this mother

There's been a trend I've noticed, going around FB.  At least on my FB feed.  There have been really well written articles/blog posts from moms - and dads - that basically say, "Parenting young kids is really hard.  We love them, but it is so hard.  Don't be judgemental, don't tell me to enjoy every second, don't tell me this time when they're young is precious and don't tell me these years will go by in a blink."

As I said, these articles are really well written.  They're humorous, they're TRUE, they're validating and they resonate with moms and dads everywhere that are in the thick of it - the years when little ones are little.

But I'm standing from a different viewpoint.  My view is of two big brown eyed girls that with every week seem to somehow grow taller.  My view looking down is of a girl who loves to snuggle me, and thank God still does, but her legs stretch long and hit the floor as she tries to curl up on me.  We cling to each other, desperate to make the snuggle work, but uncurl arms and legs after only a few minutes because the puzzle pieces have changed.  I stand, suggesting we lay on her bed instead and though she still asks to be carried, I make her walk or get on my back because I just can't lift her.  Reading books we now sit side by side and most often, I am read to instead.  I remember like yesterday picking them up in Sunday school and although we had only been apart an hour, they'd run to me yelling "Mommy!" and jump in my arms.  I marveled at their joy of simply seeing me, and noticed that many children didn't scream, jump and run.  They rarely do anymore - now they ask for a few more minutes and then take off with friends.

They are still young.  They still wave to me from their seats on the bus in the morning, Tate blowing kisses and signing "I love you."  They still love tuck-ins, back scratches as they watch a movie, going to playgrounds and the pool together, playing a game on the floor.  They still color me pictures and leave me lovenotes.  They are still young, they are still young.  I tell myself this all the time.

Perhaps if we hadn't lost a baby last year I'd feel a bit differently.  But as my view is changing, I can't help but feel my heart break a little as these young years wane.   I can't explain exactly why, because YES I do remember how difficult those years were.  I remember peeing with a child on my lap.  I remember peeing without a child on my lap, only to emerge from the bathroom and find that one of them had gotten into my food coloring and emptied all tubes on herself and my kitchen.  I remember vaccines, doctor appointments, "I wish I knew what is wrong!"  I remember wanting to choke the Wiggles and yet thank them for entertaining my girls so I could clean, I remember my house never being clean, I remember feeling trapped within my house that we couldn't afford to do a thing to because I stayed home.  I remembering begging God to PLEASE have her STOP CRYING, I remember begging God for sleep, I remember begging God that they wouldn't cry at MOPS so I could have a hot breakfast and talk with friends without kids climbing up my legs.   I remember begging God that we could make it through the day.  I remember.

But...I also remember little voices and little hands.  Their trust in me, and that I was their world.   I remember how it feels to nurse a baby and have them look up at you as they pull on your hair or squeeze your fingers.  I remember story time at the library and Barnes and Noble.  I remember standing at the bottom of the slide feeling such pride as the big girl (oh but so little and I didn't know it!) made her way down without her sister for the first time.  I remember play dates and long phone calls with friends to help me make it through just a few more hours until Daddy gets home.  I remember bouncing with a baby in a sunbonnet in the pool as she splashed her dimpled hands in the water, screeching with joy.   I remember Bailey's phase of calling everyone "honey" or "sweetie" and how she'd hug and kiss everything, even garbage cans.  I remember our first ride through Small World and that we had to ride it what felt like 10 times in a row every day while there in Disney.  I remember Tate on Kevin's shoulders and Bailey on Poppy's as they saw fireworks above Cinderella's castle.  I remember their awe, and it was pure magic just like the Disney commercials say.  I remember.

If there's one thing I've learned from being a mother is that it's complicated.  Just when you get the hang of one thing, something else pops up.  You can feel 10 different ways all at once.  Yes, I remember those hard years and there are things I don't miss about them.  But so many things I do miss.  I am so thankful my girls are growing, and truly very healthy considering Bailey's CF.  But as I checked on them last night, both long in their beds, I wished to go back, just for a minute.  I do wish I had done some things different.  Played more on the floor, counted to ten before becoming unglued, cuddling for longer before sprinting out to my spot on the couch next to Kevin to watch television that didn't feature theme songs I couldn't get out of my head for days.


You see, it's all true.  The articles that are loved by preschool parents everywhere, in agreement that these years are so hard and do not tell me I will miss this or I will hurt your face.    

But I do miss this.

EVEN THIS.

She needed me to hold her.  She still needs me, but not like this.

So I guess what I'm saying is, forgive me and don't hurt my face when I look longingly at you as you hold a preschooler by the hand, even as she's trying to run the other way and you're also trying to juggle holding a diaper bag and a crying infant.  Yes, I'm jealous of you even still.  And I get that you're jealous of me, with my ability to earn some money again, have hot coffee and have time to myself.  I get it.  

So perhaps, I will try to remember harder how it feels to be sleep deprived, hungry for food not eaten over the sink, and thirsty for friendship that is unconditional.  If you will try to remember that these years are precious, and they are a gift.  Some women would give their right arm to be in your shoes.  

Motherhood is hard.  

The End.

Happy Mother's Day.

hard won

If you know me, or know my kid Taylor, or used to read my blog back when...you know my 2nd daughter - aka Tater Tot or Tate - has SPD.  Sensory Processing Disorder.  She is 7, and was diagnosed at 3 years old after 3 years of WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS KID?!  Seriously - an ENT, allergist, x-ray, numerous doctors and therapists didn't know.  Some said nothing, some said autism (including one psychiatrist), some said she was just a mad girl...but mama knew.  I knew she had something wrong, but everything that we were told just wasn't "it." After a free seminar about sensory disorders, BAM, here we go.  I found the seminar, at Sensational Kids right here in Marlton, after googling "behavioral help for toddlers."  I listened to a woman describe kids that were just like Taylor and as I cried tears of gratitude that "it" had a name, I remember feeling overwhelmed, scared, thankful, sad.  All I wanted was for my kid to be happy and healthy.  I wanted her to have friends, be kind and gentle hearted, love God and serve others.  I wanted her to marry and have children and let me babysit and sometimes we could leave the kids with their dad and go shopping.  Sitting at that seminar, I didn't get that far ahead but I felt like my heart - which had been hanging in limbo kind of waiting for her to snap out of it I guess - broke a little.  I wondered what this meant for Taylor.

If you're not following along because of the million different emotions I was feeling at one time - well, what can I say.  I'm a woman and I'm a mother.  Welcome to complicated.

Anyway, fast forward through 2 years of special education preschool, private therapy and therapy in school, fast forward through special ed kindergarten and an inclusion class for first grade, fast forward through teachers and therapists that I will forever be indebted to and love, fast forward through a sensory "diet", hours of prayer and teaching Taylor "the long way" how to love others and be compassionate, patient and sweet...fast forward and here we are.

She rocks my world, friends.  Rocks it.  If you know her, you know what I mean.  If you don't know her, you're missing something amazing.

Last night as I tucked Taylor in - which used to involve brushing her body with a special brush to desensitize her and singing her no less than 11 lullabies (seriously, in the same order every time) to calm her  - my baby, my Tater Tot, clutched my arm and said, "You're a good mother" as she looked into my eyes.

Today, at the aquarium for a class trip (which previously she would have been totally stressed over with the noise, smell, different routine etc) she skipped with the other kids and held her best friend's hand.  She ate at the table and offered to share.

These moments are hard won.  These moments are precious.

These moments make the other moments - and of course there are still the OTHER moments - worth it.

cutting comparisons

I don't know about you, but I tend to compare myself to others, I would say daily.  Perhaps several times a day.  It may be as early as seeing my husband run down the street as I sip my coffee, wondering if I'll ever get myself out there like that.  Or maybe as I pack my kids lunches, staring down at the cheese stick, yogurt and sandwich, thinking of my good friend who packs lunches full of veggies and fruits and creative things like turkey pinwheels with sprouts of some sort.

As my day continues, I'll see women who are thin and fit, well dressed, hair done and makeup beautifully applied.  And no, these women aren't on tv, they are at school and church.

At work as I take notes long hand, again I lament that I will do my report later on my husband's computer, as we have not yet had the money for me to buy my desired Ipad.  As I drive home from work, I will perhaps notice the well-kept lawns and bigger, beautiful homes.

Ten minutes after my kids get home from school, maybe I will yell that I WILL CHOOSE THE SNACK AND SHOW SINCE THEY CAN'T AGREE ON ANYTHING, and my mind will flash with a picture of a mom I know, who abhors yelling and as far as I know, has never done it.

I put dinner on the table for my girls, waiting to eat until later with Kevin.  I am reminded that eating at the table as a family is best, and I sigh.  I sigh again, as my children beg me to not make them eat the gross, smelly, disgusting singular carrot or broccoli spear on their plate.

As I lay my head on my pillow, whispering a note of thanks to God for a day with our needs met, love in our hearts and continued health, I say my prayer with a feeling of guilt that I did not give more of my day to Him.  I think on the author of the book study I am currently behind in, and remember her words of encouragement to spend time everyday reading the Word and in prayer.  I remember her sharing how she gave up tv, as she felt it kept her from time with the Lord and distracted her.  I turn on King of Queens and fall asleep.

Yes, I compare myself to others all-the-time.  Try as I might to silence that pesky voice in my head, without me even realizing it, I know she pipes up every day.  "You're so fat, look at how pretty your friend is."  "Going to the store for produce with pesticides while so-and-so grows her own AND her family eats all of it without complaining that it's gross and disgusting." "They have such a nice marriage..."

But.  Someone may be comparing herself or family to me.  What?!  But it's true.  And you, my friend, do you compare yourself to others too?  I can guarantee someone is also thinking parts of your grass are greener.  Maybe not the whole yard, but the nice garden in the corner, or your lovely tree out back.

I am not perfect, nor will I ever be.  Even if I do tackle some of my challenges and my own grass gets a little greener, there will always be some dead patches.

Today I am grateful for who I am, what I have, and my little yard that needs a lot of work.  Because it's mine and was given to me.

Look at your own yard through sharper glasses my friends.  Chances are you have lovely, thriving trees  that your neighbor wishes they had.  Like me.  I could really use a dogwood tree and a veggie garden.

Ah, but no child in this house would eat anything from it.  I'll stick with my dandelions.

one year later

As I write this I am watching "The Talk" on daytime tv to kind of take my mind off of my emotions.  However, the guest on the show is a woman dying of cancer, so there goes that, I'm crying anyway.

One year ago we lost our baby, and because I wrote a few posts about what that experience was like I thought I'd update.  2012 SUCKED.  There's no other way to put it.  Not just because of losing the baby, but other things happened as well.  The year went out with a bang, my mom breaking her leg and then having Hurricane Sandy rip through her house and neighborhood.  So much stress permeated our every-day.  We tried to keep humming because of the children, and I think that if we did not have our 2 sweet girls, we'd be in a much worse place right now.  The girls made us not just keep getting out of bed in the morning, but forced us to find joy wherever we could.  On New Years I don't think I've ever been more excited for the calendar to flip.  2013 is proving to be much, much better.

On April 12, 2012 - Kevin's birthday - we found out the baby had died.  I had gone to the doctor because of severe cramping and spotting.  I miscarried naturally over the next four days and April 16 to me is the date I will keep in my heart as the day our precious surprise baby left us.  I don't want to always affiliate Kevin's birthday with such a sad day in our family.  Although I guess I always will.  On April 16 I was home alone, and I wanted to be alone.  Kevin didn't know whether or not to work but time is money and I was tired of the sad look everyone was giving me.  I was thankful for the empathy and love, but tired of the sadness.

The cramps had mostly subsided by that day, and I thought the miscarriage was over and now I would just bleed.  I thought the worst of it had happened 2 days before.  But the cramps came back with a vengeance and I felt an urge to push and I knew then it was finally really over.   I sat in my bathroom and cried my eyes out.  It is traumatic to be sure, seeing what only looks like huge clots of blood in the toilet and wonder if you should take it out and try to look for your baby.  Perhaps you winced at that sentence, but I am telling it like it is folks.  I decided not to have a D&C, and a few times I have regretted it.  One reason is sometimes I wish I could have known what caused this - did the baby have something wrong?  But then at times I am glad I don't know, for if they found nothing wrong I surely would blame myself, more than I already do.  Also sometimes I wish we could know if it was a boy or girl - even though we call the baby "Baby Collin" and believe it was a boy.  Sometimes I'm so thankful I don't know.  Also, that memory for me of finally flushing that toilet revisits me often and it can make me shake with grief...sometimes I wish I didn't have that memory.

But I do, and here I am a year later and I am really doing ok.  I still cry, my girls still cry, Kevin still cries.  It is painful to hold babies, it is painful to think about how old our baby would be, it is painful taking pictures of our family because I feel like one is missing.  But life is still good.  My girls bring me so much joy, it is impossible to convey how thankful for them I am.  My relationship with Kevin, while going through our first very difficult season of marriage last year, has improved and I am once again taking deep joy in our time together.  We laugh a lot, and I am so SO happy to have the laughter back.  I am also happy to have chosen to return to God, for I left His side for a while. But as God does, He followed me and kept tapping me on the shoulder until I turned around.

One foot in front of the other.  I will always look back on those weeks that we were expecting our third baby fondly.  I will also always look back with deep pain.  Several months ago a wise friend told me that I will always have grief, because I love our baby, and the baby is a part of me that is gone.  And so I will grieve, because I will always miss what I love, that is not here for me to have and to hold.  Taylor said the other day she just wishes she could see what his eyes look like and it's hard waiting until Heaven.  Those moments make my heart actually hurt.  Bailey and I sat last week and cried for quite awhile mourning the loss of Baby Collin.  She would have been such a good big sister to him.  And I am sad that we did not get to see what Taylor would have been like as a big sis...and when Taylor gets mad that she was robbed that opportunity I remind her how she prayed for him when he was in my tummy, and he knew she was there.  My girls amaze me with their depth of understanding and sweetness concerning this baby and the loss.

To all who loved me up during the weeks following the miscarriage, thank you.  The flowers, cards, meals, groceries, phone calls, prayers and love...I won't forget it.

No it's not easy sometimes but the good times far outweigh the bad and I am so thankful every day for my many blessings.  Thanks for reading.  xo

out of my comfort zone

I take being comfortable very seriously.  I don't like to feel anything but comfortable.  I wish I was one of those people who just love to try new things, grow, learn, reach for the stars.  I'm not.  I like what's familiar, what's cozy, what's tried-and-true.  

But during some recent introspection, I have questioned this character flaw, if you will.  Now bear with me, this will get confusing, as it's confusing to me and I am me.  If I am unhappy about certain things in my life, why do I not change them?  If I'm unhappy, that would assume I am uncomfortable.  But, whatever it is that's making me unhappy - unless it's situational - is also something that's comfortable in a way simply because it's familiar.  I'm used to it.  And I guess it makes me more uncomfortable doing the work and going ahead and changing it, because what is familiar, what is me, is already comfortable.  

Confused?

So I have written on this blog before about my weight.  Oh, my weight.  My nemesis.  My thorn in my side.  My achilles heel.  

My comfort.

I have been overweight for so long.  There was only a brief time of my teenage/adult life that I wasn't overweight.  And when I was thin, I still thought I was fat.  So this is really all I know.  All I know is softness, pudge, dimples.  All I know is wondering what it would feel like to wear a bikini bc there ain't no way in hell this girl is putting one on.  Ever.  I've never worn one.   All I know is looking at clothes to see what will make me look presentable, in the least fattening way.  That is how I shop - which I usually hate - not "what is cute, what is new, what will make me feel good."  

I want to be thin.  I want to be thin for so many reasons!!!  Better health, better stamina, feeling proud of myself, feeling sexy, better role model for my girls, not worrying about what people are thinking when they look at me.  And yet, since April, when I started diet number 1,436 -- I have only lost 10lbs. At this rate I will reach my goal weight at the age of 86.

So...this is my new thing.  I need to break out of some comfort zones.  I need to get really uncomfortable.   Today I did something I haven't done in YEARS - I took a group exercise class.  Well, one or two times I took a walking class and several times I took swim classes, but that was IN my comfort zone.  Today, a woman from our MOPS group at church - a thin, seemingly put-together woman that typically I would have been inwardly nervous around - gave an exercise class.  I normally would say no bc I don't like the idea of jingle-jangling around in front of my friends and peers, in case I can't keep up and in case my ass accidentally hits someone.  Or scares someone.  But I thought, how am I ever going to get anywhere unless I start getting uncomfortable.  New chapter.  And the good news is, besides the chair squats (what crazy broad thought that one up?!) I kept up and was fine.  Oh yeah I couldn't do some kind of bird yoga position plank thing either.  But other than that...

And I'll need to break out of my comfy-cozy nightly routine of having a snack on the couch, ensconced in my blankie, while I watch tv.  I watch what I eat all day - ok more or less depending on the day, stress and time of the month - but then I "blow it" with my nightly snack.  Gotta get uncomfortable.

But I'm keeping the blankie and tv, I'm not masochistic.  Just a girl who needs a change...from being uncomfortably comfortable.

  

in training

So my last post was about my "bubbies" as my girls and I call them.  This one is about my daughter's.  Don't tell her, as I don't want to embarrass her.  But as this blog is kind of my journal that only a few people read, I thought I'd write about the beginning of this ride we've gotten on.  Because it's going to get bumpy...and I want to be reminded of the gentle beginning.

Doesn't seem so long ago.

My little girl is growing up.  Bailey turned 9 in October, we celebrated in Disney World.  Does it get better than that?  While she celebrated turning "the last year before double digits!!", I celebrated the fact that she still believes Mickey sneaks into our room while she's sleeping to leave surprise gifts.  I celebrated every time she wanted to put back on her Ariel costume to meet the princesses and characters.  I celebrated her childlike delight as she slid down the pool slide over and over again.  I celebrated seeing her and her sister pretend-play with their little Disney figurines on the floor as a cartoon played on the tv.  I celebrated the fact that she is still so innocent and young.  Kevin and I have taken to calling her Peter Pan, because as her peers seem to be moving away from Barbies, princesses and tea parties, Bailey is still smack in the middle of it and wants to stay there.

But recently, Bailey has started becoming excited about physical changes her body is and will be making and it has thrown me for a loop.  She cried when I talked to her this summer about what will happen to her body someday...she only felt better after I promised her a girls only day any where she wants to go (I had to specify in the tri-state area after she immediately squeaked out, "Disney?!") when the day she "becomes a woman" arrives.  I never liked that phrase, and I didn't say it to her, because it's terribly misleading.  I don't believe you become a woman until you're well into your 20's...but for some reason in His divine wisdom God has allowed the female body to mature when it does.  Bailey knows that the body changes because someday she will hopefully have the honor of becoming a mama, and we need our bodies to be able to hold a baby and then nourish it.  She doesn't know that as a CF patient she's not guaranteed that gift, as many CFers either have fertility issues or they should not get pregnant because their health is not good enough.  I pray this will not affect her, as she has "mild" CF and is so healthy.  And all she knows is that our body changes to prepare it for motherhood.  Recently, she has become excited about this, and says she can't wait to become a mommy someday.  Hold your horses, lovey...

Last week I bought Bailey what looks like a sports bra.  Undershirts were working fine, but she tended to not wear them as she didn't like the extra layer.  And she started to need something under her shirt.  I know this because both the grandmothers let me know.  I couldn't believe that moment came already, so soon.  Wasn't it just yesterday she was running naked under the sprinkler?  And now look at her.

Isn't she beautiful?

I love spending time with Bailey.  She's my little girlfriend.  I cherish our dates out just the two of us.  I pray that we remain close, although I'm betting there will be many, many moments when hormones - mine and hers - will threaten to tear us apart.  I will pray for strength, compassion, tenderness...and that all of these things will be conveyed in my words and actions to her.  For Bailey I will pray that life can be slowed down...is that possible?  That she can develop and grow in a healthy way, just not too fast!!! I don't think my heart could take it if I blink and she's a young woman and not my young girl.  And yet, as much as I try to blink as s-l-o-w as I can, here she is, wearing a bubbie holder.

God is good though - He gave me Bailey to go on this adventure with first.  I needed a gentle easing into it, to prepare me for going through this with Taylor.  Lord help us all then.  Especially me.

the mammo

If you are unaware, this is not me.  My hair isn't that long.  Oh and I wasn't smiling.
And I had on a salmon colored smock that hung like a tarp.  And I weigh just a teensy more than her.  Teensy means mucho.  I also was not hugging this machine, clearly designed by men with mother issues.

Before I write this post about my first mammo experience, let me first jump to the end and say I am fine.  This post will be about what led up to me getting checked out, and how that visit went.  So many women receive a different conclusion to their story and while I have always been empathetic to others receiving such terrible news as that, I feel a keener sadness for that moment in a woman's life.  Of course, as a mother, I think that moment is even more full of fear, as all I thought about were my children.  How will they handle the illness, how will I parent while sick, and God forbid, what if the treatments don't work?  Along with a million other questions and fears.   For those women, I say I am so sorry.  If any woman comes across this blog post and is undergoing treatment for breast cancer or the like, please, please know I wish you well.  I wish you health, love and joy.  This is just my experience and I mean no disrespect.  I am writing this post as a memory, and perhaps a bit of laughing at myself.

Also - I don't think this post is geared towards the male reader.  But really, what post of mine ever is.  Like I even have a male reader.

Back in November I noticed a problem with one of my breasts.  This is an area of the female body where you don't want problems.  It's just that simple.  But I knew it may be nothing, and I wanted it to be nothing, and to be honest, I just didn't want one-more-thing to deal with so I pushed off going to the doctor until December.  My mother had been staying with us for 5 weeks - first because she broke her leg and then because Hurricane Sandy paid her house an unpleasant visit.  Earlier in the year I had my miscarriage and truthfully that is still hard for me, and we had a family issue that sucked the wind out of my sails.  So when this breast problem arose I thought, "REALLY?"  That's what I thought.  Really.

So in December I put on my big girl panties (that's not a figure of speech, I put on big girl panties everyday.  They cover the top of my navel down to the bottom of my cheeks.   One of my best girlfriends keeps preaching the benefits of a thong to me, but she is skinny and doesn't understand that I don't want to have to perform surgery on myself to fish that piece of cotton back out).  I digress.  What I mean to say is, I went to the gynecologist.  I was so proud of myself that I went, because there was not one place I could think of that I wanted to visit less, than my gynecologist.  I know myself, and I feared it would hurt me a lot to be back there following my miscarriage.  And it did - but I loved the doctor I saw, and she examined me and decided to order a mammogram to see what was going on.  I told her that I wanted her to say it was nothing, and she said it could be due to a few different things, but let's see anyway.  Yes, let's.  I thought I had years before my first mammo, I didn't want to go.

I thought about it, and I did not want to make the appointment for before Christmas, because what if something was wrong.  How could I watch my children celebrate all of the joy of Christmas as I wondered what our future would hold.  I would be a mess!  So I waited until they were back in school and made the call.  I figured I'd have to wait - the sweet receptionist that didn't seem surprised at all that I was crying - got me in the following morning.  I was so relieved - since November I had this weight on my shoulders, this what is it and what if and I just wanted to know at this point.  Also, I had kept this to myself, save for Kevin and a few friends, because why bring it up unless it was something.  But in the meantime, it was a hard burden to carry, and I felt fake saying I was doing fine when someone asked.  I felt like 2012 was enough of a downer, I couldn't talk about one more thing!!  But it is unlike me not to be honest, not to share with my friends (or as in this case, possibly strangers) and that weighed on me even more.

So on Friday January 4, I went to get my first mammo.  I had called my mom the night before and finally told her, and she insisted on coming.  I didn't know how I felt about that but I ended up appreciating her presence.  We waited in the first waiting room for maybe 45 minutes...which felt like 4 hours.  Kevin stopped by, which was so sweet of him, but actually made me more nervous bc I could feel he was nervous.  He left after a few minutes and Mom and I were brought back to the second waiting room, where I was given a smock shirt, opening in the front, to change into, and had to confirm in front of the other women waiting that no, I did not wear deodorant or use any kind of talc powder that day.  I sat in a chair, careful to make sure that Bertha and Betsy weren't playing peekaboo with any of the other women waiting.

The other women.  There was a loud, gum-smacking (a huge pet peeve) skinny woman, who was dressed to the nines - well, from the waist down.  She stood a few times to get a new magazine and didn't mind that Perk and Perkier under her smock could be seen from the side.  I wondered how they do mammos with breasts that are barely there.  I mean, I knew that the machine was like a vice, and you lay your breast on the tray of some sort, and the top comes down to smush it and take a picture.  But what if there's nothing to lay on the tray, or only a little?  I suddenly felt so bad for her, for her nipples namely, for I knew they'd receive the brunt of the trauma.  My own nipples would be safely ensconced within my pillowy pancakes, at least that was my vision. There was an older woman who complained a few times about the wait, and I wondered if it hurts more as you age.  Do your breasts get arthritic?  It just seemed even more unpleasant.  There were a few other nondescript women waiting, save for my mother who would try hard not to look at me, but when she did, I saw the anxiety, fear, empathy.

I got called back finally, and had the nicest technician.  We talked about breastfeeding randomly - although I guess not so random, since she was the only one besides my husband, doctor and children to get such a birds eye view of Bertha and Betsy.  She explained what would happen, and did the mammo.  IT WAS NOT SO BAD!!  I took 3 Advil, no joke, in anticipation of having to pick my squeezed-to-an-inch-of-their-lives breasts up off the floor following the test, but really it wasn't that bad!   And it was a plastic vice, unlike the metal torture chamber I had conjured in my head.  I was feeling better already.

She asked me to go back to the waiting area until I was told I could go.   I waited.  And waited.  My mother tried not to look at me.  Then, a different technician told me I needed to have an ultrasound done and to sit tight.   I knew my doctor had included an ultrasound on my referral "just in case they need one" and so I assumed they needed to clarify what they were seeing on the mammogram.  I tried hard not to cry as I waited.  After maybe a half hour, another technician told me I would be seen as soon as a room opened up.  My emotions shifted from fear to anger - I was so distraught that they would make me wait this long with the information that I took as "Yes something's wrong, we need to look at it closer."  I went into the bathroom and paced around for a few minutes because steam could practically be seen coming out of my head.  It was perhaps an hour that I waited, and as soon as I was called back the floodgates opened (one with a tendency towards the over-emotional can only hold them closed so long) and I started crying.  I stated to the tech that I thought it was in poor taste to give someone news like that and then have them wait.  She was very nice and apologized, and said it was protocol when someone has a problem to have them get both tests done.  I was so relieved!!!  She did the ultrasound and didn't understand why I was still crying, but I had been so scared I just couldn't calm right away.  Not to mention that I couldn't help but think about the last time I was getting an ultrasound done, back in April with a stone faced technician whose eyes read what I already knew, "your baby is dead, no more heartbeat."  I was overcome.

She did the test, and I asked if she could tell me anything or would I have to wait even longer for a doctor.  She said the doctor would come talk to me if he thought it was necessary, but she couldn't see anything that would be concerning.  PRAISE GOD!!  I was so grateful!  I got dressed and waited in that room as she had instructed, waiting this time only a few minutes before a technician came and told me I could go, my tests appeared normal.

I still have not shaken, nor do I want to, that feeling of gratitude over my test showing a pair of healthy breasts.  There are times when my breasts annoy me - I want to fit into that lacy, sexy bra that they don't make in my size, or they jiggle when I jog (at least the last time I jogged they did, it's been awhile), or they try to free themselves from my bathing suit as I swim.  But they have fed 2 babies, pleasured my husband (what!  It's Biblical!), and brought me pleasure as well.  I like having them, and I wanted to keep them.  Also, the thought of being sick, really sick, took my breath away and I felt deep, deep empathy for women who are ill.

Several days later I received a letter stating that my tests were normal and to follow up with my doctor and for repeat testing as he prescribes.  I go back in February.

What I do know now, that I didn't before, is that getting a mammo isn't so bad.  I will pester any friend I have to get one, if she is due and hasn't already.

2012 sucked.  2013 is already so much better.  This is going to be a great year, I can feel it.  And I am so, so grateful Bertha and Betsy will be along for the ride.