Going Back to School

I'm not really a risk taker. I once was, when I was small. My mom and sister could tell you all about the years when I spent my time flipping myself over the side of my crib or finding new ways to cross the monkey bars and climbing everything. Things happened and consequences started to scare me. Having kids was the final straw. When you've got other people to be accountable for, you hedge your bets... if you make bets at all.

Anyway, my acquired fear of failure made me hesitate (for years) to go to college. Right around the time I turned 21, I started classes for a visual communications degree at some expensive, online, nationally-accredited, not-quite-a-scam-but-close-enough college I won't tell you the name of. There was eventually a class action lawsuit against them.

I chose online school because I had the twins and I thought it would help me achieve my goals without having to leave my kids at home. I had no job and no idea what else to do for child care. What a cop-out, though. How do you take a physics lab class online?!

I dropped out after two of the three years that would have gotten me my bachelors degree. I couldn't stick to it once it really started to feel like a big, fake, waste of my money (even though my GPA was great and I was repeatedly on the president's list). Now, I'm 26 and I finally decided to go back.

It took a lot of support from Papa. The sad thing is, most of the support I needed was someone to tell me it was okay if I failed. How could I go back to school with all of the pressure of failure weighing down on me? What if I don't make a career out of my degree? My biggest stress was that I might drop out without a degree again and only waste everyone's time. Was it worth it to go back to college and leave my kids home if there was a chance I might not finish?

Papa said, "Yes". Education is valuable for education's sake. It's okay if I don't completely follow through. It's okay if I don't start a career. It's good for the kids to see me investing in myself even if I don't turn it into something lucrative. But he believes in me and he thinks I can and will.

Selfie on campus

Yesterday, I went to the campus for the first time and took my placement exams. The night before the test, I told Papa I was nervous and scared and, "should I have studied?" Of course I shouldn't have studied. The whole point of a placement exam is to figure out if I need a refresher in the core classes.

The morning of the test, I forgot to eat breakfast. I left my purse at home and had to come back when I noticed (after I got out of my neighborhood). I nearly ran out of gas on the way to the campus. I had to get off of the highway and fuel up at a truck stop with the worst traffic I've ever seen at a gas station. Then, I couldn't figure out how to get back on the highway, so I had to drive through the city on the surface roads.

When I got to the campus, I accidentally parked at the opposite corner of the campus from the testing office. I walked to the building and got lost inside... had to ask where the testing office was. I got to the testing office and the staff asked if I had made an appointment. No. I had not made an appointment. The website, the email, and the letters they had sent said I didn't need an appointment to take the placement exams. I even called and asked a few days in advance and the staff said I didn't need an appointment.

Guy says, "yeah, but it's finals week..." etc.
I say, "I just called a couple of days ago and was told I didn't need an appointment."
Guy says, "These people behind you have appointments and we're pretty full, aren't we?"
Other guy says, "No."

Long story short, I took my exams... the whole while wondering if I was going to make a scene when I passed out from hunger. It seemed inevitable and only a matter of when: either mid-exam, resulting in an embarrassing falling-out-of-chair scene, or as soon as I got out of the chair.

Then my phone was almost dead and I had no idea how to get home without my GPS. I got almost home on 7% battery power before it officially died. Good thing I know how to get home once I get close enough.

In conclusion: Success. Hilarious and ridiculous, messy (as usual) success.

*Note: I apologize to anyone who read this in the first 12 or so hours after it was posted. I tried to edit it with my 17-month-old son sitting next to me. You can imagine how that goes.

Ham and Veggie Chowder

I got this recipe from a recipe book my mom has called "slow cooker favorites". It's super easy, visually appealing, and delicious. It's also full of vegetables, so who can complain? I didn't want to add anything to mine (not even salt and pepper!) but salt, pepper, grated cheese, and crackers would be good options to make available when you serve this stuff.

Ham and Veggie Chowder

Makes 6 Servings

Total time 4 to 5 hours (on high) 7 to 9 hours (on low)
Time in the slow cooker 3.5 to 4.5 hours (on high) 6.5 to 8.5 hours (on low)

Prep time (probably not even) 30 minutes

Ingredients

• 2 cans condensed cream of celery soup, undiluted
• 2 cups diced cooked ham (you can buy it already diced or dice up some leftovers)
• 1 10oz package frozen corn, thawed (You can also use strained and rinsed canned corn. I haven't tried fresh, but I imagine that would also work)
• 1 large baking potato, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
• 1 medium red bell pepper, diced
• 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme leaves (I used thyme powder, and it turned out fine)
• 2 cups small broccoli florets (I used fairly large ones, I recommend you don't. The broccoli does not get soft enough to break apart with a spoon easily, so larger pieces are pretty inconvenient.)
• 1/2 cup milk

Instructions

DO NOT PUT THE MILK IN YET!
I had Papa helping me with this dinner. I was chopping potatoes and peppers while he was putting other things in the slow cookers (we used two and made a double recipe). He didn't read to the end of the instructions before he put the milk in. Do not put the milk in until 15 to 30 minutes before serving. I know it looks like an unreasonably dry pile of vegetables and you want to add some liquid. There's not a lot of liquid in this recipe, especially in the early stages. Your milk will probably curdle if you add it too soon. In fact, it definitely will if you try to cook it on high for 3 or 4 hours. 

1. Combine condensed soup, ham, corn, potato, bell pepper and thyme in your slow cooker. Mix well.
2. Cover and cook on low for 6 to 8 hours or high for 3 to 4 hours.
3. THEN stir in broccoli and milk.
4. Cover and cook on high for 15 to 30 minutes or until broccoli is warm and tender, but not falling apart. 

Papa was tired and not feeling well when he was helping me. When he realized he had made a mistake, he wasn't sure how to fix it. I wound up sending my sister to the closest grocery store to get some new cream of celery soup while we dumped the slow cooker contents into a sieve and used the shower-like setting on the sink tap to wash all of the liquids off of the solid ingredients. 

It turned out fine; delicious even.

Sleep For a Mom

For the last few days, my son has been congested, but only at night. During the day, it all seems to come streaming down his face and I've stopped believing I can keep up with it. At night, he wakes up crying. At first, I thought it was teething, because he's getting all four canines simultaneously. Then, after the first night of repeated wake up calls came the first day of incessant nose wiping.

The next night, I inclined one end of his mattress by stuffing a folded up blanket under it, plugged in his Vicks vaporizer under his crib, and gave him a precautionary dose of ibuprofen in hopes that the anti-inflammatory might ease the swelling of his mucous membranes and, if it was teething, that was covered.

We still lost sleep. After two nights of wrecked sleep, Papa took a sick day and stayed home and I noticed something:

Toddler sleep deprivation is different from baby sleep deprivation.

When the Cub was small, I hardly slept at all. I knew I had to be up every few hours to feed him, so I could never really relax enough to get truly restful sleep. During the day, I was... Okay I guess, but easily worn out and grumpy. I wasn't keeping up with all of my chores, but not exactly because I was tired. The Cub's perpetual needs kept me going and even helped me get out of bed in the morning because I knew he needed me, and no matter how many times he had me up through the night, he was still going to be up on time in the morning.

Now, if he wakes up more than one, brief time in the night, he is very likely to sleep in the next morning. What a relief for me! Even though I still have to get up to get breakfast ready for the girls, I can relax on the couch or even get back in bed for a bit before the toddler gets up. And you know once the toddler is up, there's no rest 'til nap time because if I stop watching, he's unrolling the toilet paper like a cat or sneaking out the back door his sisters didn't quite manage to latch.

When he was a baby, I felt like I was in constant survival mode through the whole night, every night, just trying to fall asleep at all and basically never reaching deep sleep. But when I had to get up to feed him, I was only slightly reluctant. Now, he almost never cries for anything at night and I've become comfortable enough to sleep soundly again. Even when he gets sick like this, he seems to only need me when I'm in the deepest sleep possible. His cry still wakes me, even when it doesn't wake Papa, but I stumble to his room, slamming my shoulder into the door frame (surprised that didn't wake Papa), and the part of my brain that is totally awake wants to face-palm and sees what my body is doing as either a deliberate defiance or a great audition for a zombie flick. That part of my brain is also intensely worried that my body might fail when it comes time to get the Cub out of his crib... Obviously I'm doing such a good job getting myself out of my bedroom already, right? But I always do fine.

Generally, by the time I get to his crib, I'm in much better control of my limbs, plus it turns out that mommy-mode is actually quite powerful.

Sleep deprivation is sleep deprivation. It gives me headaches and sore muscles and makes me grumpy and slow. It doesn't matter if it's chronic sleep deprivation or just a few nights, the following day suffers the consequences. Nights like last night (zombie flick audition night) are much harder to get through because they happen infrequently, so I'm relaxed enough to get to that deep sleep that's so hard to get out of. Still, I wouldn't trade it for the months of waking up every few hours in his early babyhood. I never even got to deep sleep back then.

For all the moms dealing with sleep deprivation: it gets easier. Your precious sleep cycle will come back. Just keep moving forward, one day at a time. 

Seven Years a Mom

I can't believe it was seven years ago already. On the day the twins were born, I was 35 weeks and 2 days pregnant. I hadn't seen their father since shortly after I found out I was pregnant, and my mom and step-dad were taking me to my appointments. 

I didn't want to go alone because my appointments were always exceptionally long and tiresome. Often, they were also emotional for one reason or another. For example, I had always been terrified of all needles until the pain of injections was put into perspective by the Rhogam shot I had to have at twenty weeks. To be fair, I'm sure that it can be given reasonably.

Anyway, I was at the hospital, in Denver, with my mom. It was frigid outside and snowy. It was February 16th, and I was in for a routine appointment. Because I was carrying twins, I was having routine appointments every week. I remember talking to a counselor about what I was planning to do after the twins were born. One of the babies had hiccups.

After we talked to the counselor, I went on about my usual appointment business. Blood pressure, a urine sample, and temperature were taken and I was hooked up to an NST machine. In my two pregnancies since then, I've not been subjected to this. 

NST stands for Non-Stress Test. In case you've never had one, they strap hard, plastic disks the size of the bottom of a beer stein to your belly; one for each baby and one extra to monitor contractions. If you're small and pregnant with twins, that covers a lot of belly. Then, you lay down like that, heavy with baby weighing down on your inferior vena cava, for at least half an hour while a machine prints a tape that makes no sense to you, and a doctor determines if the lines on the tape are acceptable. 

This process always took longer than 30 minutes for me because they couldn't manage to keep the monitor paddles on both babies for long enough. Babies move. If a nurse couldn't get it right, they'd send me to the labor and delivery unit to have someone sit with me with the plastic paddles on my belly for another 30 minutes. All the while, I thought this was something they did to all pregnant women. I only recently learned that only high risk pregnancies are subjected to such frustration. 

On the day the twins were born, I was sent to labor and delivery and I thought nothing of it. I still had a month to go, I had no recognizable contractions, the twins were moving as they should be, and I had been sent to labor and delivery for no real reason before. 

Then, some unlucky woman brought in a tray with various tools for starting an IV. I remember it very clearly. She brought it to my left side, between my bed and my lovely view out the bank of windows. It was one of those metal trays on a stand with wheels. I could see the swabs, a rubber tournicate, an IV needle and medical tape. 

I asked, "what's that for?"

She said, "just in case."

The details of what happened after that aren't so clear. I lost my mind and told the woman I wouldn't consent to whatever they were planning to do because I had no reason to believe anything needed to be done. I cried and panicked and ranted to my mom. How dare they?!

They sent my doctor in.

He explained that the NST had shown signs of fetal distress and he recommended a Caesarian to avoid any further trouble. 

Before that day, I had made plans for how I wanted my delivery to go. I knew how to pack a hospital bag. I wanted a natural, water birth. I was excited because the birthing suites had jacuzzi bath tubs. 

I wasn't prepared. I didn't really understand what I was walking into. I hadn't planned on seeing the twins that day. I didn't have a hospital bag, or my cell phone. I hadn't even bought car seats yet. 

I'm thankful my mom was there. She was my voice of reason, and convinced me that it was probably the best thing to do. I'm not sure I could have made that decision on my own. I was a weeping mess. 

Then, I saw the anesthesiologist, who was a nice woman with short hair and lovely bedside manner. I was so thankful for her presence and peace of mind in my panic. She sat by my side and explained how the spinal anesthetic would be administered and how I would feel. 

A nurse ran an IV in my arm and I was wheeled into an operating theater. It was bright white and sterile... And kind of terrifying. 

To receive a spinal you have to curl your back as though you're hugging a pillow with your whole body. That's quite a feat when you're 35 weeks pregnant with twins. It's enormously uncomfortable and difficult to achieve. Once you're in that position, they swab your back and give you a shot of local anesthetic. After checking for numbness you receive the spinal anesthetic. Then, they lay you down immediately because you're about to lose feeling from your diaphragm down.

That whole process went off without a hitch. But the feeling that followed was the strangest I had ever known. If you've ever had something fall on your diaphragm and "had the wind knocked out of you", you have some idea what this feels like. You're breathing but you don't feel like you're breathing. It's as though you're about to suffocate. Combine that with a creeping lack of feeling throughout your entire lower body and you get the picture.

Of course, I had already been crying previous to this, but the experience of the spinal was especially stressful still. It felt something like a panic attack. The thought did cross my mind that this was not how I wanted to welcome my children into the world. Thankfully, my anesthesiologist was incredible and very patient with my emotional upheaval.

There was a big fabric screen between my head and my belly. It was that strange surgical blue-green and hoisted by a metal frame with clips. I couldn't see anything but my mom was sitting by my shoulder. I wondered, aloud, whether she was going to look. 

She had been in a similar room with me once before, when I was getting stitches in my head after a car accident. I recalled her expression of discomfort with that situation when she told me she wasn't going to be looking. I think she may even have said something to the effect that she didn't need to see any more of my insides.

I don't remember what the incision felt like. I don't remember if I felt that it all. But the feeling of having babies pulled from my womb certainly trumped the weirdness of spinal anesthesia. Today, having experienced it a couple of times more, I realize it can be compared to removing a Band-Aid. Because of the anesthesia, there was no pain, but the pressure of having something pulled from my body felt much like pulling a Band-Aid from your skin but multiplied. It was actually almost nauseating.

I don't remember my daughters crying. I didn't see them until they were swaddled and brought to my side. Their wrinkly little faces were just... unreal. I hadn't been expecting to be a mom that day. Besides I wasn't the sort of woman who inherently loved babies. They were premature, tiny, and not particularly cute, and I honestly didn't fall in love with them immediately. 

They were taken to the NICU (neo-natal Intensive Care Unit) and I didn't see them for a while. When I got there, one was under a lamp for jaundice and the other was hooked up to a feeding tube, but both were in open bassinets, sleeping. Together, they weighed about as much as an average, normal-size baby. 

Over the course of the next few days, I received another Rhogam shot because my daughters' blood tested Rh positive, I had the worst gas pain I have ever experienced and what I thought would be the worst bathroom experience, which has since been put to shame by my son's delivery. C was spitting up basically all of her food, so the hospital staff tube fed her while I watched, which was upsetting. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't. I had no idea what to do with two babies. 

My mom was there through the whole recovery period, unless she was out fetching food taking a break. Still, it was unnerving, not having any idea how to handle my own babies. I had never changed a diaper. And what should I do when they're both fussing? The four of us, two adults and two babies, are now stuck in this single hospital room together and only one of us has relevant experience... and it's not me!

I cried. I'm not sure how many separate times I cried. 

In the hospital, the staff encouraged me to feed them a special, high-calorie, jarred formula. These little girls needed to gain weight, and quick. I tried breastfeeding, but couldn't get them to latch, now that they had already been given the bottle in the NICU. I admit, I was also far too emotional to listen to the lactation consultants for one more friggin' minute. One said, "do this", then another said, "no, do that". I told them not to come back.

Some of my family members chipped in and bought a couple of simple car seats and a playpen. The hospital staff let us take home the clothes the girls were wearing. A friend of mine donated a bag full of her daughter's baby clothes. I went home with a hand pump and two, tiny babies who needed to be fed every couple of hours, refused to latch and could only use a bottle. 

I gave up breast feeding immediately. And, unfortunately, I felt worthless because of it. Don't ever let something like this make you feel worthless. Yes, I breastfed my other two children. Yes, it was gratifying and empowering. But formula feeding is not bad. I think it was just one more thing I didn't get to have go my way. I didn't have a water birth, or a natural birth at all. I didn't have my babies anywhere near when I expected to. I didn't get to pick car seats or clothes. I didn't have a partner there, I had my mom instead. I didn't get cloth diapers. I didn't get to breastfeed.

I did everything I could to keep it together through it all, but breastfeeding was the last straw and I began to hate myself.

Take heart. I don't feel that way anymore. I have two, still tiny, seven-year-old girls for whom I do the absolute best I can. I love them, though I can't quite say when that feeling took hold. I'm proud of them, and I'm proud of myself for mothering them, even when I couldn't give them what I felt was best, and even when I had no idea what I was doing... Or how we were going to get by.

I am thankful for the calm, quiet life we live now.

The Case of the Missing Porcelain

My cuddly little cub has officially entered the "prefers to walk, but is tragically unskilled" phase and has become a well-meaning but chaos-bent toddler. I, as his momma, have entered the days when I have to repeatedly remind myself that his curiosity and bold excitement are valuable characteristics even if he shows them by unpacking an entire Costco bag of wipes or reorganizing my pantry.

He often flees the scene before I can get a new diaper on him. He recently fell in his sister's bath, head-first, while I was watching. Last night, he and his unsuspecting Papa managed to do something fairly hilarious.

This is not an exact reconstruction of last night's events. These are merely the events as I recall them, retold in such a way as to make narrative sense to the reader.

The Case of the Missing Porcelain

"I went to the bathroom thinking one of the girls was in there, washing their hands or something because I could hear the water running." He said. But what he found was the Cub, who had, "turned the water on in the tub. But the tap handle was disassembled."

I went to the kids' bathroom to conduct my own quick search. I looked under the edge of the cabinets, behind the toilet, in the storage compartments of the step stools, and even fished in the bathtub drain until I determined that the ninety-degree bend in the pipe would have kept the porcelain handle from going out of view.

Papa said, "It could have gone down there."

"No. The bend is too sharp, and the handle is too long to turn down it. I'm more worried about... that." I said, as I looked toward the toilet.

Papa's eyes got wide with realization just before he admitted, "I flushed the toilet when I came in. Someone had used it and didn't flush."

So... without further investigation, I have to assume the porcelain segment of the bathtub tap handle is gone for good. Of course, it wouldn't be completely unprecedented for it to show up somewhere silly (In the case of the missing dog food bowl, it showed up in the kitchen cabinet).

It still works, it just looks ridiculous. Papa found the two metal pieces before he came to find me. Can you buy a replacement porcelain piece?

Football Family

We watched the Super Bowl yesterday. We didn't watch a single other game this season. I've never had much interest in football.

In high school I was exclusively a hockey fan, but then there was that full-season lockout and we missed a Stanley Cup. I lost enthusiasm. Still, I continued to cheer for the Avs... until there was another lockout in 2013. I still love hockey. I'd be thrilled to be invited to a game, just don't follow it anymore.

Even though I'm not much of a sports fan, and football has never been my game, when the girls came out of gymnastics class and asked if they could watch the Broncos play this weekend, I certainly wasn't going to say no. It's my job to facilitate and advocate their interests. 

I watched the big game, served snacks, made cupcakes with football-shaped frosting, and enjoyed a miniature Super Bowl party with my family. It was the first football game they ever watched. They were somewhat disappointed that Bruno Mars and Red Hot Chili Peppers were in the halftime show instead of Thunder and Miles (the Broncos mascots). Kids have funny priorities.

The game was pretty embarrassing. Not only did we lose, we choked and went home with our tails between our legs (if only this metaphor actually worked for horses). I will still be in orange and blue next season, but my kids have different values at this age. They preferred the Seahawks. I could never have explained to them how incredibly well we had performed in our season leading up to that. It was a sad night for Bronco fans everywhere.

Watching that game, I found the dying spirit of the hockey fan within. I was holding my breath during long passes, cheering when the rare play went right, but mostly groaning and exclaiming, "WHAT!?" and, "SERIOUSLY?!" Papa was surprised and jokingly tried to console me while I fumed.

This morning I was reminded that people can be incredibly narrow-minded and judgemental when I saw Facebook posts basically calling people stupid for caring about football. 

First, I don't tell you you're stupid for caring about toy cars, TV shows, comics, video games or partying... or whatever it is you care about. I can promise this family won't judge you. I watched one football game and got pretty excited about it because it was my home team. Even if I had followed the whole season with the same enthusiasm, it would be only one small part of who I am.

We are members at the zoo and the museum of nature and science because we are there so often. This family programs, designs, bakes, games, gardens, reads, homeschools, hikes, plays ukulele and guitar, takes gymnastics classes, and follows the accomplishments of SpaceX. We also watched a single football game this season. We're considering watching more next season because it gives us another fun thing to do together and be excited about. Judge that however you please.

Talking To Homeschoolers About Segregation

This year is the first year I've attempted to explain the history behind Martin Luther King Jr. Day to my homeschoolers. It was a tough subject for me to cover. In a way, I wish I could just never tell my children about segregation and race-driven hate crimes. I wish I didn't have to tell them because I wish it had never happened. I find it hard to talk about because it's still happening. They find it hard to understand because they are innocent and only know that people are people. I wish they could just stay that way.

I believe it is extremely important to talk to your kids about our history, even if it embarrasses you to share the atrocities of the past.

“Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it.” 

― Edmund Burke

It hurts to tell my kids that this incredible man who helped accomplish so much was murdered. No happily ever after. But, on the other hand, I'd rather they heard it from me.

On a lighter note, if you're teaching your young kids about segregation and Martin Luther King Jr. this year, I recommend these two books:

Martin's Big Words by Doreen Rappaport
This book has incredible illustrations. In fact, the illustrator received an award for his incredible work. The story follows MLK from childhood into activism, and includes a brief mention of his death. I read this one to my six-year-olds and my four-year-old, but it may have some concepts that are beyond the four-year-old's understanding. It does mention murder of black activists, and bluntly states that MLK was shot. I feel that it is just about as gritty as I'd be willing to share with my kids at this age, and the topic deserves at least this level of honesty.

Religion does play a fairly heavy role in this book. We are secular, but try to keep our kids' minds open enough to understand that some people believe other things. It is important to remember that, for many of the prominent figures, religion did play an important role in this time period. I think it would be rather difficult to dig up good resources on the subject that exclude God.

The Story of Ruby Bridges by Robert Coles
This story is less overwhelming for my four-year-old. It follows the struggle of Ruby Bridges as she attends school at William Frantz Elementary. No one is murdered. No one is hurt. The possibility of a scene escalating to violence is implied, but violence is avoided. It is an inspiring story, overall, and the afterword goes on to explain the outcome of desegregation in Louisiana, and what Ruby is up to, now.

Again, religion plays a serious role. Keep in mind that Ruby's family was very religious and religion helped empower Ruby to make it though such a difficult time. Although praying is an important theme in this book, the message is definitely not lost if you aren't religious.