Let's go fly a kite

Dear Mom,

We went kite flying tonight after Dave got home from work. It was nothing short of magical for me. The kids were so delighted and cheerful. The wind was just right. The pictures  are right off my phone (no filter); it was perfect! Could not have been better.

One of those moments that my heart could have burst. You would have loved it.

I love you, mama.

Love,

Katie

Journal 9.20.13

I wrote this on my phone while I was waiting in the triage room (for about six hours now) at Missouri Baptist Hospital.  Little did I know that things would change -- drastically -- just hours later.

Journal 9.20.13

Came to the hospital today around 10:00 am. Been having cramping/contractions since about last Friday. I did NOT want to come to the hospital just to be overly cautious. But after visiting the doctor's office on Wednesday, and already putting off the hospital for another 24 hours, I figured I should come.

Of course, within the first hour of them checking me out, I have one teeny tiny contraction. Cervix not dilated. So they assume they'll want me for another hour or two and I'll be on my way. Dave leaves to get lunch and get some work done. Sure enough, right after he leaves, the contractions come back. Stronger. And stronger. They give me a muscle relaxer shot. Makes me jittery and my heart race. I thought I was going to die if I couldn't get my bra undone! Over time the side effects wear off. Dave gets back. But the contractions are still there. Inconsistent. But not stopping or really letting up.

Concern is that I've had two previous c-sections. Scar tissue not strong. Don't want to risk rupture. Eek!

Here I am almost eight hours later. Dave went to get dinner with the kids. I'm nervous. Confused. Scared, quite honestly. I have no idea what this all means. What's our course of action?

Thankfully, baby boy is still doing acrobats in my tummy. He's been a little rascal and moves EVERYwhere except where the monitor can track his heartbeat.

I'm just nervous. Trying to remember that Heavenly Father knows what's going on. He is in control; I  need to trust that. Faith, not fear.

Baby boy's change of plans

The pediatrician came into my room and said that when my nurse had wheeled Henry down to the NICU, the nurse who was in the OR when he was delivered saw him and instantly said, "That baby looks orange.  Check his blood type and his billirubin."  Within minutes they were monitoring baby boy's billi and discovered it was not only too high, but it was rising rapidly.  The pediatrician came to tell me that they were monitoring this closely and would keep me posted.  She said they would keep him in the NICU instead of bringing him down for feedings.  This was so they could regulate his blood sugar (which was too low (or too high? I forget), but also to closely monitor the billi.  Basically, I would just pump through the night and he could come back to me in the morning.  A couple of hours later (around 3:00 a.m.), the pediatrician came back in (again, no baby) and said the billi was still rising quickly and it was becoming a more serious situation.  I couldn't do anything to help and all they could do is help him eat, pee and poop and hope the billi would slow down.  Around 4:30 a.m. the pediatrician came back in and said the billi was climbing too rapidly.  Basically, the amount of billirubin a baby can tolerate is dictated by how old the baby is -- in hours.  So a baby who is 4 hours old can tolerate X amount of billirubin.  A baby who is 8 hour old can tolerate a little more billirubin.  Baby boy's billi was climbing rapidly, more than his body was able to tolerate.  Plus, he was able to tolerate even less because of his premature arrival.  The pediatrician told me that they had put St. Louis Children's Hospital on alert.  If the billi continued to climb, he would have to have a total blood transfusion.  The doctor's had determined that baby boy had A+ blood.  I have O+ blood.  Because our blood is incompatible (similar to W's and Lizzie's), my blood cells are basically attacking and killing off his blood cells.  A blood transfusion would clear out all of my "killer" blood and give him new, clean blood.  This procedure is not performed at Missouri Baptist Hospital, so that's why we would have to go down to Children's.  The procedure basically entails two doctors, one who slowly pumps blood in and one who slowly pulls blood out of the baby.  This happens through the umbilical cord (vein and artery).  It is relatively painless for the baby, but it is a slow, tedious process -- a little in, a little out -- which lasts about two hours.  Risks include bad blood or the baby not tolerating the procedure.  But the risk of the billirubin getting too high include brain damage.  

Getting this news in the middle of the night after an already whirlwind day was a little upsetting.  Well, a lot upsetting.  I called Dave and told him he needed to come back to the hospital right away and bring someone with him who could assist in a blessing.  I was wheeled down to the NICU (I was still hooked up and couldn't walk) and saw my little baby boy under his glowing blue light in his little box-bed.  It was heart breaking.  Cue Another meltdown.  The neonatologist walked me through what was happening; they were concerned that if a transfusion would be needed, it would have to happen quickly  Being at the Children's Hospital would ensure that baby boy would be in a place where that could happen. Dave arrived along with his dad and the transport team (dressed in what looked like space suits) arrived minutes later.  They were so kind and sweet.  I was crying my eyes out and one of the guys on the transport team kneeled down next to me and told me they would take really good care of him and he would be fine.  Dave put his hand in the incubator and gave the baby a quick father's blessing.  Dave followed the transport team (in the most enormous, state-of-the-art ambulance you've ever seen) down to Children's, which would soon become his second/third home.  

Later that day (Saturday), Winston and Lizzie came to see me at the hospital.  I hadn't seen them in more than 24 hours.  Poor kids thought I was just headed to the doctor the day before.  Their world had turned upside down, too.  I was so excited to see them.  Dave had been at Children's all morning.  His mom had come to the house during the night and Steve came to MoBap.  Then Steven went to the house and Sherry went down to Children's.  Then Dave went home to relieve Steve, and Dave brought the kids by.  This juggling act was going to become our new normal.  The kids came in and were so excited...and so confused.  They squealed for me, then sort of looked at me funny.  They wanted to know where the baby was.  Lizzie lifted up my gown and asked to see the baby.  Winston was asking where my belly was because the baby wasn't there.  It was a hard sell trying to explain to them that in fact the baby had been born, but was at a different hospital.  Their visit was short (too many buttons to push, cords to pull, and a super sore mama to jump on) with the promise that I would see them again very soon.  

Happy birthday! Baby #3

I had arrived at MoBap Hospital around 10:30 a.m.  By noon, they said I would be going home.  Around 2:00...they wanted to watch me a bit longer.  By 4:00, things really started to get going.  And by 6:00...in the words of hospital doctor, "I looked like a lady who was going to have a baby."  

"When?" I asked.  "Like, next week?"

"No," Dr. McCarthy responded.  "Tonight.  We have a 8:00 p.m. appointment in the operating room.  We're just waiting for Dr. Knight to get here."  

Say what?!  Cue emotional meltdown.  

I wasn't supposed to be having a baby today.  Or even this month!  I was supposed to be having dinner with my family.  I was supposed to be going on with friends tonight.  My mom wasn't here yet.  We didn't even have the baby's space put together in my room at home.  Nothing was ready, especially me.  

Something to keep in mind; I had sent Dave off to have dinner with the kids and his parents.  Again, I thought I'd be checking out.  Winst and Lizzie thought I had just gone to the doctor that morning to listen to the baby's heartbeat.  They were clueless and I didn't want to give them any cause for alarm.  In trying to keep things normal, I found myself alone in a hospital triage room having a complete breakdown.  I believe my text to Dave went something like this:  "Where are you?!  Hello!  I'm having a baby!"

Dave got back to the hospital shortly after 6:00. A little frazzled himself, but holding it together because, well, someone had to and it wasn't me.  He called our bishop who detoured his whole evening to come to the hospital and assist in giving me a blessing. In my beautiful hospital gown, monitor-strapped belly, and swollen crying eyes, the words I remember from the blessing were that I would feel calm and peaceful.  That was hardly how I felt in that moment.  Not even close to it.  I was scared out of my mind.  And that's when they started to happen.  Miracles, that is.  Call them coincidences.  Or tender mercies.  Or whatever.  The following hours and days were filled with miracles, one after another.  

Near the end of the priesthood blessing Dave was giving me, my doctor-on-call walked into the room.  She couldn't really see what was going on, so she just announced herself, "Hi, this is Dr. Knight."  I had my eyes closed, so I just stuck my hand out with my finger up, indicating her to wait just a minute.  When the blessing was over, she quickly apologized, saying, "I see there was some laying on of hands there.  I'm so sorry to have interrupted."   I introduced her to Dave and to my bishop.  She asked, "Oh, are you LDS?  What ward do you go to?"  We were all a little caught off guard.  You typically don't ask those questions if you aren't LDS yourself.  I said, yes, we are.  We attend the Frontenac ward.  Then I slowly asked if she was LDS or which ward she attended.  She said she lived in the Pagedale Branch area.  That's even my stake!  Small world, I'd say.  But more than that, I felt immediately that Dr. Knight "got me."  I say that in the sense that she knows where I'm coming from.  To some degree she knows my core.  She knows what I value.  She gets me.  I had never seen her before in any church setting.  I had no idea of her activity in the church -- or lack thereof.  But it didn't matter.  Her calm voice reassured me that I would be OK, that I was strong, and that Heavenly Father would be there with us through the whole procedure.  Everything would be OK.  

That was just what I needed.  That was the calm, the peace, the reassurance that I needed. And from there, it was go time.  

I quickly got cleaned up and changed into my surgical attire.  Dave was making a bazillion phone calls trying to get a hold of my parents (at CHOICE gala and shortly thereafter heading to Seattle), his parents (Katie needs some things at the hospital...oh, and the kids), and Briana Larson (dropped out of her family activity for the night to come to my house and watch kids so Steve and Sherry could meet the new baby).  

I walked back to the OR and hopped up on the table.  Just like before, I hunched over the pillow and waited for the anesthesiologist to do his work.  This time, though, Dr. Knight was there to wrap her arms around me (I was shivering cold) and calmly talk to me while the anesthesia zinged down my legs.  That pillow hug part is sort of where I mentally prepare, and I was easily able to do that without even a hint of fear.  

As soon as the anesthesia gets going, the shakes come on.  I sort of expect it now.  This is the point where I start singing to myself (and sometimes out loud) to get through the several minutes of prep they have to do.  It's the only way to distract myself from the shaking and anxiety from what is to come.  This time was no different, though the prep time seemed to fly by.  I was totally alert.  Shaking.  But calm.  

After maybe 10 minutes or so, the shield was pulled and Dave come in the OR.  And within probably five minutes or less, I heard the anesthesiologist saying to Dave, "You want to see this.  Here comes baby!"  It was so quick!  I had hardly noticed all of the pulling and tugging that I associated with my first c-section.  Forget that part, the baby was coming!  As they reached in to get him out, the doctor, surprised herself, said, "Oh, there's his bum.  He's breech!"  He definitely hadn't been breech earlier that day.  And out he came.  Immediately, he let out a little cry, and then a big scream.  Music to my ears!  I cried.  I was so worried about how his lungs would or wouldn't work.  And he was able to scream right out of the gate.  Hooray!  Everyone cheered along with me.  

Dr. Knight handed the baby off and continued to work.  I looked to the side and watched the nurses and Dave get the baby cleaned up, measured, weighed, etc.  Baby cried through the whole thing.  It was great.  When it came time to weigh him, the nurses excitedly counted as the scale went up and up and up.  Six pounds, eleven ounces; 6lb 11oz!!!  They could hardly believe it themselves.  Everyone in the OR was surprised and, again, we all cheered together.  

Dr. Knight calmly guided me through the whole procedure, saying what was going on within giving too much of the yucky details.  She was surprised at how long the umbilical cord was.  Dave got a glimpse of it too.  In his words, "You could jump rope with that thing."  Gross.  

Again, the remaining surgery time flew by.  Dr. Knight was so gentle through it all.  I literally never felt any pulling, tugging, etc.  That was a miracle in itself.  Baby boy had a couple of little breathing episodes that the nurses watched, but they all cleared up on their own before we even left the OR.  In fact, both baby and I were well enough to leave the OR together and head to the recovery room.  

We spent the next hour or so in the recovery room just trying to process the fact that we were now a family of five.  Three kids!  Wow!  We had no idea what this baby's name would be.  We had no newborn clothing.  No newborn diapers.  Crib wasn't set up.  But here he was and he was perfect.  We wheeled into our new home for the next few days.  I obviously hadn't come to the hospital prepared to stay, so Sherry brought some toiletries for me and met baby boy.  Around 12:30 a.m., the nurse came in to check on me and see if I wanted to send the baby down to the nursery until it was time for him to eat.  I said yes, I would prefer for him to stay in the nursery and come to my room for feedings.  She agreed and said she would prefer that so he could be monitored through the night, as well.  I asked a few questions and just as she was walking out the door I said something like, "Oh, my other two children have been jaundice because we've had different blood types.  Will you check his blood type?"  She said they would check and also monitor his billirubin.  And off he went to the nursery.

Dave left for home and I was off to get some sleep.  I was officially on newborn time, so I wanted to get all the sleep I could.  It wasn't too long after I'd fallen asleep that the pediatrician made her first visit and this baby's new life turned a little upside down.   

W singing

Today when we were driving home from church, W started singing the song that was playing. The chorus goes like this:

"Be strong. Be strong with me. We can help each other make it back home. Hold on. Hold with to the standards and the truth that we know. We can help each other remember what we were sent here to be. Be strong. Be strong with me."

It made me think if he and Lizzie growing up and the challenges they will face. It frightens me to even think about it. I hope they will help each other. I hope they will encourage each other for good. I hope they will, together, hold on to what they know is right.

A Pat on the Back and a Lump in My Throat

Today was one of those days.  I didn't sleep well last night (read:  I didn't sleep at all last night) and was awakened by Lizzie having an in-depth discussion with her stuffed elephant, and W ringing his bike bell and marching around the house.  Eight a.m. came way too early; it may as well have been the middle of the night.

Within minutes of rousing myself and getting the kids fed and bathed, W and L were in an all-out brawl over L's new cowboy boots.  W tried in vain to squeeze his foot comfortably in the well of the boot.  L proudly snatched the boots away and slid them on with ease.  W was devastated those boots -- those cowboy "partner" boots! -- couldn't be his.  And the meltdown began.

Wailing.  Crying.  Stomping.  Pushing sister.  Slamming doors.  The whole nine yards.  I held him like a little baby and he cried his eyes out; nothing could solve this monumental problem.  No amount of soothing, distraction, or plans of finding a pair of his own boots someday could pull W off this cowboy ledge.  And then, like that, he was over it.  Well, about 10 minutes later he was over it.  But it was fine.  He was fine.  Life would go on.  Crisis averted.

I lazily pulled myself together for the day.  I had to make a quick trip to the store, then head to the car repair shop to wait with my two children in the (smoky) customer lounge for about an hour for my windshield wiper to be fixed.  This situation could be a total disaster, but I figured we could do it.  I bypassed a morning shower, figuring I wouldn't see anyone at the store or said repair shop, and loaded the kids in the car with some treats, the iPad and a pep talk.

A phone call on the way to the store divulged some sad, sad news about one of my young women at church.  Total downer of the day.  I tried to wrap up the phone call in the car, but the children were growing restless in the backseat, so we ventured inside, one kid in the cart, one hanging off the side, and my phone sandwiched between my shoulder and my ear.

We had only rounded the corner into the store when we spotted W's best friend from school.  What a nice surprise, right?  But alas, soon my bed-head pony tail became the least of my worries.  W spotted his buddy's special "Jake and the Neverland Pirates" prize in his buddy's cart, at which point our quick trip exploded.  Of course W wanted the toy just like his friend did.  But it wasn't a toy we were going to get today.  It was a big toy.  Something to be rewarded with.  Not a matchbox car or dollar bin find.  A big toy, and W wanted it.  And just like those cowboy boots, it couldn't be his.

For the proceeding 15 minutes while we were in the store, W screamed, kicked, threatened, cried, blocked the cart with his body, punched, blubbered, screamed some more, "asked nicely," and then screamed some more.  No doubt, he could be heard through the entire store.  I considered leaving, but I was there!  I had to get just a few things.  I was not going to be defeated by this almost-four-old little boy (read: little $#!+).  Just like this morning, no amount of soothing, distraction, or plans for a future toy for his birthday or completed chart could talk this boy down.  And he was letting me have it.

We waited our turn in the checkout line (why are there 20 lanes and only two or three open at a time?!) and W's fire was still going.  He hung on me, rolled between the cart and the chair, hit me and hung on me some more as he continued his screaming rant.

Somehow -- somehow! -- I was as cool as a cucumber through the whole thing.  Not insensitive or even ignorant of what was happening.  Just calm.  Anytime he addressed me as Mom, I responded as usual with a "Yes?," which was unfortunately always followed by more screaming.  But by some miracle, I never lost it.  I was keenly aware of all of the people we passed through the store (including another friend of mine -- that's two people when I never see any) who were likely thinking, "Just give the boy a toy."  Yet I never noticed anyone sternly staring at me or throwing quick judgement.  On the contrary.

As we were (finally!) checking out, the woman behind me sympathetically smiled.  "You're doing the right thing," she assured. "We've all been there.  Stay strong."  I was kind of taken aback; I didn't really  know what to say.  I sheepishly smiled and said thanks as I detached W from my mid-section and tried to put him back in cart.  I pulled away from the checkout and W took off in the opposite direction.  I gently told him it was time to go, which brought him screaming back to me, dodging people in the crowded checkout area.  As I turned ahead to go out, another woman, pushing her own cart with a small child in it, pat me on the shoulder and said, "Can I just tell you you're doing a good job?"  Her eyes were sincere.  There was no judgement or pity, just camaraderie and support.  The lump in my throat swelled and I couldn't say anything back.  I mouthed a thank-you and headed for those big, red automatic doors.

We proceeded through the parking lot just as we did the store:  screaming and kicking child, stoic-faced mother, and confused little girl who just wanted her graham crackers.  The woman in the checkout line took my cart back to the cart coral after after I unloaded the contents in my car.  And sad little W kept on screaming.  Again, I don't think this woman felt bad for me; I think she just felt empathy.

I got in the car and heaved a big sigh, blinked hard and wiped away the tears that had escaped.  I told Winston I was so glad that I loved him as much as I do.  Then I thanked God for those women who gave me the pep talk I really needed today.  I'm certainly not perfect, but I can do this and I can do a good job at it.

I have no idea who these women are, and it doesn't matter.  They've been there.  They've done this.  They've felt the same way a mother feels when her feelings of love are conflicted between limits and acquiescence.  I am so glad I don't have to do this alone.  I am so lucky to have a good mom, mother-in-law, sisters, friends and kind strangers in the store to learn from and do this with me.

About 20 minutes after pulling away from the store, we arrived at that gritty repair shop and prepared to wait.  Maybe it was seeing the look-alike Mater as we pulled into the parking lot, but Winston was back to his kind, happy, funny self.  We waited -- happily -- in the customer lounge without even a complaint.  He was fine.  I was fine.  Life was going on.  And we were happy.

Happy 30th to Me

Thursday night before my big 3-0 birthday, Dave surprised me with a trip to Big Cedar Lodge near Branson, Mo.  I'd never been before, and it was just the getaway I needed.  

We got up Friday morning, dropped W off at school, dropped Lizzie off at SheShe and Papa's, and hit the road.  We spent the three hours in the car talking, looking at magazines, and enjoying the quiet (such a luxury).  That afternoon, we walked around the riverfront in Branson until we could check in at Big Cedar.  

Big Cedar...what diamond in the rough.  I compare Branson to Las Vegas for the 70+yr crowd.  It's a fun place that everyone has to visit at least once, but...it's really hokey.  However, Big Cedar is about 20 minutes out of Branson.  It sits on Table Rock Lake.  The views, the rooms, the restaurants, the (summer) activities...it was pretty incredible.  As you drive into the resort, you have to drive through a few "rivers".  I felt like I was transported to the mountains.  We went on a walk down by the lake, had dinner, watched a movie, slept in.  It was perfect.  

Happy 30th birthday to me!

Winston, 3 1/2 yrs.

Winston is officially three and a half years old.  Lots of things to remember about this boy.

• The difference between a three year old and a three and a half year old is HUGE
• Likes to be asked what his favorite part of the day was every night when he goes to bed
• Suddenly dislikes the color blue
• Likes to use "loud" plates and "loud" cups (read:  glass plates and cups)
• Loves his cousins and misses them dearly.  Of course, there's lots of talk about, "Well, James does this," or "Will does this," or "I want to go with Kate and Rachel," and "Can I go to MaMom's and see Nonnie?"
• "What are you talking about?!"
• First real falll off his bike and scraped his knee. (6.2.12)
• First roller coaster: dragon coaster at St. Monica carnival (6.1.12)
• Still always has to say the prayer.
•  was making my bed and Winston was wearing my boots and pretending to be Woody. I asked, "Hey Woody, would you come help me make my bed?" He walked out of the closet and said, "Woodys don't make beds. Cowboys don't make beds." (7.6.12)
• "What do you want to be when you grow up?" W: Putting his finger to his nose and really thinking about it says, "Um...big. With all of my family." (7.5.12)
• "Can the angel come and take my tooth and leave me a surprise like a toothbrush?" (8.15.12)
• We were kneeling down for prayer tonight and W volunteered to say it. He started, "God is g..." like his prayer at school. Knowing something didn't sound right, he looked up somewhat confused and clearly blank and sincerely says, "Um, I don't know how to start it." (9.21.12)
• "I love you to the airplanes and back."
• "Oopsie-doozie"
• Lizzie was having a hard time going to be and had been upset for some time. On his own, W went into L's room and sang "I am a Child of God" to her. Minutes later she was quiet and went to sleep. (10.17.12)

• W: "Can I have a dollar?"  Sheshe: "Why do you need a dollar?"  W: "So I can go on a mission! I don't have enough yet."  Sheshe: "Where do you want to go on a mission?"  W: "Ummm, maybe to MaMom and Poppy's house."  (10.25.12)
• I had a really hard day and I was crying. W wasn't sure what was going on, but he said, "But mom, we love you!" Later that day he told me I was a beautiful princess (I was dressed like a witch). Sweet boy!  (10.26.12)

Deer Valley 2012

Our first weekend in Utah was spent in Park  City.  Similar to last year, we stayed for a little weekend vacation to take advantage of the "mountain air."  But unlike last year, Kristin and Erik and their kids were there, too, as well as She She and Papa.  Aunt Laura lives in Park City, as well.  Instead of staying at Deer Valley, we stayed with Laura, which worked out perfectly...though she may think otherwise after the broken bowl and countless pieces of cereal on the floor. 

We rode the Deer Valley lift up the mountain.  Winston did great.  Lizzy was wiggly, which made the ride up a bit nerve wracking.  But we made it.  And it was as beautiful as ever.  Despite the heat of the summer, everything was lush and green.  The view into the valley will never get old.  It is gorgeous.  

We made a stop at the Stein Eriksen for treats and pictures.  

Sunday morning we spent at the Stein Eriksen again for the Sunday brunch.  That place is tops in my book.  It is so delicious.  We had waffles, pancakes, omelets, fruit, salads, desserts.  It was so delicious.  The kids had fun and were so well-behaved, too.  

After brunch, we were walking out into the lobby area.  The little boys, Will and Winston, stopped at a little three-piece band playing music.  It was sort of jazzy -- a guitar, bass guitar and drums.  The boys were at first curious, then naturally started moving to the music.  As time went by, they got more and more into it, Winston especially.  He had this hip-shaking move that he did over and over again.  It was like it was dancing in a room all by himself, unabashedly.  It was hysterical.  We were all so surprised at his moves.  And the best part, a man who had walked by and saw them dancing came back to give Winston a dollar bill.  The man sort of gave W a thumbs up, to which W replied with a gun/thumbs-up move right back at him.  Too funny!  

Utah or bust

July 11, 2012, at 2:00 p.m., we hit the road.  Destination, Park City, Utah.  The children were excited.  We had games, art supplies, books, treats galore and toys packed and ready.  It took about 30 minutes for them to go through everything.  Eeesh!

We set off in our cozy new little car.  Dave bought a Honda Civic the afternoon before we left.  He figured the gas mileage would be better than the Sequoia.  So, purchasing a brand new car seemed like a no brainer.  Totally normal, right?  

However, after our first fill-up -- cost:  about $30 -- and seeing the 40+ MPG the whole way...I was beginning to believe this car wasn't such a bad idea. 

Winston talked non-stop from Chesterfield, Mo., to Kearney, Neb.  That's nearly nine hours!  Once he finally stopped talking and fell asleep, we drove about another hour and a half to North Platte, Neb., and checked ourselves into a fancy (read:  sketchy) Ramada Inn.  Once morning came, we were out of there as quickly as we came.  We filled up the car, lost one of Winston's shoes somehow, got breakfast, and were on the road again.  

The children did really well, all things considered.  I would like to forget the state of Wyoming (no places to stop, and mind-numbingly blank), and I think Lizzie would, too.  Other than that, they were champs.  We made it!

After we arrived in Utah and calculated our gas expenses -- $85 in fill-ups! -- I was convinced that Dave wasn't so crazy after all.  Civic for the win!

Ten Years

I went home to Utah about a month ago.  More than just to see the family and introduce most of them to Lizzy, I also went home to throw a bridal shower for my little sister (Liz), as well as attend my 10-year high school reunion.

The shower went smoothly.  It turned out so, so cute.  Our mission was to make Lizzy (my sister, not baby) feel special, and I think we did just that.

Baby Lizzy was a champ the whole trip.  Because of the shower, she got to meet a good portion of the family, and she didn't disappoint.  She is such a good baby.

And last but not least, (insert pregnant pause) the reunion.  (insert prolonged, awkward silence)

Unlike more than one person I talked to about this whole reunion thing, I was set on going.  Was I excitedly awaiting that Saturday night?  Not really.  More like anxiously awaiting it.  Though initially on the fence, I really thought I should go.  True story, I included it as one of my goals for the year.  Had I not "committed" to going in January, I may not have gone at all.  Regardless, I bought my ticket -- and plane ticket -- and went.

Some history:  After high school, I spent the summer being unproductive, then headed off to good ol' Utah Valley to BYU, never to return home to stay longer than a few weeks at a time.  I finished college, got married, and moved to the Midwest.  And here I am.  Perhaps going back for my reunion was to smooth the abrupt ending that punctuated my school-age years.

Over the years, I have stayed in touch with a handful of people; probably only about a dozen people and more like half a dozen good friends.  Yet, attending my reunion wasn't to resuscitate dead friendships.  Nor was it to show off what I've done and where I've been the last ten years.  Or stick it to the people who made my life miserable.  No.  I actually had a pretty good high school experience.  Full of drama, let downs, disappointments, embarrassments and angst.  And equally full of fun memories, hilarious experiences, good friends, victories, character building, along with a side of education.  I don't believe any one person made my high school years or any year miserable for me, nor do I think I did that for any one person, either.   Saying all this, I now realize my high school experience was waaaay different than many others.  Even for many with whom I attended the same school over the same years.  I understand many of us had many different experiences, outcomes, friendships and overall feelings about that school on Laker Way.  I think I sort of understood this then, but I definitely better appreciate and can respect/sympathize/understand this better now.

One of my greatest anxieties about going to this reunion was forgetting peoples' names.  Petty.  Yeah, I cringe at admitting that.  And yet I know there were more than a few who were facing greater demons than that.  Classmates who couldn't stand the thought of being in the same room with individuals who made their teenage years hell.  Those who were ashamed of who they were then and how they would be perceived now.  Classmates who couldn't care less about even dipping their toes back into tumultuous waters that were known as high school.  Those who felt their  present lives had fallen short of where they could've/should've/would've been.   And those who quite honestly had nothing to show for the last ten years of their lives.

I suppose there comes a time for everyone, a wake-up call, where we have to stop and take stock of ourselves.  It may come in the form of facing danger/death, witnessing a miracle, getting married, getting divorced, having a child, breaking addiction...or facing the people who knew you ten years previous.  Kind of makes my stomach turn to think of it.  But also makes me feel good about who I am, what I've been doing, as well as who I was.

That Saturday night, the conversation was easy with most.  Sometimes the catching-up checklist.  Sometimes more personal.  Sometimes really remarkable.

Thankfully only one really weird/awkward conversation where I felt like the three on the other end had laser beam eyes and rather than roll them at me, they aimed and fired.  Like, "Ok, well, I really don't care about you or this lame-a** reunion so please just shut up and leave."  That was the honest vibe.  Weird, but whatever.

And of course the head-turner.  The one who everyone was surprised by and talking about (think pink hair, corset, boots and boobs).  But the one who ends up being one of the most dynamic person of the night, who you've now "Friended", appreciate their not-so-traditional and completely out-of-the-box self (costume-making?!), and who you now are totally rooting for.

Overall, it was surprising to see how visually apparent the satisfaction/settledness/sadness with one's life was.  It seems we wear these feelings more openly when they aren't crowded by cliques, jackets, stereotypes or extracurricular stuff.  It was almost shocking to see with my own eyes how faces reflected the status of one's life, for better or not so much.  I hope this doesn't come off as holier-than-thou, critical or condescending.  Yet my greatest excitement of the night was to see those who were happy, truly happy, doing good things, having overcome challenges and progressing in life.  Regardless of who they "were,"  it made me happy to see who they are.  In a way, even proud.  Proud of them.  Proud that they have moved on and moved up.  Proud of who they are and who they were.

By the end of the night, I felt like I had to catch my breath.  Kind of like I'd been running for the previous two hours and just couldn't get into a rhythm.  I just sort of felt out of it.  Out of place?  I don't know about that.  Just odd.  I needed to digest, regroup and recap.  And now that a month has passed, I think I've regrouped enough to realize that this night I had nervously awaited actually taught me a thing or two.  

• You don't have to be best friends or even friends with everyone, but respect is a must.
• There is a difference between friends, "friends" and real friends.  I thought I knew this years ago, but turns out I didn't.  And learning this has come with a little disappointment and gratitude.  
• High school will come back to you -- for better or worse.  The odds of working with an old classmate, living near one, or associating with more closely than you ever thought you would/could are much higher than I ever anticipated.  I'm glad I didn't do anything majorly offensive to someone because they would likely move next door to me.  
• Kindness goes a long way.  Everyone -- EVERYONE -- wants to feel accepted, important, valued.  Even the most "secure" person has insecurities.  Just being nice regardless of any preconceived stipulations does more good than I ever thought.  
• I don't care so much about the popularity, extracurricular activities, or even grades.  Rather, my hopes for my children through their growing-up year are pretty simple:  they will be kind to others, they will be liked by others, and they will have a solid set of friends who help them do good.  
• High school is part of who i am; I'm not embarrassed about it.  Though looking back, I did some really stupid/embarrassing things.  
• Never, ever, in a million years would I go back; but I did enjoy myself.  
• I was immature then.  And rightfully so.  My ideas of what was cool/important/worth my time were oftentimes shallow.  Consequently, I missed out on what could have been really great friendships.  It's a shame.  But I'm glad there is time now to continue and even start lasting friendships.   

What Summers Should Be

I braved the friendly skies with a two-year-old and two-month-old and made the three hour flight from St. Louis to Salt Lake City.  I'll be honest.  The thought of what disasters things could happen during a three-hour confinement with two small children kept me up at night.  Really.  I strategized for weeks about what I would take on the plane, how I would pack, whether I'd bring my stroller and/or Bjorn.  I was stressed.  But the flights were well worth it and went much better than I had expected.  Hallelujah!  

This trip to Utah is what I think many future summers will look like:  me flying with kids to spend some summertime with MaMom and Poppy.  And it's how summers should be spent, doing fun things, playing outside, eating ice cream and ending the day with a communal cousin bath.  

In the midst of my packing strategy and actually getting out the door, I forgot my camera.  Pictures via iPhone, so picture quality?  Sub par.  

{Pez is now a flight essential.} 

{Morning snacks}

{Playing in the cave after confiscating Aunt Liz's sunnies.}

{Visiting great-grandparents}

  

{Sandbox}

{Ice cream!}

{Communal bath}

History:  I walked in on my sister and her friends piercing their ears in our bathroom with ice and sewing needles when they were in high school.  Scarred me for life.  

Megan's ear piecing phase never made it past high school (thankfully!), so we finally convinced Megan to appropriately pierce her precious lobes.  We found the right place -- the mall -- and it was now the right time.    

{Lizzy and I were there for moral support.}

{You may punch me for posting this picture.}

{This is what happens when you spend too much time in Icing or Claire's or whatever it's called.  I may regret this photo later.  Now we're equal.}

We had such a fun trip.  So much fun we were worn out by the end.  I learned that lugging a car seat through the airport is well worth the inconvenience in order to be able to harness your child into his seat. He was asleep before we even took off and slept more than half of the flight.  His sleepiness was much appreciated, particularly because I was sandwiched between him and a 300+ pound man, which left little wiggle room.

The phone dump

Things have been busy around here lately.  Here's some of what we've been up to, documented via iPhone:

 {Friends Crys and Rob were loading up their backpacks for their trip to Europe.  W wanted to tag along with his 'pack pack.'}

 {Cicadas.  Whatever this 13-year cicada infestation is, I'm sick of it.}

 {Dear potty training, you're not fun.}

 {One of several attempts at catching a smile.  They always turn out blurry.}

 {She pulls this face as soon as she sees any electronic device.}

 {You know you have too much baby stuff around when the hand pump turns into a toy gun.}

 {Another try.}

 {Morning smoothies with friends.}

 {Blur!}

 

{Paging Dr. Rees...the one who's wearing the same shirt in almost every picture.  Hah!}