Cowboy Up

Lately I've been struggling with making the time to post consistently on this here blog.


I know what you're thinking:


"Christy, with all the floods, famine, wars and celebri-taunts heading off to jail,  posting on your blog is what you're 'struggling' with??"


And to that I say....


YES.


I'm just that clueless.



...and I'm even bigger into cliches. So I'm 'bout to drop a big one on you. Because, you see...



This blog is my journal. (BOOM!)


Did you feel that?




I know that is probably one of the most over-used descriptions of why it is so fetching (bringing back an oldie-but-goodie with that one. Holla at me Utah!) important for us to do "the blog", but also quite true. The idea of leaving honest snap shots of my life for my girls to go back to when I'm no longer here is very important to me. (Not too mention the warm fuzzies I get with every comment I receive, no matter how misguided the compliments are. You guys are waaay too nice to me. I'm sure that will change once you get to know me better.)


All of this very important thinking that I've been doing on the subject of blogging led me to having a conversation with one of my FLAVORITE bloggers (and people)  Natalicious. If you don't know her, picture the sassy spunk and tiny thighs of Tinkerbell mixed with the morals and wisdom (and tiny thighs) of Jiminy Cricket. She's Disney's dream come true. She's also a great motivator, which is why I found myself bouncing ideas off of her tiny thighs a few days ago:

"I want to post more, but I have no motivation," I whined, over the phone, while licking the wrapper of a Symphony chocolate bar.


"I think that would be possible if you didn't use up all of your energy feverishly licking every last ounce of chocolate from your candy bar wrappers," (I'm pretty sure) she thought to herself, concerned.


"I think you should. I'd like to as well. Maybe we can try something together?" she actually said, out loud, because she's way too nice and tiny thighed to ever say or think something like the above quote.


"That *slurp* would *snarf* be fun !" I warbled enthusiastically, in between licks of the runaway chocolate that made it's way to the phone's receiver and the crook of my arm.


"For heaven's sake! I'll buy you more chocolate! Please stop attacking those crumbs like a pig routing through garbage!" (I'm pretty sure) she thought to herself,  although she never really would because she lives by the acronym "WWJD", or "What Would Jiminy Do?"

No, no. That would've never crossed her mind. In fact, she's been enabling my chocolate habit for years. (Just the other night she sent me a text offering me "a fix" of Texas sheet cake. "The first one's free, Christy" Uh-huh.)



Instead my sweet friend sat there encouraging me until we came up with a plan to motivate each other. And since lately I've needed a "gun to my head" to keep me on track with writing, the idea was born:



BLOG BANDITS.

Once a week, each of us would "hand over" our blogs to each other (in true bandito style) and let the other choose the topic we would write about for that post. The bandit can choose to ask a question, post a quote for you to comment on, or simply give you a one word topic to write about.  The sky's the limit. No matter what the bandit says, you MUST write about their topic of choice and you MUST post it every Wednesday.


And for fun, I'm going to write every bandit post in character while wearing a handkerchief and chewin' tabacky.


So there you have it. Starting next Wednesday both Natalie and I will be taking each other's blog "by the horns" and forcing one another to write about the things we choose for topics.


While I begin work on a nicotine addiction.

 *spit* (clank!)





Y'all come back now, ya here??


***************************

THE BANDIT'S TOPIC of choice for my 9/15/10 post:

"Awakening Sleeping Beauty: We are the hero of our own story."


(I told you she is Disney's dream!!)

Trying (Part 2: Boxed In)

The worn edges of the photograph held the memory of a wispy haired, blue eyed toddler. She stood barely three feet tall, skinny as a rail, but when you hear the tales of this mighty tot fearlessly defending her freshly built fairy houses from the likes of several rough and tumble boys, you'd think twice before passing judgment on her tiny frame.

Another figure stood close to the child. She was beautiful and unpredictable- an imperfect mixture of grace and vitality. Your eyes couldn’t help but be drawn towards her legendary cheek bones- the frame that supported the world's softest cheeks, prompting you to come back two and three times for bedtime kisses. Those magnificent cheeks were noticeably pink, as they often were due to the fact that she would almost certainly blush any time the attention of the room was on her. Posing as the subject of a photograph was no different. They seemed to transform to their darkest shade of crimson if ever the lens of a camera happened to catch her unaware. (I often wondered if she harbored an undisclosed fear that the camera might reveal her innermost secrets, the way she habitually averted her eyes ever so slightly so as not to look directly at the "soul catcher’s" lens.) Practically every candid picture of her seemed to capture the moment just before she settled into a pose.

Regardless of her camera shy ways, here she stood, in this photograph, next to her pixie of a daughter. Her loose blouse covering an uncharacteristically swollen belly- the universal sign of new life to come.


If anyone else had happened upon this photo, they would’ve seen just that- an adorable little girl and an expectant mother. Even if they had lingered for a moment to comment on the mischievous sparkle in the child’s eyes or to take in the unassuming beauty of the woman next to her, the contents of the photo wouldn’t have held much significance for the viewer.


Unless you were this particular viewer.

On this particular day.....

There was a reverence in the room as she sat sorting through her father's belongings. It's what you do when a loved one passes away, no matter how deep the pain or heart wrenching the act.  But she was familiar with the task. It was only a year earlier that she had been in that very room packing up perfume bottles and worn down lipsticks with her father sitting silently at the kitchen table in the next room. And now, that image still fresh in her mind, she returned to the room, this final time, ceremoniously  folding up worn plaid shirts and placing them in boxes.

Memories flickered in and out of her mind like an old movie strip as she opened drawers and cleaned out closets. She forged ahead, doing her best to focus on the work in front of her- anything to avoid the emptiness of the room, which, only days earlier, had housed the warmth and comfort of her father. It was only after she came across a tattered shoe box, high on the closet shelf, filled with old photographs, that she allowed herself to succumb to the wave of emotions swirling around her. Her tears blurred the faded faces that looked back at her. She poured over the photos, smiling to herself  as she recalled the priceless moments each one captured.


At first glance she didn't notice anything unusual about the next picture. She probably marveled at her mother's beauty and admired her younger self's white-blond curls. Until she noticed her mother's flowing top was sheltering a round, protruding abdomen.


Her mother was pregnant.


This seemed impossible at first because, though there were three older siblings above her, there were none younger than her. She was the baby.


How could this be?


Her mind searched for answers but the confusion soon faded into sorrow as the situation became clear.

Her chest grew tight and she blinked back a fresh stream of tears as she slowly realized  the weight of what she was ultimately witnessing;


Her mother had been pregnant....

until she wasn't.


She lost the baby.




Years after my grandparents had passed away- somewhere in the middle of our trials with pregnancy- my mother shared this heartbreaking discovery with me. She also shared the flood of images that suddenly made their way into her conscience memory in the weeks following the unearthing of that precious picture.

....my grandmother packing for the hospital.

....my mom going to stay at her "Auntie's" house for a length of time.

....watching as my grandmother laundered and hung a basket of maternity clothes on the line to dry, packed them up, and sent them to the local thrift store while stating cooly:

"I won't be needing these anymore."


After that, she never spoke of it again.


My heart dropped to my stomach as I pictured my Grandma calmly boxing up her emotions, just as she had her clothes, and storing them on some abandoned shelf, behind a door she vowed  never to open again. I imagined there were days when an unexpected trigger led her right back to the dreaded door. When life sent her into a spiral of despair and those feelings she so carefully boxed up made an unwanted appearance, disrupting the numbed state that had become so comfortable to her, so necessary to continue.


And I wept for her.



Because this was not her only loss. In fact, no one knows the exact number of miscarriages she suffered. But what we do know, is that she struggled and she spent a great deal of her life trying to pick up the pieces of her broken and battered heart. Although she did her best never to speak the actual causes of her distress, they couldn't be contained. When she wasn't careful, it would seep slowly into her everyday, or sometimes, erupt-


with a BANG.



And I weep, because I know this all too well. Because I inherited this dangerous trait. Because, somewhere, down a dark hallway, stands a door to the closet where my most painful and uncomfortable memories sit. Each one delicately placed in it's own box, high on a shelf, meant for no one to see......and for me to forget.

But we never really forget.



I found myself exactly in this state of denial as I sat there, once again, fiddling with the crinkly paper liner of the exam table. Half  listening to our OB explain the progesterone treatments and blood thinners that he was certain were going to "do the trick" this time.


It hurt to be back here.


I had become such a pro at nodding and smiling during these discussions with Dr. F.  I had come to expect, well,  failure for lack of a better word and today was no exception. Strangely, I had become comfortable with defeat. But suddenly, with his guarantees of "effectiveness" and stories of past successes, a new emotion was trying to break free from it's box high on a shelf:


hope.


And with that one word, all the other feelings that I had so "cleverly" abandoned came rushing back as if I was feeling them for the first time.


It was the most terrifying sensation.


On the drive home I found myself purposefully staring straight ahead. I did my best to avoid the crisp, white packages I'd received from the pharmacist that lay on the passengers seat next to me. They had already done enough damage to my facade. I felt my protective outer shell weaken as our doctors words echoed in my mind.

This could work.

Once again I felt the familiar sting of emotions I had long since banished from my heart. I wasn't sure I had the strength to go back there.

Because in truth, my body had already begun rejecting this 8th pregnancy and I couldn't imagine that packages as small and seemingly worthless as these could contain the miracle I had been praying for.


I sat in front of my husband, discouraged, as I recounted my thoughts about taking this "new road" to fertility.


It was pointless.

We'll only get our hearts broken.


My sweet husband looked straight at me and held tightly to my quivering hands.


"Let's take this one chance. Please."



That was all it took.


There in his eyes, I saw enough strength for the both of us. He was the reason I could continue on. Because no matter what lie ahead, I had married the most beautiful safety net.


With doubts still firmly planted in my mind, we held hands



and jumped.



I'm pretty sure neither one of us took a deep breath for nine months straight.



At first, the familiar symptoms of miscarriage continued. I had been bleeding for weeks and was positive no amount of "magic pills" could save this fledgling pregnancy. However, after several weeks of  progesterone treatments, I began to notice a change.

The bleeding stopped.

The heartbeat continued.

......and I.felt.HORRIBLE.


You would think that last one would've sent me into a panic or at the very least,  cause a few curse words to escape from under my breath, but no. I was elated!! I was never so happy to throw up in my trash can at work or bless the existence of a Big Gulp cup in my car during the commute home. Every time my body rejected last night's spaghetti or an early morning bowl of cereal, it gave me further hope that it wouldn't reject our baby. (I don't think I've ever written something so gross yet so sweet in all my life.)


HOPE.

There it was again.



Only this time I chose to ran towards that dark hallway,

throw open the closet door

and stand on the tips of my toes to reach the dusty box that  Hope called home.


And I wept.


Because I had missed it so. Because I was empty without it. Because I was ashamed that it took me so long to get here.


It's not very brave, finding hope only after things start to go your way.  I was disappointed in my lack of faith, at how broken I had become.


I said a prayer of gratitude for my husband- my marvelous lifetime supply of  fortitude, all wrapped up in a handsome bow. His strength was the reason we were here. He chose to look for miracles. He was the reason I found hope.



It wasn't long after that we found ourselves driving down a familiar road to a familiar building. We had made it to the fourth month. I wouldn't have believed it if not for the soda crackers and apple juice I had stashed in my purse to stave off the nausea. We smiled nervously at each other as we made our way back to the ultra sound room.

As if the thrill of hearing that precious heartbeat wasn't enough, today we would find out the sex of our little miracle. Old habits seemed to die hard, as together we drew deep breaths and listened- hoping for the best, but secretly preparing for the opposite.


THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP


If a choir of angels had been in the room singing arias from heaven, I don't think they would've compared to the beauty of that sound.


We released what seemed like the longest breath in history and chose instead to cut off each other's circulation with a "hand hold" that rivaled the U.S. Arm Wrestling Championship while we turned our attention to the ultrasound monitor. This was it. We were about to give our baby a name.


"Alright, let's see...." 

Dr.F quietly hummed to himself as he examined the images on the screen, and then-


"It looks to me like you're gonna have to get used to pink......'cuz it's a girl!"


A GIRL!


It's a wonder our poor, weary hearts didn't explode with excitement.


I looked over at my beaming husband and wiped a tear from his cheek, ignoring the downpour of tears gushing from my own eyes. We had cried in this very room so many times before, but never these tears.

Oh how we relished in these tears of happiness, of relief and gratitude. If we had thought about it at the time, I'm pretty sure we would have bottled them up and set them on a shelf where we could see them everyday.


After a slew of ecstatic phone calls to loved ones, and hours of  playing "what will she look/act/think/talk/be like", the night turned quiet, making way for one last resolution.

"We've cried enough," Adam declared, more to himself than to me.

"I'm not going to cry again until our daughter is in my arms."


And he didn't.



Because thankfully, the next 5 months were filled with nothing but giddy anticipation and readying our home for the precious little rosebud. (Okay, there were quite a few dashes to the ladies room, restless nights, hormone induced freak outs and over flowing bladders as well-  but they far out weighed the alternative.) The anxiety didn't leave us completely. There were quite a few days I stood waiting for the other shoe to drop. But for the most part, we had a calm assurance that everything really would be


 just fine.



I was induced, so there wasn't any surprising "Oh my gosh! My water just broke in this taxi/grocery store/elevator!" moment, which I was slightly bummed about, seeing as how they always looked so exciting in the movies. No matter. We had plenty of excitement pulsing through our veins as we pushed through the   intimidatingly large double doors leading to the maternity ward. At one point, I couldn't stop shaking, thanks to my nerves, causing a pretty funny "c-can't get my pants off to p-put my gown on" moment. (Not as funny as the movies, but I did what I could.)

My nerves calmed a bit and we seemed to settle into a rythym that included ice chips, old movies, and cat naps (most of which were interupted when some random person in scrubs came to check out "the business".) It seemed an eternity before I felt a strange sensation and suddenly broke into a cold sweat. I felt nauseous and irritated. I had heard about this feeling from other mothers.

"Transistion"

or  in other words,

"The baby is COMING!"

I called for the nurses who immediately informed me that since this was my first baby, she was sure I still had a long way to go....

.....until she checked out "the business".


"Um, we're gonna need the doctor in here STAT!" 

("STAT?" I guess I did get my movie moment.)


The rest of the experience seemed to be a whirlwind of laytex gloves and people yelling " 1-2-3-PUSH!" (Which I did because I'm very obedient.) It wasn't until I saw the doctor holding up a bright pink, squirming/screaming angel that the chaos faded away.

 No, stopped.


I stared for a moment in disbelief. The doctor, seeing my state of shock, sweetly prompted me,

"Go ahead. Take your baby".  (Which, again, I did because of the whole "obedient" thing.)


I was trembling.


So was she.

A big, beautifully delicious vault of "mother's instinct" seemed to open up right then as I instinctively held her close and soflty "shh-shh-shh" and "it's okay-ed" my new baby girl.



"We've been wondering when you would get here,"  I whispered into her tiny ear.

"Welcome home."



The feelings that rush over you when you hold your baby for the first time are so overwhelming, so divine. It's quite impossible to put them into words. Your heart expands and fills up with so much love,  it's almost painful. You will never forget it, and yet, you can never quite reach that moment again. It's true description lies in a word that can never be defined.

While I sat, staring at our little rosebud- fresh from heaven, I heard the sound of stiffled sobs coming from the chair next to me.


He had kept his promise but now, the levy broke.


And he wept.


Because he didn't have to be strong anymore. Because the nurse called him "Daddy". Because he could hardly comprehend the love he had for our precious bunny. Because he was witnessing a miracle.


Our miracle.







It's hard to admit (mostly because that ending makes my heart do a happy dance) but our struggles did not end there. There was another loss after our sweet Ava and a very scary beginning to our second miracle, Miss Mia.  But that's just it- we were given a second miracle! They aren't rationed out like mashed potatoes from the lunch lady. Miracles can come to us over and over again- in all forms. The time table can be confusing and down right painful, but they will come. 


Even if you have to walk through fire to get to them.




We will always need the miracle of science and medicine to build our family. But, I know that I'm not alone in this struggle. I know and love many who have suffered similar losses, and many who have suffered losses I would never be strong enough to overcome. It's these unsung heros that give me strength, fill me up, and remind me of the gifts I've been given on the days when I almost forget.

Heros like my sweet Grandma.


I picture her now,  gathering up the little angels that have yet to come, cradling those who came and went to quickly.


..and the tears fall once more.


The good kind.


Because I can see her, basking in the sunlight where there used to be darkness.

Because I can hear her, rocking my little ones-to-be and whispering, "Not just yet."

Because I can feel her....




....and that gives me hope.

Trying (Part 1: The Baby Machine)

Brrrrriiiiinnggg!



The sound of the bell always invoked unrestrained jubilation from the class. Even I, the consummate "rule follower", couldn't help but release the muted squeal I usually reserved for special occasions, such as a Scott Baio mall sighting or when I impressed Suzi Benham after layering six pairs of technicolored scrunchie socks over my pegged jeans. (She dotted her "i's" with hearts, wore Liz Claiborne perfume, and had fuchsia rubber bands on her braces. She was my idol.)

I hurriedly shoved books and a few stray papers into my desk and joined the army of classmates lined up at the door. We waited, impatiently, while our teacher gathered a few papers to grade and fumbled around for her keys.

"OK kids, I'll see you back here in a-"

I'm pretty sure she gave us some instructions, but I couldn't hear a thing. The stampede had begun and we were out the door like a flash.

RECESS!!

We ran every which way, frantically racing to claim our playground territories. You would most likely find the boys over by the basketball courts, a large brick "dodge ball wall", or the tether ball polls. (A few brave girls would beg to play with them- but there was no way I was risking a fat lip or - horror of horrors- a scuff mark on my imitation Sam & Libby flats.)


My friends and I usually kept to a wide wrap-around sidewalk, the swing sets, or a large grassy area under some lofty pine trees. From month to month our activity of choice would vary. Some weeks we were obsessed with jumping rope (up to and including begging the teachers to let us bring a boom box outside so that our double dutch routines could be underscored by Debbie Gibson's "Electric Youth".) Others had us racing to the swings to play "Underdog". But my favorite playground pass time had to be the hours we spent playing games underneath the shady trees.



We had a fairly democratic system in place where each of us had a chance to pick the game of the day- except for those few occasions where Mean Girls decided to strong arm "someone in the group" into changing her vote. (But I'm not bitter.) I can't really blame those girls, though. (Hi Becky and Holly!) I wasn't exactly known for "mixing it up" with my game choice. In fact, if it was my turn to choose, you could almost bet that I would pick the same activity every time:



"Mother May I"



You just ran to play dodge ball with the boys, didn't you?


Don't run off yet! This wasn't your little sister's game of "May I". (Ok, maybe it was. But I was 8 years old! Did you think we'd be smoking behind the bleachers or giving each other safety pin/Sharpie marker tattoos?!?)

At any rate, if you were close enough to the few trees that protectively stood over our grassy playground, you would inevitably hear delirious giggles from a group of silly girls doing their best to make each other laugh with their calls for "One huge hiccuping hippopotamus step" or "Three galloping gorilla steps". It is also a pretty safe bet that more often than not, you would find a certain gawky, hazel-eyed girl adding as many inches to her steps as possible so that she could reach the most coveted destination- Mother!

Oh, I loooooved being the "Mother". I loved being in charge. I loved having the control. I loved seeking out the girl who was farthest behind and giving her a few extra large "kangaroo hops" so that she could catch up. (I also used my powers for evil and held back a few chums that didn't share their fruit roll-ups with me during lunch. I know. Passive aggressive much?) Nothing made me happier than having that most important role.

And it wasn't just on the playground. I looked for ways to "play mother" throughout my entire childhood. I constantly got into power struggles with the sweet babysitters my parents hired to care for us. I can vividly remember dragging my infant brother up the stairs with a bologna sandwich and a bottle of formula and locking us both in my room. "I can take care of him ALL BY MYSELF!" I was completely outraged that this adult would question my 9 year old mothering capabilities. Sadly, even my own mother had to lock herself in the bedroom so that she could have some time with her new baby without a certain pig-tailed daughter hovering over her shoulder, critiquing her burping technique. "He likes to face forward so he can see us!" (I was a delightful child. *nervous laughter*)

I was born wanting to mother.

I coddled all of my siblings (including bossing around my big brother- until he decided that he'd had enough.) I babysat every neighborhood child. I even made play dates with friends specifically to play with their baby sisters/brothers. ( I was a great friend. *more nervous laughter*.) It seemed that the desire to be a mother coursed through me as naturally as the blood that flows through my veins.

And so it was inevitable that almost nine years ago, I would somehow convince my sweet husband of less than 6 months that it was time for us to have a baby.

I wasn't surprised when it happened quickly. I was overjoyed that I was finally leaving my games of pretend and make-believe behind and embarking on the real live journey that is motherhood. We held hands as we walked up the driveway to my parent's house. I didn't even make it past the entry way before I squeezed Adam's arm, giving him the signal to release our joyous news. I knew he had to be the one to tell them, because all I would do is cry.

I was right.

I hugged my parents as the happy tears ran down my cheeks. My Mom followed suit and shed a few tears of her own while the men quickly blinked to clear the mist from their eyes.

It was a happy day.

A few weeks later we found ourselves waiting in the doctor's office. I shifted my weight from side to side and nervously adjusted the paper "modesty blanket" so as to find an angle that looked even slightly flattering. (There isn't one.) Adam flipped through "Woman's Daily" and commented on some article about menopause when the doctor finally came in. Today we would get to see our little munchkin for the first time.

I yelped when I felt the ice cold gel hit my stomach- which sent me into a fit of nervous giggles. We leaned in as close as possible while Dr. F ran the transducer (totally Googled that word) in circles on my belly to show a tiny peanut on the screen.

"There's the sac and there's the baby!" he proudly exclaimed, as if he were responsible for putting it there.

That was all we needed. This little peanut was ours.

Ours.

On the ride home we flooded the car with talk about baby names, nursery colors, and what he/she would be when he/she grew up. This baby was our future.

Another week had passed when I was eased awake by a terrible feeling. I jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom and held my breath. I sat there for a moment until a voice inside my head screamed at me to get up and call the doctor.

A nurse on the other line did her best to reassure me.

"Spotting is normal in the first trimester. I'm sure everything's fine- but we'll have you come in for some tests just to be certain."

I called a good friend whose sister had recently lost a baby. Her voice took on the same tone as the nurse's while she recounted a similar comforting speech.

"I'm sure it will be fine."

Adam gripped my hand as we walked back into the doctor's office. I watched them remove dark red vials of blood from my arm.

Dr. F grinned through his scruffy beard, "We'll just run these up to the lab and make sure your levels are progressing. Try not to get upset, ok?"

We really did try.

We listened intently as family and friends related similar stories- stories that turned out just fine.

We prayed together for the safe keeping of our little one.

We smiled through our days, hoping that somewhere we were getting points for "good attitudes".

But my worries got the best of me one Saturday morning. I knew the only thing that would make me feel "fine" would be to see our little peanut again. The wait for the ER would be tiresome, but worth it. Surprisingly they ushered us in pretty quickly. Again I found myself draped in paper as the technician gelled up my belly. This time, my nerves outranked the shock from the cold liquid.

"Hmmm...." the tech hummed as he searched the monitor. "Are you sure you didn't miscarry?"

His simple question punched me in the gut. Somehow, I let a string of words escape my mouth.

"Wha- what do you mean?" I mumbled. I knew what he meant.

"Sorry, Hun. There's nothing but an empty sac. You must've miscarried. I'll go leave a message for your doctor."

White hot tears flooded my face.

That was it?! That's how you tell someone they've lost their baby?? "Sorry, Hun?!?!!" He may as well have just yelled,"Psych!!!"

Focusing on Mr. Jerk Face offered me a respite from the devastating truth that was just revealed.

Until I looked over at my sweet husband, that is. He was smiling at me, trying to reassure me that everything was alright- but his pale face and empty eyes let me know that it wasn't.

We were flooded with love. Our families, friends and doctors enveloped us with their kind words and comforting hugs. We were hurt and confused- but hopeful. We wanted to move forward. A minor surgery helped me move on from the physical ramifications of miscarrying. Only one thing would help me heal emotionally-

We needed to try again.

Within months I found myself back in a room with my furry faced doctor, grinning as he handed me iron supplements and anti-nausea meds. We were elated to have this second chance! We were cautious, but certain that our previous experience was merely a false start. We walked on verbal eggshells- careful not to chatter too loudly on the way home about our joyous news, as if the heavens might hear and realize their mistake. But within weeks we found ourselves excitingly sharing the news with our loved ones.

We had only one more visit to the doctor before my body decided to reject our little one for the second time.

Dr. F took hold of my hand as we sat quietly sobbing, listening to our options. Once again any physical traces of that little life were removed and we were back at zero. I began to wonder if this was more than just another false start- if there was something wrong with me- but I quickly brushed it aside. After all, if I was to make this dream come true for us than we would have to try again, and soon.

It was as though my heart had been encased in metal and my mind morphed into the wiry insides of a hard drive. I became some cheesy robot from an 80's movie who's mission was to procreate. "Must have baby" ran through my thoughts on a ticker tape. I could feel my mushy insides being turned to aluminum and all I could do was mechanically forge ahead.

"Third times a charm" was not the case for us. It felt like a cruel joke as we sat in the same office, on the same pleather chairs, hearing the same words, from the same man. The "Christy-bot" had taken hold and I felt myself stiffen when he suggested that we should take some time before we tried for another baby. The very thought caused a short circuit in my heart.

I listened from some far away place as my metallic voice calmly assured our sweet doctor that we were fine to try again.

Just fine.

Our fourth pregnancy was quietly celebrated. We were careful to share the news with only a few family members. Sadly, it was at a family gathering when the dream once again slipped through our fingers. It was too painful and too far gone to leave. Instead, Adam wrapped his big beautiful arms around me and we cried together in the comfort of my parent's bed.

I remember the anguish on my Mother's face as she ran back and forth bringing me water and heating pads.

She brushed the hair out of my eyes and put her cheek next to mine.

" I don't know how to help you."

As those words left her mouth I could almost hear her heart brake. She had been healing me with her love, her medicine and her words since I was seconds old. But this was something she had never experienced- and her helplessness in the situation left a visible wound.

Little did she know that her touch alone has healing power. Her hugs brought us through that night and reminded me why I so desperately wanted to be a mother- to be like her.

It didn't take long after that experience for me to run back to the comfort of my protective shell. Something had broken inside of me. I had completely disconnected from the warmth of emotion, fearing if I let myself feel even the tiniest feeling it might all be too much.

I sent my robotic surrogate out into the world and found that life was much easier to handle. The only Kryptonite to my super strength plan was seeing pain reflected in the eyes of my loved ones.

It was unbearable watching my friends and family tilt their heads when they inquired about our progress.

It was torture running into old friends pushing brightly colored strollers while they schooled me on the in's and out's of motherhood.

It was agony seeing my husband crumble into tears when life got quiet.....

.... and we were alone.

Every warm hug, every sympathetic tear came dangerously close to destroying my perfect plans to feel nothing and forge ahead.

Must have baby.

It was this skewed, short circuited mind that made the decision to continue this journey in secret.

The next two pregnancies were shared with no one.

Not even my husband.

I hid all evidence of their existence.

I sat alone as the pink lines confirmed what my intuition told me days before.

And I cried alone- soft, stifled sobs- as they were inevitably and painfully,

taken.

One day I found myself stopped at a red light, hypnotized by the soft hum of the engine. As I stared blankly into the intersection, my robo-thoughts began to take over my mind.

You're causing everyone too much pain.

I nodded in agreement.

He would be better off with someone who wasn't broken.

I wiped away an involuntary tear.

Step on the gas!

My hands trembled and my knees shook as I willed my foot to release the brake and speed into oncoming traffic. But no matter how hard I tried to relinquish my spirit to this dark, defective armor, I couldn't- I wouldn't let go of life.

I needed help.

It was not easy to admit my failures, but it was necessary if I was ever going to emerge from the iron cocoon I had called home for too many years.

Slowly but surely, I allowed my pain to show through. I cried with my husband and grabbed hold of my family. I spent many a prayer filled with gratitude for the incredible support system we had been blessed with. It was about time I utilized them.

On the morning of our first appointment with a new doctor to discuss fertility treatments, I felt a familiar pang.

I was pregnant.

Before they began the long list of tests they had planned, I told them I needed a pregnancy test. (Which made me look six kinds of crazy since we were there for fertility.)

The news was positive, as I knew it would be. But we had been down this road before, and it was bleak. I felt my body rejecting the baby as it had many times before. It seemed our life had become some horrible, twisted version of "Groundhog Day."

Until our kind and trusted "Jon Denver look-a-like" doctor came into the room with a box of tissues....

.....and a kernel of hope.

REALly.

Well, blast.


It's come to my attention that there's been a trend among the blogging elite as of late. It seems that many blog-hers have decided to get all awesome and brave and post "real" pictures of themselves sans makeup (eek!) and tell the "real" ugly truth about their lives in an attempt to feel liberated and to let their readers know a little more about who they are.

Now, I'm pretty content with the fact that I can edit my posts a million times- transforming every humiliating line until it doesn't make me openly gag with contempt. (I know what you're thinking. If this is me "editing" than what could possibly have been left on the cutting room floor that would make me look like more of a doofus? You'd be surprised. I have a large capacity for all things doof.)

Why then, would anyone want to forsake the great power of the delete button and the divine beautification of photo shop to put themselves out there for the world to see.......all nek-ked n' stuff?

Because they are earless.

They are without ears.

Not really- but I missed the "f" key while typing "fearless" and it made me laugh to think of a gaggle of earless bloggers. *giggle, snort...... sigh*

(See? Major doofus. This is where I would usually do some mad editing. I'm pretty sure you're begging for that delete key now, aren't ya?)

Ahem. *clears throat*

Sorry. I'll try that again.

I'm lucky enough to know some incredibly fearless people. (All of whom have their ears.) So often I just observe their bravery and never do anything to emulate it. It's pretty comfy being the official observer- but also pretty stagnant. I really want to be more like the people I so greatly admire.

Therefore, whether it's the fact that all the sugar that usually courses through my veins has been ousted by a 48 hour stomach bug (my body is so confused without cake that it's shutting down) or the womb-like comfort I'm receiving from my Christmas "Snuggie" (aka: Blessed "blanket with sleeves" that allows you the freedom to type, read, get a perm, play backgammon, or attend your High School reunion while being cradled by fleece.) I have stupidly decided to play brave and join the "Real" movement. I hope I'll still have a friend or two when this is all over. If not- my Snuggie is a good cuddler and a great listener.

Step #1 of Project Real:

Post a picture of yourself "au natural"- without a stitch of make-up.

Sure! No problem.

Here it is! Aren't you so proud of me?

What's that you say? Too small?! Doesn't count?! Fair enough. How 'bout this?

You don't want to see what the hand is covering. It's quite possible I'm earless.

ACK!

This is hard.

Why is such a stupid thing so stupidly hard for me to do?!

(This brings me to the second half of the challenge: Step #2 of Project Real: Post the deep, dark, REAL tidbits of your life that are hard- maybe even excruciating- to admit.)

Well.....

*I suppose it could be because I've been wearing the comforting mask that is "make-up" since 7th grade.

*There's a chance it's because I've come to rely on that mask so much that even my own family hasn't seen me without it except for the very rarest occasion such as a 5am airport pick-up or because I cried it all off watching The Notebook.

*Perhaps it's because I'm one of those weirdos who needs to apply the full mask for things like: trips to the ER, camping, working out, and giving birth (both times).

*It's possible that it might have something to do with the fact that I'm so neurotic, my girlfriends have strict instructions that if I should ever fall into a coma, they are to visit me daily with my Kaboodle (remember those?!) of make-up and dutifully paint, pluck, and preen my gauze wrapped face, so as not to offend the attending doctors and nurses.

It's pathetic, no?

But this is me. The "real" me who hides behind a wall of bronzer and lip gloss because she's too afraid to be real. The ugly truth of the matter is that if money was no object I'd probably be one of those scary "Cat Ladies" who has her plastic surgeon on speed dial and injects baboon booty fat into her cheeks.

Growing old gracefully...

Yeah. It's a scary thought. (Rawr!) But what really scares me, is that I'm suppose to be an example- nay, THE example- to 2 beautiful little girls. Little girls who haven't yet been influenced by the billboards, magazines, movies and TV shows that have me reaching for a paper bag to hide what I'm convinced is the opposite of what "they" think I should be.

I'm approaching 30, and I have to be honest, I thought I'd be over this social angst by now. I've been told since I was 20 how much easier it is to be "in your 30's". How self assured you become. How comfortable in your own skin. I fully expected to be floating around in my "Mama Cass" muumuu, barefoot, face scrubbed clean, preaching of the "natural beauty of the natural woman."

Instead I remain a scared, shivering little girl with a bag over her head.

Some example! (She says sarcastically.)

Fortunately, there is one pebble of knowledge that has wedged itself securely into the heel of my "twenty something" shoe as I travel to the "thirty and beyond" off ramp. And that is: with hard work and courage, we are capable of change. The good kind too! Not just the "change into stretchy pants because I was hard at work eating pecan pie" kind of change. Yum! But-no. I'm referring to the wonderful and fulfilling,"venture into the terrifying unknown and come out even stronger than ever" kind of change.

I know this because I have living, breathing examples of bravery all around me. My mother, who has never met a challenge she didn't like and/or master. My father, who left everything comfortable and easy behind so that his family would have a better life. My husband, who took a leap of faith on a silly Mormon girl and the religion she loves.

I have known people who have lost babies, been close to death with sickness, endured concentration camps, abuse and poverty. But the endings have been the same- with hard work and copious amounts of courage- they made a change for the better. They fought back, and flourished.

Some example. (She says, thankfully.)

With this knowledge- it's laughable that such a trivial challenge would cause my palms to sweat and my heart to palpitate. Perhaps it's because I know that if I can make this first baby step in the direction of change, I'll be that much closer to removing "the mask" for good.

Maybe some day soon, I'll see it less as a wall to hide behind and more of a way to enhance the beauty that is already there.

That's the lesson my little ones deserve.

The paper bag is off. The cosmetic crutch, nowhere in site. Without even the safety net of a side swept bang to hide behind- I give you the remnants of a stringy haired, pale faced, flu-torn, almost "thirty something" in full view.

Baby steps.....

I'm tearing up at the very thought of my tens of elevens of readers seeing this.

And yes- I am aware that my lips have the pigment of saran wrap.

Open Letter

To you who are "mine"-

It is no surprise that during the holiday season my thoughts would turn to the many blessings and countless gifts we have received throughout the year. It seems I've been in a constant state of reflection for the last several weeks. I look around at the beautiful life that, for some reason, my Heavenly Father deemed me worthy to be part of, and I can scarcely catch my breath.

I am blessed.

As I sat in a testimony meeting today, listening to the sentiments of those brave enough to face the stares of an entire congregation, I couldn't help but envy their public declarations of gratitude. Hand me a script or any opportunity to perform a self-deprecating joke and the spotlight doesn't seem so scary.

But crack open my heart, revealing a mushy, vulnerable center of simmering emotions and I shut down like an airport during a snow storm (If airports could sob uncontrollably and cause mascara to run down the tarmac.)

I wish I was better at seizing the fleeting opportunities to express the love I feel for the family and friends that have taken hold of my hand, tenderly guarded my heart, and lovingly scolded me when forgetting to believe in myself.

The lessons I've learned from you could fill a library of textbooks.

You've taught me to be strong in the face of adversity.

You've taught me that laughter (paired with cake) really is the best medicine.

You've taught me about sacrifice and service.

You've taught me that friends can be sisters and sisters can be best friends.

You've taught me the beauty of mercy, compassion and forgiveness.

You've taught me, and sheltered me, and pushed me, and cried with me, and carried me.

I wish you could see the the magnificent view from where I stand everyday. The exquisite sea of faces who've gathered around me. The kindly souls who've taken on the sometimes difficult, very often boring and nearly always, poorly paid job of being "my family".

You're so lovely from here.

And here is where I sit tonight.

My swollen eyes overflowing with gratitude. My mushy heart, open and exposed. My fingers hesitantly typing each vulnerable phrase.

I love you.

Thank you for loving me.

The Other Woman

My Blog made me type in my entire password before she would let me in. I think she's giving me the silent treatment for being so neglectful.

Can you send a blog flowers?

I can't blame her for being upset. I was unfaithful after all.



*hangs head in shame*



But it wasn't my fault! I was seduced......by her younger, cunning, more attractive sister.




Oh, she made it so easy for me. Lovingly asking, "What's on your mind?" every time I came to call. And she didn't nag me to write out every single detail of my life.




No.




She was satisfied by a simple phrase like: "Christy is eating a loaf of bread." or "Christy is knitting a cat sweater."

She was constantly introducing me to friends-hundreds of them! Every time I stopped by they would be there, waiting to tell me how they "just started a load of laundry" or what character from T.V.'s the "A -Team" they were most like. (Murdock!)

I bet Mr. T is his "friend".

She adorned me with dazzling Flair, flooded me with pictures of everyone's exotic trips to Europe, Hawaii and The Olive Garden, and all around wooed me with the thrill of instant gratification.

I fell in love.......

But love is blind, isn't it?

A lesson I learned one day after being lured to Her page by the red sign in the corner of my screen.

"You have 3 notifications," she purred.

I clicked on it and clapped. "Goody!!"

The excitement was almost unbearable as my mind sifted through the endless combinations of virtual gifts awaiting me on Her homepage.

"Maybe she has a new comment for me on my 'Christy eating a churro' picture? Ooh, I know, it's a new friend request! Or, OR......maybe someone WROTE ON MY WALL!!"

"You have (3) new Know-It-All Trivias to play today." she coldly replied.

Wha? 'Trivia'? She brought me here for trivia?!?

Annoyed, I continued to scroll down through what seemed to be an ever-growing list of , well.......junk.

"SecretCrushes predicts which of your friends might have a crush on you! Find out who they are NOW!"

"New Quiz of the Day: What farm animal are you?"

"Buy a Hired Thug in 'Mafia Wars'!"

"FARKLE! Get more points when you play!"

I did not like this side of her.

Every impersonal request seemed to scream what I- blinded by the thrill of social networking- had refused to see all along.

She was using me.

After all, she did have millions of other "Friends" to attend to.

Friends who would Farkle.

She enticed me with the promise of reconnecting with friends, the ease of communicating in toddler-like sentences ("Christy @ Target. Buying waffle maker.") and the high of having 300+ Friends at your disposal. But in the end, she's just a working girl, doing her best to make a living. She wants us there so we will to click on "Oprah's Acai berry diet" ad, become 'fans' of Air Quotes, and add every quiz application known to man.

But,you know what? That's ok. Because we've come to an understanding, she and I. We are both more fully aware of what we expect from each other. She lets me post pictures of the first day of school so that my friends and family can "ooh" and "ahh" over Ava's Hello Kitty backpack, and I let her bombard me with advertisements for "Red Bull taste testers" and Landscaping Companies. I've pulled away ever so slightly so that I can (try to) dedicate a little time to the whole story again.

Which is how I find myself here, at the doorstep of my trusty blog, begging for forgiveness. Wracking my brain for the dozens of little anecdotes and stories worth remembering that need a welcoming place to dwell. A place to write my triumphs, fears, embarrassments, and greatest joys. The only journal I've even partially stuck with.


And hopefully, with time, my posterity will learn that I am a little more than "Most likely to be Tootie from 'Facts of Life' ".

It's good to be home.

He's been searching for you on Facebook!

PS. I'm still a FB lover- loud and proud! Once an addict.....

PPS. I've also been horrible at keeping up with YOUR blogs! I need to repent. I promise I will get started neglecting my children so that I can catch up. xoxo

RUN FOR IT

Athleticism and I go together about as well as the "Baby Mamas" and their recently lie detector tested husbands on any episode of Maury Povich.


Someone curses. Someone cries.



Someone is hit in the head with a folding chair.



"Someone" is me.




I cringe when I think about the first time my poor husband (fiancé at the time) playfully tossed a ball my way.



"Catch!"




His skilled throw had aimed the ball to fall perfectly in my hands. I only needed to raise my open palm 3 inches to complete the exercise.



I chose, instead, to swat at the ball and squeal, "Eek!" as if it were a giant, circular insect.




I watched as Adam's expression turned from shock to shame and eventually, pity. There is a very real possibility that if we hadn't already put a sizable down payment on our wedding, that he might've bolted right then.



I'm hopeless.



I couldn't even run the required mile in Freshman P.E. I walked it, and then ran...... to get my inhaler.


*puff, wheeeeze*



So it makes perfect sense that 9 months ago, when my friend Linsey asked if I would join her and 10 other skilled runners in Utah for the Wasatch Back 24 hour ragnar relay race (from Logan to Salt Lake) that I said,


"Sure!"


I think I've taken one too many folded chair hits to the head.




Whether is was a previous brain injury or that Linsey bribed me with the promise of a "karaoke all nighter" when I completed the race, I agreed to run all day and all night through the mountainous Utah terrain.


Who do I think I am!?



I know who I'm not........a runner.


Which became very apparent on my first day of training. I reported to the track, pretended I knew how to stretch, and geared up for the run. Halfway through the first minute I had to stop for fear my burning lungs would burst and bloody my new pretty running shoes.


Thirty seconds!?


I was disgusted with myself. I hated that feeling.

But I liked the idea of conquering it. So I went back the next day, and started again.



Thirty seconds became a minute. A minute became five. I was even able to pass the older gentleman who walked in the morning with his oxygen tank rolling behind him. (Passing him without the tank would take another month.)

Physically, I was beginning to improve. (I could stave off wheezing for a whole 10 minutes!) But mentally, I was on shaky ground.

I felt like an impostor. (An impostor in really fancy running shoes, but an impostor none the less.) There was not an ounce of grace in my stride, I was embarrassingly slow, and I still cradled my inhaler like a long lost friend.

How would I ever pull this off?

One day, while in the middle of a raging "This is hard!" pity party, I clicked on a blog link posted by my lovely and amazing friend, Melanie.

"Shelby's Journey" it read, in bold across the top of the screen.

I scrolled down through the months, back to the beginning of her story, when one of the posts caught my eye. Melanie had written this post for her sister. Shelby couldn't make it to the computer that day.

Shelby is not one to complain. And hasn't. I just wanted to let you all know that she has been quite sick this weekend. The weeks of chemo have finally caught up with her and she is sick and tired, has sores all over in her mouth, throat and intestines. Her fingers have lost most of the feeling in them now and she has a hard time keeping hold of stuff. She says she is dropping a lot on the floor because she just can't grip right. Her fingernails have finally started turning black and she is just feeling pretty rotten. I am so glad she won't have to go in Wed for another treatment. Please keep her in your prayers this week - especially tomorrow. We want that PET scan to be Cancer free! I love you Shel. I am sorry you are feeling yuck.

My "pity party" transformed into a lump in my throat. This beautiful, young mother of 4 had Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma and was in the fight of her life. I continued reading Shelby's story, astounded at her courage, envious of her wit.


I've had a few different people ask me if i want to just sit down and throw a little pity-party sometimes. I don't. And its not because I'm a marvel or a super-hero. I have made lists over and over in my mind of all the bad and all the good that has come of this. The good list is much, much longer than the bad list and I think I would be so ungrateful to feel sorry for myself for one minute. There are things that I don't like, obviously! My fingers and toes are numb on the ends... and now my heels, too. My taste buds come and go. I have sores in my throat and weird jaw pain. I'm tired and sick sometimes. I'm bald. And there's other stuff. BUT I have felt all the love everyone in the world has for me and have been served daily by friends and family.

I wiped my tears and grabbed my running shoes. Her story had given me strength. I made a quiet vow to think of Shelby, the most inspiring person I had never met, if ever discouragement came to call.

Run like her.

My thoughts wandered to 8 years earlier, on my wedding day. Adam's brother stood to toast our love and our effervescent future. His freshly shorn head glistened under the lights. He was pale from an earlier dash to the restroom, thanks to the effects of chemo. I was young and stupid and self involved. I had no idea how much strength it took for him-for the whole family- to be there that day. They all selflessly put aside the crippling fear and constant worry brought on by his shocking diagnosis and debilitating treatment. Andy has been in remission from Hodgkin's Lymphoma for almost 7 years.

I knew that I couldn't make up for the time that I lost, but maybe I could do something to help ensure that my husband's beautiful family would never have to go through that again.

Run for them.

It was at another wedding, a year before my own, that I first witnessed the pain and sadness accompanied with cancer.

Jake, one of our dearest friends, was marrying Sara, the love of his life. It was a magical ceremony. If perfect is attainable- this was it. And yet, there was something missing, or rather, someone missing.

Kelly was Jake's older brother and personal hero. In November, 1997 he was diagnosed with CML Leukemia. I can't imagine the helplessness felt by Jake and his family when they were unable to find a match for his bone marrow. He received an imperfect match and fought for a year and a half before he passed away from complications from the transplant.

Kelly was 29 years old. His young wife, Jill attended her husband's funeral with their infant son, Wyatt.

There isn't a day that passes that Kelly isn't loved and deeply missed by his family.

Run for the families who were left behind.

These are people who know what it is to truly fight for their lives. Their experiences have given my silly running experiment a whole new meaning. And it would be my honor if I could help them in return.

Jake and his friends at the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society have been kind enough to help me set up a donations page. I will be running 16 miles total, so I thought it appropriate to set my goal at $1,600. I know that even the smallest donation would mean so much to them. This page will be up through the month of June.

DONATE HERE to help LLS

In return, I am completely willing to make a fool of myself with my gawky, "injured bird-like" running and finish this race.

No matter what, I won't give up.....they taught me that.

(I know that most of you won't be there to see me embarrass myself at this race, so if you need me to make a fool of myself in person in order to get your donation, I am without shame and more than willing to do so.)

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support!!!