People will tell you that the first year of marriage is the hardest, but that's a lie.
The first year of marriage is unbelievably awesome. You spend the entire first year not being able to get over how cool it is to say "husband" and "wife". Everything they do is adorable and you can't contemplate how couples will nag each other about tiny little things like leaving dirty socks on the floor. But the truth is that beyond that first year, little, insignificant things will bother you too, no matter how much you try to fight it.
And so, the following is my little, insignificant thing.
I love Josh, I really do. But he is such a relentlessly sunny morning person that so often my very first thought in the morning is, "Must. Kill. Husband" (in case you're not picking up on the obvious here, I am not a relentlessly sunny morning person). He whistles while he shaves and hums while he irons, whereas I need a good 45 minutes and two cups of strong coffee before I can stammer out a coherent sentence.The most annoying part is that I pretty much have to suck it up and deal with it, because what could I possibly say? "Stop being so cheerful"? or "Knock it off with the good mood!"? I'm the grumpy one! He should be annoyed with me! He's not, of course, but then how can he be annoyed when he's practically spinning around our room being dressed by songbirds like a Disney princess? Josh, however, claims he's not really that much of a morning person. He says he's not a morning person, he just "see's every morning as a new possibility".
Gaaaaah.
If you're thinking right about now that I should find something legitimate to complain about, you're not alone; I think so too. We have our pointless little fights and sometimes more meaningful fights just like every couple I know, but at the end of the day, Josh could teach a class in what it means to be a great husband. Especially considering the fact that he's a great husband to the great big old mess that is his wife. I recently read a hilarious quote (and I'm sorry to say I don't remember who said it, so let's all hope I don't get sued for repeating it uncredited!) that said "I don't have to smoke weed to eat an entire box of Triscits and worry about whether or not people like me", which I feel sums me up pretty well. And Josh just rolls with it. And I complain about him being a morning person. Anyone feel sorry for Josh yet?
The point is that no matter how much you love someone, they're not above annoying you, whether your annoyance is legitimate or not. Right now, I can admit that the fact that Josh is a morning person is actually pretty admirable and even a little sweet. But it's nighttime right now. When the alarm goes off in the morning, I'm sure I'll feel differently.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
(Please Don't) Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman
A friend of mine recently wrote a really great blog about childbirth and what people consider "right" and "wrong". It got me thinking and I thought I'd throw my two cents in.
In my limited birthing experience of two, I had one child completely drug-free and the other completely drug-full, and the differences between the two experiences are incalculable. When I was pregnant with Layla I read all the books just like everyone else, and decided that I wanted to have a completely drug-free experience. The idea of bringing my baby into the world in a calm, chemical-free manor was hugely appealing to me. But here's the thing: There's an enormous difference between theory and actuality, and about forty-five seconds into the very real pain of labor, I changed my mind. I wanted drugs, lots of them, preferably waiting in the parking lot for me when I got to the hospital. Only, when I got to the hospital, I was initially refused drugs because my "birth plan" indicated that I wanted a natural childbirth. By the time I finally convinced the doctors that I was out of my mind when I settled on my birth plan, it was too late and I had to forgo a natural childbirth whether I wanted it or not. I'll spare you all the gory details, but because Layla was a huge baby (9 lbs 12 oz) the birth was not only hard on me, but it was hard on her too, and involved the aid of both a vacuum and forceps just to get her out. My "calm, chemical-free birth" quickly turned into an agonizingly painful experience for both me and my child.
Ben was a different story entirely. I made it clear from day one that I wanted an epidural and that under no circumstances was my child going to be forcibly sucked out of me. Despite the fact that he was also a big baby (8 lbs 12 oz), my experience with Ben was the calm, drama-free birth I had hoped for with Layla. It's amazing the difference that giant needle in your spine can make.
Amazingly, in spite of my horrible experience with Layla, I was credited endlessly for having a natural child birth. I was told I was "brave" and "selfless" and that I had "given my baby what was best". I've never seen those comments as anything other than a total load of crap. I'm not trying to knock natural childbirth at all, but the fact that everyone told me that that was "the right way" and having drugs with Ben was "the wrong way" has always irritated me. Who decides these things?!
"Natural" is such a buzz word. If it's "natural" then it has to be good, right? No! Layla and I both suffered an unecessarily painful experience because "modern medicine hasn't been around forever and women used to just squat behind their wagons to give birth". Yes, they did, and up until the early 1900s, 40% of women died during child birth (seriously, google it), but no one ever mentions that fact in squatting-behind-the-wagon theory. Yes, modern medicine has pumped out its fair share of lemons, but it has also had some amazing advances and personally, I'm sick of hearing nothing but bad about it (I'm not even touching the vaccination issue, that's a whole other tangent that I could easily devote an entire blog to). Think of it this way; if someone told you that you could cure chronic back pain, or cancer, or diabetes by having a single shot in your spine, would you do it? I'm willing to bet that your first instinct would be yes, right? But then this group would come out with a study that says it's bad, and another group would say it's selfish and immoral, and it would be likely that you would seriously question the shot, no matter how credible (or incredible) the studies and theories are.
It's the same with epidurals. Women of the world: it is NOT selfish to have an epidural! It is selfish to put your child and yourself through something that your body can't handle, just because are told that it is the "right" way. There is no right or wrong way. No one is keeping track, or grading you, or handing out brownie points. If you choose to go the natural route, my completely unprofessional and unsolicited advice is to know your body and do your research. Don't do it because society, or your doctor, or your friends are whispering in your ear and if you change your mind, speak up, because those birth plans are practically set in stone. If you go the epidural route, don't let anyone tell you that what you're doing is wrong. At the end of the day, it is your body and your baby and you know what's best for both of them.
I'll leave you with this: as much as you parent with your heart, you also parent with your gut instincts. Listen to them. The only person who knows what's right or wrong for you is you.
If you'd like to read the blog that inspired me, please visit my friend Megan Lewis' blog at Livingthelewislifestyle.blogspot.com.
In my limited birthing experience of two, I had one child completely drug-free and the other completely drug-full, and the differences between the two experiences are incalculable. When I was pregnant with Layla I read all the books just like everyone else, and decided that I wanted to have a completely drug-free experience. The idea of bringing my baby into the world in a calm, chemical-free manor was hugely appealing to me. But here's the thing: There's an enormous difference between theory and actuality, and about forty-five seconds into the very real pain of labor, I changed my mind. I wanted drugs, lots of them, preferably waiting in the parking lot for me when I got to the hospital. Only, when I got to the hospital, I was initially refused drugs because my "birth plan" indicated that I wanted a natural childbirth. By the time I finally convinced the doctors that I was out of my mind when I settled on my birth plan, it was too late and I had to forgo a natural childbirth whether I wanted it or not. I'll spare you all the gory details, but because Layla was a huge baby (9 lbs 12 oz) the birth was not only hard on me, but it was hard on her too, and involved the aid of both a vacuum and forceps just to get her out. My "calm, chemical-free birth" quickly turned into an agonizingly painful experience for both me and my child.
Ben was a different story entirely. I made it clear from day one that I wanted an epidural and that under no circumstances was my child going to be forcibly sucked out of me. Despite the fact that he was also a big baby (8 lbs 12 oz), my experience with Ben was the calm, drama-free birth I had hoped for with Layla. It's amazing the difference that giant needle in your spine can make.
Amazingly, in spite of my horrible experience with Layla, I was credited endlessly for having a natural child birth. I was told I was "brave" and "selfless" and that I had "given my baby what was best". I've never seen those comments as anything other than a total load of crap. I'm not trying to knock natural childbirth at all, but the fact that everyone told me that that was "the right way" and having drugs with Ben was "the wrong way" has always irritated me. Who decides these things?!
"Natural" is such a buzz word. If it's "natural" then it has to be good, right? No! Layla and I both suffered an unecessarily painful experience because "modern medicine hasn't been around forever and women used to just squat behind their wagons to give birth". Yes, they did, and up until the early 1900s, 40% of women died during child birth (seriously, google it), but no one ever mentions that fact in squatting-behind-the-wagon theory. Yes, modern medicine has pumped out its fair share of lemons, but it has also had some amazing advances and personally, I'm sick of hearing nothing but bad about it (I'm not even touching the vaccination issue, that's a whole other tangent that I could easily devote an entire blog to). Think of it this way; if someone told you that you could cure chronic back pain, or cancer, or diabetes by having a single shot in your spine, would you do it? I'm willing to bet that your first instinct would be yes, right? But then this group would come out with a study that says it's bad, and another group would say it's selfish and immoral, and it would be likely that you would seriously question the shot, no matter how credible (or incredible) the studies and theories are.
It's the same with epidurals. Women of the world: it is NOT selfish to have an epidural! It is selfish to put your child and yourself through something that your body can't handle, just because are told that it is the "right" way. There is no right or wrong way. No one is keeping track, or grading you, or handing out brownie points. If you choose to go the natural route, my completely unprofessional and unsolicited advice is to know your body and do your research. Don't do it because society, or your doctor, or your friends are whispering in your ear and if you change your mind, speak up, because those birth plans are practically set in stone. If you go the epidural route, don't let anyone tell you that what you're doing is wrong. At the end of the day, it is your body and your baby and you know what's best for both of them.
I'll leave you with this: as much as you parent with your heart, you also parent with your gut instincts. Listen to them. The only person who knows what's right or wrong for you is you.
If you'd like to read the blog that inspired me, please visit my friend Megan Lewis' blog at Livingthelewislifestyle.blogspot.com.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End
I've spent the last few days in a fog.
Tuesday was the private family viewing for my dad and it was emotional, to say the least. I decided that it would be better if I went rather than if I didn't and despite everything, I'm glad I made the decision. To be honest, driving there I almost turned around a few times. My hands felt numb on the steering wheel and my heart pounded so loud in my chest I was convinced people in other cars could hear it, but in the end, I sucked it up and made it there. Don't ask me why, but for some reason I had assumed that getting up the nerve to go would be the hardest part and it would all be downhill from there.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
My mistake was assuming that because I hadn't seen my dad in twenty years, seeing him like this would be easier because I didn't really remember what he looked like.Walking into the room, my eyes landed on the man lying there and I immediately felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. Because while I technically hadn't seen this person in two decades, he looked like two of the people I love the most in the world and see every day; my brother and my son. It suddenly felt like all of the air had been sucked out of that tiny room. I couldn't stop staring at him. I don't know why I wasn't expecting to see a resemblance, but I wasn't, and especially not such a strong one. It took every ounce of self-restraint that I posses not to turn around and walk out the door.
On top of this, I learned a few things that day. My dad was a Cowboys fan, liked Hawaiian shirts, and apparently wasn't half the douche bag I had assumed he was, at least not in the later part of his life. In fact, everyone there thought he was a pretty great guy, and everyone was eager to go on and on about it, which was hard to swallow. The service was emotional and confusing and made me cry more than I have in the last year, and there are no words to express how glad I was when it was over.
But there is a silver lining; I have a little half-brother. His name is Josh (ironically) and he looks a lot like my other brother (which is weird to say...) only half Filipino. He's fifteen, funny and sweet and, despite all of the crap that's been going through my head, I liked him immediately. His memories of our dad contrast mine so sharply that I've found myself stopping to wonder if we are talking about the same person. In a way, I'm jealous that he has good memories, but then I stop and remind myself that he lost a dad too, a real dad, and I remember that that's nothing to be jealous of.
For the first few days after the service, I found myself feeling extra snappy and irritated. I went out to get something from our storage and when a box fell I kicked it back into place much longer and harder than necessary. I was angry. I found myself thinking constantly of how someone who could be so awful to me could turn around and get it right the second time. I don't know if I'll ever get over that hurt but the difference between now and a week ago is that I think it's okay if I don't. Also, I've found myself talking about my dad more now that I ever have. I used to feel like him leaving was something I should be ashamed of, but I know for certain now that it's not. And I've discovered that I'm not the only one in this situation, I just never knew because I never really let anyone in on that part of my life. Everyone has been so amazingly supportive.
Above all, I'm more grateful than ever for my big brother Mike. No matter how many blogs I write or stories I tell, no one will ever truly understand this as well as the person who was by my side living through it with me. And I'm grateful to my new little brother Josh too. Not only is he able to tie the bridge between past and present together, he will be a constant reminder that every cloud really does have a silver lining and that when God closes a window, He really does open up a door. I don't have a compartment in my brain or heart yet for the life and passing of my dad, but I already have a place for my new brother. No matter how terrible the circumstances may be, it's comforting to remember that every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.
Tuesday was the private family viewing for my dad and it was emotional, to say the least. I decided that it would be better if I went rather than if I didn't and despite everything, I'm glad I made the decision. To be honest, driving there I almost turned around a few times. My hands felt numb on the steering wheel and my heart pounded so loud in my chest I was convinced people in other cars could hear it, but in the end, I sucked it up and made it there. Don't ask me why, but for some reason I had assumed that getting up the nerve to go would be the hardest part and it would all be downhill from there.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
My mistake was assuming that because I hadn't seen my dad in twenty years, seeing him like this would be easier because I didn't really remember what he looked like.Walking into the room, my eyes landed on the man lying there and I immediately felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. Because while I technically hadn't seen this person in two decades, he looked like two of the people I love the most in the world and see every day; my brother and my son. It suddenly felt like all of the air had been sucked out of that tiny room. I couldn't stop staring at him. I don't know why I wasn't expecting to see a resemblance, but I wasn't, and especially not such a strong one. It took every ounce of self-restraint that I posses not to turn around and walk out the door.
On top of this, I learned a few things that day. My dad was a Cowboys fan, liked Hawaiian shirts, and apparently wasn't half the douche bag I had assumed he was, at least not in the later part of his life. In fact, everyone there thought he was a pretty great guy, and everyone was eager to go on and on about it, which was hard to swallow. The service was emotional and confusing and made me cry more than I have in the last year, and there are no words to express how glad I was when it was over.
But there is a silver lining; I have a little half-brother. His name is Josh (ironically) and he looks a lot like my other brother (which is weird to say...) only half Filipino. He's fifteen, funny and sweet and, despite all of the crap that's been going through my head, I liked him immediately. His memories of our dad contrast mine so sharply that I've found myself stopping to wonder if we are talking about the same person. In a way, I'm jealous that he has good memories, but then I stop and remind myself that he lost a dad too, a real dad, and I remember that that's nothing to be jealous of.
For the first few days after the service, I found myself feeling extra snappy and irritated. I went out to get something from our storage and when a box fell I kicked it back into place much longer and harder than necessary. I was angry. I found myself thinking constantly of how someone who could be so awful to me could turn around and get it right the second time. I don't know if I'll ever get over that hurt but the difference between now and a week ago is that I think it's okay if I don't. Also, I've found myself talking about my dad more now that I ever have. I used to feel like him leaving was something I should be ashamed of, but I know for certain now that it's not. And I've discovered that I'm not the only one in this situation, I just never knew because I never really let anyone in on that part of my life. Everyone has been so amazingly supportive.
Above all, I'm more grateful than ever for my big brother Mike. No matter how many blogs I write or stories I tell, no one will ever truly understand this as well as the person who was by my side living through it with me. And I'm grateful to my new little brother Josh too. Not only is he able to tie the bridge between past and present together, he will be a constant reminder that every cloud really does have a silver lining and that when God closes a window, He really does open up a door. I don't have a compartment in my brain or heart yet for the life and passing of my dad, but I already have a place for my new brother. No matter how terrible the circumstances may be, it's comforting to remember that every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
I'm So Ugly, That's Okay Cause So Are You
This has been a really weird week. Layla started school and Ben started potty-training and I had a blog that was full of "Oh no, he/she didn't!" anecdotes typed up and ready to go. And then my dad died.
I should back up a bit.
The truth is, I debated about whether or not I should even blog about this, but I thought maybe writing about it might make me feel better, so here goes. I haven't seen my dad in over twenty years. He and my mom split up when I was about Layla's age and I stopped seeing him altogether shortly thereafter. It's a long story, and unfortunately, not an uncommon one. My dad was an educated, charming, personable guy who had a great life, but decided to throw it all away for various stupid reasons, primarily some serious drug and alcohol addictions. So serious that his parental rights were taken away and he wasn't allowed to see or speak to my brother or me for many years. In fact, I didn't hear from him at all until about three years ago, and even then it was through my brother who he had also contacted. My brother chose to see him and try to rebuild some kind of relationship, I chose not to.
Words really can't express how much I struggled with whether or not to establish any kind of relationship with my dad. Partly, it was because of my mom. She never forbid us to contact him or anything ridiculous like that (although now that I'm a mom myself, I can see why someone would) but I feel a loyalty to my mom. She raised us by herself, which I know wasn't the way she envisioned it when she had children. But that's the thing about having kids; it's about sucking it up and doing what's right for your them, not bailing. But like I said, that was only part of the reason.
The main part is that I've spent twenty years of my life wondering where this person was and why his family wasn't important enough to him. He missed everything, birthdays, my high school graduation, my wedding, the birth of my children, everything, every single moment big or small. And the worst part of it all is that I lived so many years of my life thinking that all of that was somehow my fault. I had people around me to tell me that it wasn't, but the only person I would have ever believed it from was the person who left, and he wasn't looking to give me any answers. To top it off, I had really only recently made my final decision not to see him. We were at the wedding of a good friend of ours and at the reception her dad stood up and gave a speech about his daughter before the traditional father/daughter dance. I sat there watching the lovely moment between them and I couldn't help but think that that should have been me too. That should be every daughter. And it turns out that it's not very easy to forgive someone who hurts you in a way that no one or nothing can ever heal. So I chose not to see him and more importantly, I chose not to forgive him.
And then, exactly one month after I made that final decision, my brother called with the news that our dad had died. I didn't know what to do or how to feel. My book club was that night and instead of postponing, I went. And instead of saying something about it to some of the most supportive people I know, I stayed silent. I couldn't talk about it because I didn't know what to say, and I didn't know what to say because I wasn't exactly sure what it was I was feeling.
The thing is, it's hard to lose something that you never really had. The flip side of that is that I could have had whatever it was my dad was willing to give and I chose not to, because it felt like too little too late. It was when this thought kicked in that the full implications of my dad's death kicked in as well. Deciding somewhere down the road that I wanted to talk to my dad was no longer an option. I spent so much of my life thinking he was a terrible person for not wanting to be with us and yet when given the option myself, I turned my back. Some might call it a "taste of his own medicine", but it feels a lot more like "two wrongs don't make a right" to me. No one said I had to forgive him, but I could have heard him out. Does doing the same thing make me just as bad? Because isn't life about forgiving others who have done you wrong or, conversely, are there things that are truly unforgivable?
Either way, I can't fight the overwhelming feeling of guilt. Guilt that I may or may not have made decisions too hastily and guilt that I was able to continue with my day on Saturday at all. Somewhere in a dark corner of the back of my mind, the thought floating around is that if my father-in-law had passed away instead, I would be inconsolable. Forget about the book club being postponed, it would have been cancelled indefinitely. And as much as I love my father-in-law, that thought doesn't make me feel so great.
You only get one dad. And no matter what conclusion I come to with all of this, that thought will always haunt me.
I should back up a bit.
The truth is, I debated about whether or not I should even blog about this, but I thought maybe writing about it might make me feel better, so here goes. I haven't seen my dad in over twenty years. He and my mom split up when I was about Layla's age and I stopped seeing him altogether shortly thereafter. It's a long story, and unfortunately, not an uncommon one. My dad was an educated, charming, personable guy who had a great life, but decided to throw it all away for various stupid reasons, primarily some serious drug and alcohol addictions. So serious that his parental rights were taken away and he wasn't allowed to see or speak to my brother or me for many years. In fact, I didn't hear from him at all until about three years ago, and even then it was through my brother who he had also contacted. My brother chose to see him and try to rebuild some kind of relationship, I chose not to.
Words really can't express how much I struggled with whether or not to establish any kind of relationship with my dad. Partly, it was because of my mom. She never forbid us to contact him or anything ridiculous like that (although now that I'm a mom myself, I can see why someone would) but I feel a loyalty to my mom. She raised us by herself, which I know wasn't the way she envisioned it when she had children. But that's the thing about having kids; it's about sucking it up and doing what's right for your them, not bailing. But like I said, that was only part of the reason.
The main part is that I've spent twenty years of my life wondering where this person was and why his family wasn't important enough to him. He missed everything, birthdays, my high school graduation, my wedding, the birth of my children, everything, every single moment big or small. And the worst part of it all is that I lived so many years of my life thinking that all of that was somehow my fault. I had people around me to tell me that it wasn't, but the only person I would have ever believed it from was the person who left, and he wasn't looking to give me any answers. To top it off, I had really only recently made my final decision not to see him. We were at the wedding of a good friend of ours and at the reception her dad stood up and gave a speech about his daughter before the traditional father/daughter dance. I sat there watching the lovely moment between them and I couldn't help but think that that should have been me too. That should be every daughter. And it turns out that it's not very easy to forgive someone who hurts you in a way that no one or nothing can ever heal. So I chose not to see him and more importantly, I chose not to forgive him.
And then, exactly one month after I made that final decision, my brother called with the news that our dad had died. I didn't know what to do or how to feel. My book club was that night and instead of postponing, I went. And instead of saying something about it to some of the most supportive people I know, I stayed silent. I couldn't talk about it because I didn't know what to say, and I didn't know what to say because I wasn't exactly sure what it was I was feeling.
The thing is, it's hard to lose something that you never really had. The flip side of that is that I could have had whatever it was my dad was willing to give and I chose not to, because it felt like too little too late. It was when this thought kicked in that the full implications of my dad's death kicked in as well. Deciding somewhere down the road that I wanted to talk to my dad was no longer an option. I spent so much of my life thinking he was a terrible person for not wanting to be with us and yet when given the option myself, I turned my back. Some might call it a "taste of his own medicine", but it feels a lot more like "two wrongs don't make a right" to me. No one said I had to forgive him, but I could have heard him out. Does doing the same thing make me just as bad? Because isn't life about forgiving others who have done you wrong or, conversely, are there things that are truly unforgivable?
Either way, I can't fight the overwhelming feeling of guilt. Guilt that I may or may not have made decisions too hastily and guilt that I was able to continue with my day on Saturday at all. Somewhere in a dark corner of the back of my mind, the thought floating around is that if my father-in-law had passed away instead, I would be inconsolable. Forget about the book club being postponed, it would have been cancelled indefinitely. And as much as I love my father-in-law, that thought doesn't make me feel so great.
You only get one dad. And no matter what conclusion I come to with all of this, that thought will always haunt me.
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