued her from that plastic pool as a puppy, I will now rescue her from her self. That's my gift to her.

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Dona stayed in my arms until the end today. I held her, and sang her "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". She left knowing she was loved.

See you in heaven, my yellow friend.

On the 20th

Friday, March 20th, Middle child will be two-years-old. For some parents, reaching two is not as big of a deal as when their child reaches one. For us, it is somewhat different. Let me tell you why.

Two years ago, I lay in a hospital bed, 32 weeks and 5 days pregnant. My water had broke at 29 weeks and 6 days, and from that day forward, I lay in a hospital bed. My sole job was to grow a tiny human for as long as possible. I was in a city that I had never seen. I was away from my husband, my sweet daughter, and my lovable idiot of a dog. My parents were in a completely different state, and my friends could only come see me a few times, because I was just so far away. To say I was miserable puts it mildly. The quiet that lives inside a hospital is deathly scary, especially when you have an all consuming fear that your tiny human might die... because that can happen, even in the best of hospitals, inside the best of NICU's. It can happen, and it is freaking scary.

I kept middle child in, and growing, until I was exactly 33 weeks pregnant, and out he came that very night. I went from posting on Facebook about how all was well, to posting a picture of us holding the tiniest person I have ever held. He was more cables, cords, and wires than person. Two years ago, something inside me broke, and to this day I doubt it will ever be fixed. I delivered a four pound baby into the arms of strangers, and I was able to hold him for three minutes before I wasn't allowed to see him again for three hours. My son. The first grandson... Tucked away in a plastic case, with life support, and nurses, and doctors, and momma and daddy could do nothing. I prayed. I cried. I raged.

Magically, under the kindness and understanding of the NICU staff, I learned to care for a preemie. I watched him gain weight, keep his body temperature up, and learn to eat. He was feisty. My heart ached and yearned to take him home, but I never, ever asked the nurses when they thought we would be able to leave. I waited. And we only had to wait for three weeks.

Then suddenly we were home with a five pound baby that never stopped crying. I was heartbroken once again - every time he would nurse he would cry, but if he wasn't nursing he would cry. Our daughter was so used to hearing him cry, that it was always the first thing she told people about Bubba... "He sure cries a lot." I remember my amazing mother-in-law coming for a visit, and saying that she made an off handed remark to a co-work about "how bad could it really be?". She said she was sorry for thinking that, because after spending a of couple days with us, with his crying, she knew. The doctors put him on a special formula for milk allergies, and suddenly he was not crying anymore. He was still feisty, but not crying and that was amazing to me.



In the first year, we waited for smiles, for crawling, for walking, and for talking. He reached one and it was a HUGE deal for us. He survived the first year! We did a happy dance.

Then we began waiting for him to reach all the milestones - fine motor skills, gross motor skills, social/emotional... We waited for the day when the doctors stopped adjusting for age, and for them to tell us he didn't need any therapies because of his premature birth. Preemies have until age two to catch up - and he did! He will go off for a consult with Ortho because he has bowed legs, and that may have nothing to do with him being a preemie. He also has under gone some blood tests to see about his food allergies, but again that may have nothing to do with him being a preemie.

He is still my most difficult child - the one I worry about constantly, and find myself wondering just exactly who he is. I can't figure him out, not the way I have Girl Child and Little Baby figured out. He is naughty in an intelligent way. He rarely smiles for the camera. He loves Legos and things with wheels. He loves to eat. He hates being upside down. He screams louder than any person I have ever known. He throws up on me, bites me, kicks me, and then cozies up to me and says "Luufff yoouuu".

So, I have this to say to him -

Dearest Middle Child,

No. Little baby is not a step stool, and neither is the dog... either of the dogs. Sissy is not your slave, so please stop pointing at things and demanding them in one word sentences. Daddy loves you very much, try really hard to stop running head first into his junk - ouchie. Momma desperately wants to sleep past five in the morning, so please try really hard to stay asleep.

You owe me kid. Big time. I aim to collect. I will embarrass you and you will definitely think you will die from it... But you won't. I will always kiss you right on the lips, and I don't even care if you hate it or you wipe it off afterwards. There will always, always be more food - stop acting like you don't know when your next meal will be.

You are mine and I am yours and there ain't shit you can do about that. I love you, James T. Keep growing - keep getting stronger, faster, and smarter.

Your Momma


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Happy Birthday, buddy.

It Gives Me a Headache

Yesterday, I called the 800 number girl child's doctor gave us for the referrals he sent out. The one that came back first was for Allergy and Immunology. Rather to my delight, and dismay, the referral was to St. Louis Children's Hospital - it is nearly two and a half hours, maybe more in traffic, from our house. However, what a phenomenal hospital! My heart and mind were all a flutter with the possibility of her seeing a specialist, and having that person look at her, take labs, and listen to our concerns. The moment I called the clinic, referral number in hand, those hopes were dashed.

The receptionist began asking me if girl child had had a very specific list of blood work done. I had no idea, and it's not like I would even know what those tests are for... I didn't know I was supposed to request certain tests! The lady then tells me I need the labs and office notes faxed over to them before I can even schedule an appointment for girl child to be seen! What the actual fuck? These people don't want anything to do with us unless these labs come back abnormal in any way. And it's not like I don't see the logic behind this. I do, I really, honestly, for really real, do see the logic. So, I do what anyone in my position would do and called back to our local clinic and leave a message for the nurse that works with girl child's doctor.

Nurses hold the reigns to the doctors. They are like these brilliant, brick walls that you cannot break through. We were extremely lucky in the past with the nurses we talked to, but for whatever reason the current one we are dealing with has a distinct air of "You are being a totally crazy mom". Bless her heart, I am sure she is maybe trying to calm me down,?.. but as I mentioned before, PLEASE do not tell me she is supposed to get sick a lot and that she is building up her immune system. Please, why are you not listening to me?

And look, her first set of labs came back in a normal range... which makes me have more questions. Like, what the hell is a normal range, and what were her numbers specifically? The next set of labs, after consulting with the nurses in my own family and a friend who also has chronically ill children, will be looking more closely at her antibodies, etc. The nurse basically told me to prepare for those to come back normal as well, and to "not worry, she is probably fine". And then again the stupid, infuriating line about she is supposed to be sick... If they come back normal, no specialists.

So once again I am left wondering when to say enough and keep fighting. When to say enough and let the battle go. I am on top of this weird line in the medical world, where we have a sick child and no one is believing us. Or rather, the nurse, the only person I actually get to talk to, doesn't believe us. I mean, you can hear it in her voice! How am I to trust both my mommy instinct and trust the nurse.. a professional?! It's not like this nurse, or any of the nurses or doctors, come home with us. They don't have to deal with random middle of the nights fevers, vomiting episodes, the tears, the wanting to participate in life, that this girl experiences every.single.fucking.month. As far as I know, these medical professionals just see her as a number, a unit, to be passed along as quickly as possible. I don't feel the compassion. I don't feel anything from them.

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As my friend pointed out to me earlier today, I am stuck in a weird, infinite circle. It gives me a stomach ache. It gives me a headache.

Things You Don't Feel Guilty About...

Have you read this: http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/6201634?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000063

You should. I'll wait.

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I don't feel guilty when our kids run to me, instead of their daddy, when they get an ouchy, or need reassurance after a bad dream. I am secretly full of glee and hope my husband feels a little jealous.

When Frozen came out, I hated watching it with my daughter, because holy annoying songs. My son is in love with Elsa, and sings "Let It Go" and I love it... More than I love I should.

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It's fun to love your children to the point of creepy.