A New Name

Ever since my daughter was born, I knew that she'd be a fighter, a stubborn fighter.

At the end of my pregnancy when I began having blood pressure issues, my doctor warned me that there was a good chance that if we couldn't hold off on labor that S would be spending time in the NICU. Simply put, I was 35+5 when I was induced and they said she was a tiny baby with immature lungs. When she came out gray and alien-like, I was afraid, worried, concerned. She made no noise, no sound. After sitting under the warmer and being coddled by the nurses for a few minutes though, her APGAR scores improved, it seemed like the steroid shots had worked, and we avoided a NICU stay.

Less than an hour old

I learned very early on that she was stubborn. She cried constantly. The doctors said it was because she was a preemie, because her formula was upsetting her tummy, because she had colic. She wanted to be held constantly (which meant that we've invested in many baby carriers). She had to sleep at a specific angle or she wouldn't sleep. She loved being swaddled. She had a certain way that she wanted things done- and she'd let you know when you weren't doing things "right".

4 months old

Don't get me wrong, I love my daughter- she just frustrated me sometimes. I knew that we were blessed to have a baby that would sleep in her own room and mostly slept through the night at a month old, but that didn't always help when she spent the entire day screaming and screeching and I felt completely helpless. I isolated and hid away. We didn't go to church because I was afraid that she'd scream the whole time. We didn't get a babysitter because I was afraid they might shake her, as we had learned to walk away when these thoughts began to arise. I struggled massively with anxiety and depression as my postpartum hormones still tried to find their way back to how they were pre-pregnancy. I felt like a failure as a mom. Most days, I wanted to be anywhere BUT with her- because the screaming and the crying and the screeching seemed to never end until bedtime. We had some happy moments, some smiles and giggles- but Year One was rough. The Fussy Baby Site and it's Facebook groups were some of my greatest support- they made me feel like I wasn't alone. It wasn't my fault that I had a fussy baby- it wasn't my fault for taking antidepressants during my pregnancy or for the anxiety, or for struggling and thinking that motherhood was hard. Simply put, S was the way she was because that was the way that God had created her- extra sensitive- and that was okay.

After a year of dialectical thinking (that this motherhood thing IS hard AND it was okay to be that way), we reached S's first birthday. It was a hard day. The movers were packing up our things to send ahead to Maryland, my kid was a year old, and in a lot of way- it didn't feel like things were better. Sure- she was crawling FINALLY, she was starting to use words sometimes, and was starting to become a little person- but I was still unhappy. Being a mom wasn't anything like I had planned. I was mourning the loss of the child that I had always imagined that S would be like. I was grieving the way that the first year had gone, the loss of an innocent dream of childhood that having a baby would be magical. Newsflash- it wasn't. 

First birthday

I realized that I had a choice. I could choose to keep being sad about the way that things were, or I could change my expectations. I could keep believing that S would eventually be a "normal baby" and everything would turn out "the way it should" OR I could let go of that ideal and embrace the idea that God made S extra special, unique, and that He made her this was for a reason and a purpose that would be revealed someday (even if it wasn't today). I decided to take a chance and try the second option. After all, I'd spent the entire first year upset about things, would it really hurt to try a new approach? With this new approach, I decided that it was a time for a new beginning. We were moving to a new state where we'd be with all new people that didn't know how S's first year had gone or what our background was, or what we've been through individually and as a family. And with this choice, we gave our child a new name.

Some of you may be curious why I've suddenly stopped referring to "S" as "SC" or "Sarah Claire". Simply put, it's because we no longer call her Sarah Claire, or even Sarah, for that matter. Are they beautiful names? YES! But to be perfectly honest, I had hesitations about her name since she was first born and people asked if she was Sarah with an A or an H. It's one of those crazy pet peeves of mine. But, by that time, the birth certificate had been filled out and I didn't feel like I had a choice in the matter. After all, we had such a hard time coming up with a name that we liked, and WHAT kind of parent decides to change their kid's name after they're born and everything formal is already done?! (If you were wondering, it's something like 1 in 5). "Sarah" is a hard name for nicknames as it's already pretty short, but I didn't want to have to legally change her name. A few internet searches later, and I found out that "Sadie" is a nickname of Sarah. I loved the name Sadie (it was a name that I considered for future children until I found out the nickname status), and T agreed to give it a try. We tried it out secretly for a few weeks (calling her it while we were home, or when we were introducing her to other people that we'd never see again), and then- we just did it. When we moved to Maryland, we started introducing her as Sadie, we told our families that it was her name now (or at least I THINK we've told all of our families....surprise if you didn't know!). And honestly, it fits her. It's got the right amount of spunk for our rambunctious kiddo. I love the fact that it's short and not a double name (which is just too much work to call out 24/7 to a high needs baby). And...as silly as it sounds, it makes me love my kid even more, because there isn't the trauma from the first year associated with it (is that bad to say...because I'm still going to say it because I'm being honest and true here and it has been a struggle to love at times). Now that we've been in MD for almost two months and we are starting to make friends that are slightly confused by my Facebook calling "Sadie" "Sarah", I felt like it was time to make an announcement- even if it did seem slightly awkward. Hey- at least I can call Sadie by her name now without weird questions!

Are our high needs issues over? Nope. They aren't. We still have rough days most days. I still am afraid to leave her with a babysitter and she still cries her way through service on Sunday mornings so we struggle to decide to go to church. She now throws tantrums and is currently refusing to use any of the words she knows. She's strong willed and stubborn AND that's okay. We can work on these things as she gets older- and now that I've started to accept that this IS what it is...things are going better most days. I'm anxious, but I'm not as anxious. I'm depressed, but I'm not as depressed. Progress, not perfection...right? 

And that's the story of how I changed my 1 year old's name...and it's okay. 

Oh- and yes, her legal name is still Sarah Claire and if as she grows up she decides that she wants to go back to being called Sarah or Sarah Claire or Claire, we will fully support that. But for now- she's Sadie. :)

Finding Me

I've been struggling to find my place in the blogging world as of late. In college, it seemed like I had found my place and my groove. But in the crazy post-college time where recovery seemed to be all I was doing, my blogging seemed to fall apart. Blogging friendships weren't maintained (we were going different directions anyways). People got married (and I didn't until I did). Blogging took time and effort and emotion and I was too emotionally exhausted to bare my soul to the world (still true). I've tried to create my little space over here at Wiferella, at a new address, a new place, with my new little life...and it hasn't come together as neatly as I planned. I mean, I didn't really plan things out and life got busy and blogging wasn't a priority...so I didn't do it. I failed to plan, so I kind of planned to fail. I'm still not sure exactly what I want this space to look like, but in my ideal world, it might include blogging some recipes, some activities that I've done with the little, and then some more soul baring-sharing (because that's kind of what I'm all about). I've come to accept that this probably isn't going to be the perfect little mommy blog, and that's okay. I'm just not that kind of blogger. I don't have time for that...and I'd rather keep the memory keeping to something like Instagram. It gets done that way, and I'm a huge proponent of "done is best" sometimes. :)

A few years ago, I wrote a "Mission Statement" as a part of an art therapy assignment. While looking through files on my computer, I came across the document again and it made me start thinking about picking up blogging again. I love being a wife and mom, but sometimes I need to dig a little deeper and search for who I am and what my purpose is in my core inner being. That core purpose has a huge influence on how I wife and how I mother. When that core purpose is lost or forgotten...things start falling apart. I forget how I was made to be a storyteller, made to bear the light of hope found in Christ to a fallen world. So, today, as an act of accountability, I'd like to share some pieces of my Mission Statement.

I will remember, in all things that I do, that I want to guide my life and my decisions with these qualities that I value most:Sobriety, Courage, and Love.
I know that I am my very best self when...I am sober in my recovery,
I am pursuing a passionate personal relationship with God,
and I am engaged in relationships with others.
I am most at peace and happiest when I spend my personal life:focusing on God more than self,
letting my creativity and imagination flourish,
and when things are in their place.
I will be most at peace and happiest when I spend my work life:loving people,
sharing my story,
offering hope to a fallen world,
and sharing the love of Christ.
I will seek out times when I can use my inborn gifts to:be a storyteller
spread the gospel to others,
and shining my light.
I know that I am meant to:love God and love people.
Nothing else matters.
I will work hard to be known as someone who:is strong,
courageous,
bold,
and brave.

Sometimes I lost track of what is important- those three qualities at the beginning: Sobriety, courage, and love. When I lose track of these things, my life begins to crumble. My recovery becomes shakey and behaviors begin slipping their way into my life. I don't speak up for myself and how I feel and I grow resentful of others. My relationships with both my husband and child begin to fill up with irritation and frustration. I become overwhelmed and the cycle repeats over and over again until I am worn down, tired, laying on the ground in a heap sobbing. I find my place in the place that I swore I'd never be again, struggling the same demons. That isn't to say that remembering the qualities means that life is 100% okie dokie all the time either, but I am much more able to reach out for support and do not become as overwhelmed.

Way back in the Spring of 2013, I blogged at a different space (laurenelizabethadam.blogspot.com if you ever want to know what I was like back in college). I changed the name of my blog to "Finding Free" and I wrote the following explanation for the change. Reading it today was encouraging and frustrating at the same time. There are still so many lessons that I need to learn about true freedom, but I have come so far from where I was back then. 

Be brave. Let Him make you brand new. That's what I want to be right? Brand new? A new creation? But, this is a painful process. It kind of hurts. It hurts to be real and honest. But, secrets don't bring freedom. Secrets bring shame. Secrets bring guilt. Secrets keep us entangled. Secrets keep us in chains, in bondage.They hold us back. They keep us from living...really living! But, being open and real and honest and admitting that we have struggles? That we have strongholds that bind us? That brings freedom.

The new name of this little space on the internet is "Finding Free".The title is inspired by Maya Angelou's "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings". My favorite part of the poem is the last two stanzas:
"But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom."

The truth of the matter is: I feel like I'm that bird standing on the "grave of dreams" with clipped wings and tied feet. I feel like giving up some days. Sometimes the struggle to live and breathe and function seems to be too much work. That's why I entered a treatment program for eating disorders a month ago. For the last four years, in addition to keeping up this blog, I've struggled off and on with anorexia. It's easy to hide things when you feel like your whole life is a secret. It's easier to not let anyone know that you're struggling. But, over the last few months, things hit a breaking point. I wasn't able to hide my secret struggle anymore. I felt so ashamed for living this way. My secret was killing me (literally). So, I finished off a rough last semester to complete my degree, and then I entered a program to help me recover. It's been one of the best decisions I've ever made. Recovery? Is ridiculously hard. But, I'm finding free. And even though I'm not free yet, I'll sing the song of freedom from my cage, because I know that redemption is coming. 

I'm learning to love and trust myself in a way that I never imagined. I'm finding what "free" really means. Life isn't just about growing up, moving out of your parents' house, getting married, buying a house, giving birth to 2.5 babies, and working at a job you hate until you can retire. Life has to be something more. There has to be a purpose for living- a passion behind what you do. I think that when you live life in this manner, it won't matter how the details work out. It won't matter what kind of house you have, when you get married, or how much money you make. It won't matter what color the walls of the foyer are painted or how many smocked dresses your precious baby girl owns. What matters is that you are FREE. Free to be the person that God created you to be. Free to travel, explore, and have adventures wherever life takes you. A life lived "free" is a life without limitations. It's not limited by false ideals of perfection. It's not limited by what other people may think. Finding free means learning to embrace life at it's fullest. It means running with the moment and enjoying what each and every moment brings....the good and the bad. It means shifting your perspective to focus on the positives of the situation, even when everything is falling apart. It means living for today, and letting tomorrow worry about tomorrow. Finding free means running in full pursuit after the coattails of the creator of the universe. It means dancing in the fields of wildflowers... even if they make you sneeze. It means fighting for life with every fiber that you've got. It means clinging to faith when you have nothing left. I may be standing on the "grave of dreams" right now, my voice may waver with a "fearful trill", but it's okay...I'm singing of freedom. As the Beatles' put it in their famed "Blackbird",
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise"
I may be broken. I may be down. But I will rise. I'm finding free.

Maybe the purpose of this blogging drought I've been in is so that I can rediscover the wisdom of old and drink it deeply.

Maybe I was only waiting for this moment to arise.

...to be continued

I Kept Living

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

One of my favorite posts I've ever written on this blog was written on the 10 month anniversary of being clean, being free from the addiction of self harm (you can read it here if you want). I remember being so incredibly proud that I had made it that far, and I remember wondering what it would feel like when I reached a year in recovery from self harm, two years in recovery...

Today marks two years free from self harm.

I am proud of myself and the battle I have fought and won. I am thankful for the incredible support that I have received from my family, most particularly- my husband. He has stood by me through what was literally some of my darkest times- and never ever every given up on me. He consistently models the love of Christ to me. I thought I knew what I was talking about when I said the following in our wedding vows:

You are a breathtaking reflection of God’s heart for me, of how he pursued me and loved me even when I didn’t love myself. You held my hand in the darkness and you pulled me out into the light. You are my life. Because of you, I laugh, smile, and I dare to dream again.

But, over the last year, I've realized over and over and over again how blessed I am by my husband. I struggled mightily with mental health issues during pregnancy, and postpartum hasn't been my best friend. But somehow, someway, T always finds a way to make me laugh and bring me back into the light. He's always stood by me, always supported me...I could go on and on about it, but it would get super cheesy and that's not the purpose of this blog post.

This week is National Suicide Prevention Week. It's quite convenient how it lines up with the darkest times of my life, and the anniversary of freedom from self harm and rebirth. It might get annoying to some of you as the years wear on and I'm still celebrating, but- I don't care. I'm going to scream the message of hope from the rooftops if I have to. There is hope, even when it all seems meaningless and hopeless. There is a reason to keep living, even if all seems lost and life seems crappy and you can't seem to find the escape hatch that you are looking for, but all you see is a dark hole with a big flashy arrow pointing to an abyss full of razors and pills and all sorts of things that scream "at least I might feel something". Here's the thing- there is a life out there for you. The sunshine and brightness might not come right now, it might take a few weeks or months or even years to dig your way out of the darkness and find the sunshine- but go ahead and start digging. You are worth fighting for.

I kept living. At first, I kept living because I was scared. I didn't know how to do "it". I didn't know how to do "it" well, successfully (if you want to call it that). I kept living because I didn't want to hurt the ones I loved. I kept living because I had a tiny bit of hope that there might still be some light out there and I didn't want quit quite yet if there might still be a chance for hope. I kept living for "them".

I keep living. I fight a battle every day with the thoughts in my head. But today, I have a firm grasp on hope and I don't want to let it go. Today, I keep living for "them".

I can't write it any better than I did 14 months ago- so here you go:

Nothing can prepare you for the moment when the person you love discovers your wounds and your scars for the first time. The most horrible, most awful moment in my relationship with T happened when he ran his hand across my leg and found those horrible awful marks, still not completely healed. Having to answer the quiet question of "what happened, honey?" totally gutted me. I felt so teeny tiny at the moment. The first time, I answered something like "I don't really want to talk about it" and he didn't press it. But the next time, he patiently prodded me on to explain this chapter of my story. For the most part, a majority of the scars have faded or blend into my skin. But, there is one section that I fear never will- the section where I carved the word "fat" into my thigh. The scars from these terrible letters haunt me every time I get dressed, every time I see my leg, every time my shorts go up too high, every time I'm lying in bed with my husband and his hand brushes across it. I can't wear a bathing suit without showing the world my scars- literally. They have faded somewhat, but I fear that they will never be completely gone. How will I explain this to my future daughters?

If you are struggling with self harm, please reach out. There is so much more to life than spending your days and nights punishing yourself. It is not worth it- and please, learn from my mistakes so that you don't have scars of your own someday. I don't want you to have that awful experience of explaining to your husband that there was a time when you used to hurt yourself, when you used to carve terrible awful words into your thigh because you believed that you deserved to carry that scarlet letter. You don't have to carry that scarlet letter. Jesus came down and because a man and walked on this Earth and died on the cross so that you didn't have to bear that scarlet letter. He bears it for you. Please reach for healing today? Please reach out for help? Please know that you are not alone in this darkness- Jesus is standing there with open arms, just waiting to embrace you and love you as you are- as messed up and shitty as you might feel that you are. You are never too broken for Him. He redeems. His job is making broken things beautiful. Don't bear your scarlet letter alone.

This year, I have a daughter. I have a daughter that might one day look at her mother and see her scars and ask the questions that I fear she may ask. Honestly, it scares me to death to have that conversation with her. But you know what? I've decided that I will. I will have that conversation with her. I will be honest with her. I fully believe that the scars that we share become lighthouses to others that are headed toward the same rocks that we have hit. 

I will tell her about my struggles, so that maybe someday she will know that even if she has these thoughts- she isn't alone. She is loved. She has hope. I will not hide, I will not be silent, when my daughter's very life could be at stake.

I wake up and fight every day, I keep living- so that she might do the same.

Fighting the "Shoulds" and the "Mommy Docs"

This whole "becoming a mom" thing isn't the easiest of jobs. Being a first time mom, I have so many questions, and I'm a perfectionist- thus, I feel like if I don't do every single thing the exact right way- I'm probably going to screw up my child. I'm constantly second guessing myself. 

Are we feeding her too much? Are we feeding her too little? Is she gaining enough weight? Is she gaining too much weight? I should know this kind of stuff. I'm her mom- this is my job. Hey, what is this? Is this a diaper rash? How often am I supposed to change her diaper anyways? Is this diaper breaking her out? Do we need to buy the expensive diapers? Or maybe we should switch to cloth? Do these diapers still stink? Am I burping her enough? Why is she spitting up so much? Is it something I'm doing? Is this because I chose not to breastfeed? I should have breastfed. She's going to have attachment issues because I didn't love her enough to breastfeed her. I should have worked harder. I should have wanted to breastfeed. What kind of mom plans on formula feeding? When should we start cereal and baby food? Do we wait until four months or six months? I don't want to give my kid a peanut allergy. But, she seems like she wants to eat now. She's only two months old. How do I hold off for four more months? Do we use commercial baby food or make our own? Baby led weaning? I'm supposed to let my kid feed herself? Am I doing tummy time enough? Are we being social enough? Are we raising her to be too introverted? What are we doing? What SHOULD I be doing?

It all begins to get a little overwhelming, and I begin to "should" on myself as a former psychologist I saw would say. The shame spiral begins and I spiral away into the land of things that I think that I "should be doing", that I "would be doing if I was a good mom". I begin to convince myself that I'm terrible horrible mother (which does absolutely no good, by the way). So, then I go to the internet to research and try to find out all of the things that I "should do" to be a "good mom". But, due to the obsessive nature I have, I take all of the writings of the "mommy doctors" super-psycho-seriously and convince myself that I'm an even-more-terrible-horrible mom. I mean, what kind of mom would consider feeding their kid anything but pure breastmilk? That formula stuff is just poison. I'm setting my kid up for a life of obesity and allergies. And...the shame spiral spirals again.

This process just repeats itself over and over again until I just want to be sick. To make things more fun, different sites have different information. Different organizations, different countries- they all recommend different things. Feed your kid this. Don't feed your kid that. Wait until four months to feed your kid. Wait until six months. Wait until they can cook their own filet mignon. Feed your kid rice cereal. Avoid all gluten. Give your kid a PB&J. Start with applesauce. Start with vegetables or your kid won't like them because they taste bad, so they won't ever eat them and they'll only eat sugar and then they'll get ADD/ADHD/Austism and DIE. Do you want a dead kid? I didn't think so. Never ever let them taste the wonderful deliciousness of natural sugars. It just gets exhausting. 

I think I've decided to move on past the mommy doctors, though. They don't have an MD after their name- their only qualification is that they had a kid before me and they think that they know everything. In all honesty, I think I'm moving past a lot of the doctor-doctors as well. They might have an MD after their name, but many of them are fear mongering monsters that are being paid of by organizations to say a certain line of thinking. You can get "research" to prove almost anything these days. When one pediatrics group says research says that you must hold off on solids until six months and then two months later decides that four months is the magical threshold and then decides that it's actually twelve months, I have to question things. I have to question ones' motivation for speaking on the matter.

In the end, I'm Sarah's mommy. T is Sarah's daddy. God gave us brains and we were made to use them. Just because something is right for one child doesn't mean that it is right for all of them. I'm not a bad mom just because I gave Sarah a taste of chocolate froyo when she was six weeks old. Or that lick of a pretzel when she was two weeks old. Or letting her nom on pizza crust just after a month old. Nothing bad happened. She didn't die. In fact, she gave me a pretty cute, gummy smile. She will let us know if she's hungry. She'll scream if we aren't feeding her enough. If we want to give her a taste of something (within reason), we will. If she starts grabbing or reaching for food, we'll start giving her food. We don't need a group of "doctors" or doctors to tell us when to do these things- it's a basic human instinct. When I feel it in my "mommy gut"- I'll know that its the right thing to do. I don't have to feel guilty because we formula feed- it was the best choice for Sarah, and all of the involved parties (myself, T, Sarah's pediatrician, my OB) agreed that it was was needed to happen after she was born. I'm not less of a mom because I don't provide her with milk from my breasts- I give her the food she needs with the nutrients she needs, she's thriving- we are all good! 

Obviously, feeding your kid real poison is bad. Doctor's recommendations need to be taken into consideration. But, here's the deal- doctor's recommendations are just that- recommendations. I'm the mama. Within reason, I get to make these decisions. So make them I will. Don't try to make me feel guilty- as of this moment, I'm not giving the "mommy doctors" that kind of power over me, my happiness, or my child. I'm putting those critical thinking skills, those decision making skills to work and deciding what is best for my child. And if that means formula, so be it. If that means rice cereal, so be it. If it means feeding her tastes of food at two months, so be it. If it means not depriving her of the yummy foods of life, so be it. I'm the mommy. I make the decisions.

Sarah Claire's Birth Story

We had a baby!

Sarah Claire decided to make her entrance into the world about four weeks early, so we've spent the last two weeks snuggling with a cute baby that squeaks and hiccups. I decided it was about time to write out her birth story, but that's where things get interesting. You see, I don't really remember my child's birth thanks to a mixture of preeclampsia and a lovely drug called Magnesium Sulfate (it's not really all that lovely). So, with some help from my husband and looking through pictures that I have no memory of being taken...the birth story.

It all started on a Saturday.

I was having contractions (nothing new about that- I'd been having Braxton Hicks since I was about 6 weeks pregnant) that were starting to pick up in intensity and becoming closer together (about 5 an hour) along with a terrible headache. When I called the birthing center on base where I received my prenatal care, they were a bit worried about the headache, so they told us to come on in and get checked out. While I was there, we ruled out preterm labor, but my blood pressure was on the high side, so I was diagnosed with gestational hypertension and told to come back on Monday for a Non-Stress Test (which come to find out can be pretty stressful).

That Monday, T and I went to base for my NST. We planned on it being a pretty short event- it was supposed to take about 20 minutes, then we would be on our way and I'd hang out on base while T went to class. We joked about the baby deciding to come that day, since it was February 29th and she'd probably like to be dramatic with her entrance. The test went fine, but as I started to get up, I got really dizzy and my headache got worse, so they took me over to Labor and Delivery for observation to see if we could figure things out. We decided it was probably a migraine, probably not preeclampsia, possibly allergies...but they kept me overnight, just in case. I went home, still with a terrible headache that wasn't really controlled by medication, but we thought that the worst of it was over. I was having a bit of anxiety and overwhelmed feelings, so my mom decided that she would come up for a few days and see if a short visit helped these feelings. She got into town on Wednesday night, and that's when things got interesting.

Early Thursday morning, I began experiencing more contractions. I waited a few hours, but they weren't going away, so I decided to wake T and we went in to Labor and Delivery again. I woke my mom and told her that she could just stay home, because I was 99.9% sure that this was a false alarm...but my anxieties just needed to make sure that everything was okay.

It wasn't.

Once again, it wasn't my contractions that were alarming- it was my blood pressure. This time, my blood pressure was in the 160s-180s (we think- I don't actually remember too much from this point onward, so I'm depending on my husband for the details) so I immediately was placed on magnesium, a terrible horrible catheter was inserted (seriously- it was a traumatic experience- it took three people ten minutes to figure out what they were doing), and since I was only 35 weeks 5 days (and shy of the 36 week mark that they require to deliver on base), I was sent downtown to a larger hospital with a NICU. I'm told that I accidentally kicked a full bird colonel when he lightly touched my knee to tell me that it would all be okay and that they'd take great care of me down at Miami Valley- my reflexes were pretty active.

An ambulance ride later (in the snow, of course), we settled in at our new hospital and I was told that not only were they trying to get my blood pressure down- they were also going to start inducing labor and we would not leave the hospital without a baby. I don't think I grasped the seriousness of the situation (and I wouldn't until about a week later when I finally got my wits about me again, got off of magnesium, and talked to my mom about everything). Apparently, I was in the L&D ICU, but I was pretty out of it (as I've mentioned many times). Over the course of three days, I think that we tried just about every single induction method. It was terrible. I felt terrible. Everything hurt and no progress was being made. Finally on Saturday, we started to see little bits of progress and they broke my water. Sometime that day, I got an epidural (which kind of worked, but I still felt things that I wasn't supposed to feel...). I began to get increasingly frustrated and begged for a c-section- I just wanted it to be over, because it was a miserable experience. Over and over again, the doctors and nurses urged me to give it "just a little longer", telling me that a vaginal delivery would be less painful and the recovery would be easier.

And then things began to happen very very fast. 

At one check I was a seven.

Then, things got very very painful and urges to push this baby out right now happened.

Forty minutes after hearing that I was a seven, I was a ten and the baby was coming.

Fifteen minutes and two contractions later at 12:27 AM on March 6th, 2016 (Sunday), our Sarah Claire entered the world.

I was very worried.
Many of the doctors that I had seen had told me that most likely Sarah would be going to the NICU after she was born. She didn't cry as she entered the world and as T would tell you, she looked quite gray and alien-like (I'm sparing you guys the pictures mostly because she's nakkie and I don't think she'd appreciate me showing the internet those things, but also because it's kind of creepy seeing your baby look that drugged up). She was a little slower to "wake up" as I'd been on magnesium for several days, but eventually she gained some color and even scored a 7 on her five minute Apgar. Our 5 lb 11 oz, 36 weeker surprised everyone by not going to the NICU- she actually did much better than her Mommy (who we think hemorrhaged during labor based on blood loss and what the doctors were doing...but I guess I was at a pretty awesome hospital for delivery, because I didn't have to have a blood transfusion and the doctors stayed pretty calm through it all).

 I was kept on magnesium for 24 hours after birth, and then monitored for 24 additional hours to see how my blood pressure did. My mom stayed with me for many of these hours as T was in the midst of finals and final projects (we like to say that Sarah picked the absolute worst week of the semester to come). Even off of the magnesium, I still don't remember much of Sunday or Monday. I was very swollen from all of the fluids, so I was stuck in a hospital gown for much of the time as none of my clothes fit. I remember being weighed on the Sunday morning after I delivered and weighing 189 pounds- I weighed about 180 the week before at my Non-Stress Test- and that was after delivering the baby and all of that jazz. There was that much fluid on me.

Finally, on Tuesday morning, we got to go HOME!

 Of course, the "excitement" doesn't end there.

After one night at home, I was back in the hospital (this time on base). On Wednesday afternoon, I had a blood pressure check (which of course I failed...). Apparently doctors don't like when you are about 4 days postpartum and the upper number is in the 160s and the bottom number is in the 90s-100s. Who knew.

After another night on magnesium (I really really hate that stuff, even if I did kind of save my life) two lasix treatments, and peeing out EIGHT LITERS of fluid overnight...my blood pressure went down (though I'm still on meds for it), I was much much less swollen, and I felt much better (as in, I could walk and wear shoes and pants). We went out to Panera on the way home to celebrate finally being free from the hospital life. As an added bonus, at my next blood pressure check that Friday, not only was my blood pressure good- my weight had decreased to about five pounds short of my prepregnancy weight- yes, apparently fluid can weigh that much.

At two weeks postpartum, I'm feeling pretty good. My mom has gone home, my husband is on break, and my baby girl is pretty awesome (though she'd be more awesome if she'd quit messing up her days and nights). All in all, we are blessed. Things could have gone so much differently- we could be making trips downtown over the break to visit Sarah in the NICU, but instead we get to snuggle her in her arms. Even though preeclampsia wrecked my birth plans and things turned out wildly different than I imagined it would go (and probably scared me off from having any more babies), I survived and didn't suffer too much irreparable damage- my doctor even says I might be off the blood pressure meds by 6 weeks postpartum. Even T got something good out of it all- with all of the waiting at hospitals, he's apparently caught all of the Pokemon- gotta catch em all, I guess. ;)

And that is the story of how Sarah Claire P entered the world. 

(I think)

mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be strippers

Growing up, my parents had always stressed the importance of modesty to me. I remember being in middle/early high school and my father telling me that I could wear shirts that showed my belly if I wanted to, but that he would be accompanying me with a belly shirt, as well. :) That was enough incentive to not challenge the rules too much. I was blessed to have a group of friends that also dressed modestly and covered their bodies, so it was an easy enough thing to follow through with. I also attended a church that placed a high emphasis on the idea that my body was a temple that should be saved for my husband. In general, I dressed in a way that showed respect to myself and others. This carried over into my actions. I was far from perfect, but I knew that if I wanted to respect myself, others, and my God...my actions needed to shine a light towards God and not towards sinful man. There was no booty dancing done by me at my prom. There was no making out in the hallways at school (technically, there was no dating or hand holding or kissing either...but that's just because I was different...I'm not here to try and say that this is the way things SHOULD be, it's just how I did it). There were times that I crossed boundaries, that I disobeyed, that I wore things that were borderline inappropriate. In most of these situations though, I always had someone in my life that was there to call me out on what I was doing and help me get back on the right path.

As I started interning at churches, I began to realize that there was "a whole 'nother world" out there. I had been able to shelter myself from much that was going on, but I began to realize that there were so many groups of girls that did not have the same support systems in terms of modesty and how young ladies ought to act. I realize that times are changing. Please know that I'm not hear to tell you that you shouldn't be dressing in pants or shorts or dresses above your knee. I'm not hear to preach about the dangers of wearing a bikini. I feel that these are personal decisions that should be discussed between a parent and child, and eventually is up to the young woman (as she becomes an adult) to decide what the convictions that God has placed on her heart, and her heart specifically, to follow. I think that we can agree, though, that our precious little ones, that especially our elementary and middle school girls do not need to be encouraged to live life or dress in a way that is "sexy". 

I just don't get it. I don't understand when it became "cute" to encourage a toddler to shake her booty, do the "whip and the nae nae" (WHATEVER those are...I'm not completely sure), all while wearing a bikini that shows up body parts that have not yet developed/should not be shown to others. Can we not see that we are over-sexualizing these young girls, putting thoughts in their young minds that have no place in their minds. We videotape them pretending to dance like they are "all up in the club", posting it on social media, saying "oh this is so cute, I'm saving this to blackmail them with later", not thinking of the fact that we are not just encouraging this behavior further...but we are also flaunting our young girls' bodies in front of an audience of men that DO NOT WANT to be tempted by them...but due to biology, can have a difficult time if they are predisposed to these temptations. 

Mamas, let us love our girls enough to tell them no. Please, let us love them enough to say no to that shirt that it cut too low, for a chest that has nothing to show. Let us love them enough to have hard conversations with them, to explain to them why we don't share our kisses with just anyone, why we don't dance "like that" (and by that, I mean strippers...use your own brain and knowledge of your child to decide how to have THAT conversation). No, you cannot shelter your child from the world. You have to make the hard choice and find out how to have these hard conversations in age-appropriate ways. Trust me- they are going to find out. Wouldn't you rather be the one to tell them the true meaning of these things, the lies of the world....rather than a friend that might be leading them into a life of depravity? Rather than a boy that takes advantage of them, because "he thought she wanted it"? Mamas, love your child enough to not let her unknowingly grow up to be a stripper. Teach her to respect herself, respect her body. Teach her to respect the boys and men around. Teach her to guard her own heart, and to do all she can in her power to guard the hearts of those around her. Teach her the difference between right and wrong. Tell her the facts, so that one day, when she is old enough to make her own decisions, she can make wise, informed ones...so that one day she will have the knowledge to be able to raise her girls to be young ladies that make decisions that bring glory to the Father above. We may not be able to change the world, we might not be able to change the culture on our own, but we can change our families, we can love our girls enough to tell them no.