Adjusting to dark

We have now been home from the hospital for 3 days. It has been so good to be home, and, mostly, to have my little girl feeling good again. The spark in her is alive and well.

I have struggled, in the past many days, with what the year 2011 has meant to me. I feel there has been an inordinate amount of struggle, and pain. I feel angry. I feel hurt. I feel like I am eager to begin a new year, one which, I dearly hope, will not be so hard.

As I reflect on feeling this way, I realize my thinking is flawed. My outlook is not so dark. At least not usually.

And so my challenge, between now and the start of 2012, is to look for light. I want to end this year with gratitude for all that I do have, and for what the challenges have taught me. I walked into Kinnie's room tonight, and stared into the pitch black that is her crib, until my eyes adjusted and I could see my soundly sleeping baby. And doing so made me think about this year. That, at first glance, it seems so dark- so much loss, so much heartache, so many challenges. But there has to be something more, something better, to take from it. If the dark defines this year, what will I be missing?

I suppose it is a choice, and an ability to accept these challenges as a part of the beauty of life. But in some moments, seeing it any other way feels so difficult. I just want to feel, in my heart and my gut, that something better has come out of all this pain.

For the love of my baby

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."

I cried in relief today as we got home. We spent the last three nights in the hospital, and Kinnie was sick for a week before her admission. It has been the most exhausting, heart-breaking experience. And so, the relief of walking back through the door with her was immense. And she is well, for which I am so grateful.

I have known, since the moment Kinnie was born, that my heart feels her joy and her pain more that it feels my own. I have known many moments when her laughter has brought me to tears, and when her tears have brought me to tears. I never want her to feel pain. I want to protect her from it, to take it for her, to make it better.

Healing

I talked with my Nana last night about loss. She shared that seven years ago, she lost a friend to suicide. She described that she still does not understand, there are still days when she asks "why?" She described her friend as someone who was bright, and full of life. She said it had not made sense.

I don't know if it is resignation. I suppose at some level, it is. I have to accept that I will not have all the answers, ever.

Every day, I practice looking at the world as the Dusty I knew did.

From the bottom of my heart

I am struggling today.

After a walk in the dog park, reflecting on Dusty, I feel no closer to understanding. I am a thinker. I process things in my head until I can make sense of them. Or, at least until I can make peace with them. As I walked along the trail, pushing Kinnie in her stroller and watching Koda and Charlie romp, I wondered what it would be like if Dusty was there with us. Those kind of thoughts have come to mind often in the last 10 days.

Whenever I consider how a moment would be different with Dusty's presence, I realize it would feel more alive. In the park, he would have been off the trail, observing plants, picking up bugs, and looking for snakes, all the while making a running commentary that would have me rolling. His appreciation for the "little things," the things that so many of us take for granted, was profound.

So today, as I walked, I thought I figured it out. That was the lesson. To appreciate, to do more than appreciate, each little moment. To live life to the fullest, literally. Look at the world as Dusty did.

Only, then there's this other part. Some part of Dusty was haunted. Something in him was ready for this life to be over. For all the laughter, and antics, and thoughtfulness, something was missing.

I don't know how to make peace with this. Someone who was so incredibly, admirably alive did not want to live. Still, 10 days later, I find myself thinking that there must be some mistake. The two realities do not fit together. I laugh as I remember, and at the same moment want to scream "WHY?"

Blessings

I awakened early this morning, thinking...

For all the heartache and loss we have experienced, I still smile every day. And laugh. Due in large part to one little girl.

Kinnie talks- a lot. She has strong opinions. When she wants to do something, she wants to do it. I'm not sure if being outside or climbing stairs is her favorite activity. Pretty much anything that she can do on her own two feet makes her a happy camper.

She cuddles a lot, too. Many times a day, she'll give me a hug, pat me on the back, and lean into me. In those moments, I feel I know the meaning of life. Her laughter gives me that feeling, too.

I am so blessed, and so grateful. And I remind myself every day.

Deep breath

We left a memento for Dusty in RMNP this weekend. I tried to leave him there, too. Not in the sense that I don't want him around. But I am just trying to make peace in my mind. Every time I think about it, I feel a deep confusion and sense of loss. There was much he could have lived for.

We spent the weekend in the mountains for the wedding of a dear friend. And we stayed in a house with some of the most important people in our lives. There was laughter. There were tears.

As we all sat together yesterday morning, drinking coffee, I tried to convey my love and gratitude for the people in my life. I suppose the reminder to do that is one of the lessons we can take from our loss. I told my loved ones that I never want them to feel alone. I told them I would walk to the ends of the earth for them.

It breaks my heart to think that maybe Dusty couldn't see that. I know how many have shed tears for him, but yet somehow he felt alone. At least, I think he must have felt alone.

I still can't make sense of it. I have experienced loss in the past. But not like this. I am not a person who has feared death. I am spiritual, I believe in bigger things, greater connections than we can comprehend in this life. But something about how Dusty went... I wish we could have answers. And we probably never will.

I told Brian that I think when we see a hawk it is to make us think of Dusty, to remember him, to cherish him. This morning, as I drove to work, I saw 6 hawks flying over the city. I hope he feels at peace...

The moment we grew up

"Death is at your doorstep.

And it will steal

your innocence.

But it will not steal

your substance"

Last night, I was driving home from work, and thought to myself, "I won't accept this." And then I thought of the irony of that. I won't accept death. What other choice is there? One can't be brought back. No matter how much I wish it, it cannot be undone.

Dusty was vibrant. And hilarious. And a genius. And curious, thoughtful, insightful, aware, adventurous, inquisitive, loyal, brave and mischievous. He was a part of the family that grew as a part of our college experience. He made us laugh, made us think, made us appreciate things that we would otherwise take for granted.

I would not have thought of him as a depressed person. I would never have imagined that he struggled so much that he could take his own life. I find myself wishing that I could have been in his head in the moments before he jumped. I wonder if he could have seen the outpouring of love for him, if he would have changed his mind. I wonder if he just wanted to know what it felt like to fly.

In that moment, the world lost a light. We lost someone who could have changed the world. It does not make sense. It does not make sense.

I wonder how we didn't see what was happening under the vibrance. How was he in so much pain and keeping it so private? I wish we could have done something. I wish we could have helped in some way. I wish I could have made him see all that he was, and all he had to offer the world.

I am so grateful for his life. Thoughts of Dusty will always bring smiles to our faces. I know in time the ache in our hearts will fade. And we will never forget.

Seasons

Summer is winding down. And with the impending change of season comes time to reflect on one which has contained the greatest joys and sorrows...

Grandy left this world on Monday, August 8th. She was with her children as she breathed her last breath. I am sure that her death is noted as of natural causes. But the truth is, she was ready. Whether it was because she wanted to see Granddad once more, or because she was just tired of this life, she went on her own terms.

Grandy was the sweetest lady, a darling. She was funny and witty and giving and forgiving and generous and loving and affectionate. She wanted everyone she cared for to know as much, and she wanted to be able to provide us all with everything we wanted. I will never forget her laugh. Granddad, her kids, her grandkids all made her laugh.

Processing my view of the world without Grandy in it is daunting. It doesn't seem possible that she is gone. She was always so full of life, that to imagine that death has taken her is counterintuitive. We spoke to her by phone 6 days before she passed. She was aware, and perhaps a little foggy. We told her we loved her, that she means the world to us. And she responded in kind.

I continue to be so grateful. Grateful that I got to be a part of Grandy's family, that I got to bear one of her great-grandchildren, grateful that Kinnie got to meet Grandy. Words cannot express the admiration, respect and love I have for her. Nor can they express just how much she is missed. She lived life fully and lovingly...

"You would know the secret of death.

But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?

The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.

For life and death are one, even as the river and sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.

Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the kind whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.

Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?

Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and melt into the sun?

And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."

~Kahlil Gibran

Rest in peace, dearest Grandy. I love you.

Spent

I called Kinnie's doctor's office today, and left a message for the nurse about Kinnie's recent tummy trouble (which is nothing serious, but worth asking about). I left all the information, and was about to leave my phone number, when....

poof! I didn't know it anymore. I was stunned. I haven't had that happen since I got the darn phone. I started off strong... "My number is 720-..... (long silence. long enough that the voice message had to ask if I was finished leaving my message)." I then proceeded to give a number that I am quite sure was the wrong one, because I haven't got a call back.

The thing is, this summer has just been so full. Brian's best friend's wedding, Kinnie's first birthday, our anniversary, my brother's wedding in two days, a trip to Wyoming in a week. All that was eating up my brain cells faster than the speed of light.

And then, we got such sad news this week. Brian's Grandy, my Grandy, has fallen ill. I feel as though I can't even process the words. I love and adore her.

So, yes, spent is the correct way to describe it. Maybe burned out. Or fried. And, without a doubt, I'm running on fumes. I keep wondering when life will settle. I think the answer is probably never.

Reflection

One year ago right now, I was having contractions. I had had "false alarm" one week earlier, during which I had regular contractions, but was not dilated. So, one year ago today, I figured it was another false alarm. Kinnie was not due for another two weeks, and I was scheduled for a c-section in a week. Only, these contractions caused pain different from those I had experienced previously. I called my mom, who offered to come down. But, I figured it couldn't be the real thing, so I told her to wait. I tried all the things I had heard of to slow them down. I walked. I lay down. I took bath. But they didn't slow. We called the doctor's office, and were advised that we ought to come in to be checked.

I went back to my bed to lay down and breath, and something hit me. I got overwhelmed, scared. I called my mom and asked her to come.

Within 4 hours, Kinnie had arrived. I still vividly remember the first moment I touched her, the softness of her cheek on mine. I remember the immediate experience of a love I had never felt before.

A lot of people comment that they can't believe it has been a year. And sometimes, I can't either. But there are moments when it feels as though it has been forever. It is as if my life before Kinnie was a completely different lifetime.

I have learned so much in the past year. Humility because I don't have control over when my baby may be fussy or sleepy or wanting to stay up late. Acceptance because I had to deal with the humility. Pure, uninhibited love. Joy. Pride. Amazement. And did I mention love? Most of all, gratitude. Every day is different. Every day is an adventure. And for every moment, I am so grateful. I am blessed to have this life, this baby. Happy Birthday to Kinnie Lin. Here's to an amazing second year, and many, many years to come.

Cambio

Cambio is Spanish for "change." One year ago today, we left Guadalajara. The changes in our lives since that day have been immense.

I awakened this morning trying to make sense of what my experience in Mexico means to me. I want other people to know how much a part of me that experience is, how much it meant to me, how much I loved it. But I don't know what to compare it to.

Moving to Guadalajara was a victory, because we challenged ourselves and found that we made it through. It was humbling, because we had to face our lack of knowledge of a culture and language, and ask for a lot of help. It was exciting, because we took risks and adventured in a way we had never imagined. It was stressful, because we were so far away from our family and friends.

I think, most of all, it was lovely. Lovely in the most beautiful, passionate sense. The culture, the community, the people, the food, the scenery, our students...

I still so clearly remember our little house, and lying in bed in the mornings and seeing our orange tree out the back window. I remember walking Koda and Fifi through the neighborhood, and greeting all our neighbors. I remember lugging our laundry around the block in trash bags to the laundromat. I remember sharing Pizza y Come with our friends. I remember the traffic on Lopez Mateos. I remember driving by a billboard for half a year before figuring out what it meant, and then feeling so proud that I finally did. I remember the feeling of my classroom early in the morning, watching the sun rise before my students came in. I remember the taste of Juan Carlos' tacos dorados, and Hector's tortas ahogadas.

It is not as if I regret or resent the changes in my life. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love being a Mama, and how I love being close to my family and friends. But I think this longing in my heart will always be there...

The mother of an almost 1-year-old

We have begun to discuss how to celebrate Kinnie's first birthday. It is tempting to go all out (think Super Sweet 16), only because it feels as though somehow, on some level, all that material stuff may give Kinnie one inkling of just how much we love her. Alas, we are middle class folks. So there will not be petting zoos, or bouncy castles, or merry-go-rounds at the party. It will be simply our family and friends, and a cake to dive into.

In Kinnie's first 10 months and 21 days, I have managed to only fall into the "She's growing up so fast" mentality on a few occasions. Her growth and development are a joy to watch, and as much fun as each stage is, I feel proud of her, and happy for her, when she discovers some new element of being. The sentimentality did hit me hard a few nights ago, and I sobbed. It hit me, too, several weeks ago, when Bri and I were watching Toy Story 3, in which the boy goes to college. I looked at Brian and said, "Kinnie will never go away to college, right?" Of course, I don't lament the fact that she may go away. If she is anything like us, she'll go far away. If she values the things we value, she'll venture into other cultures and challenge herself. But, in the very deepest part of my heart, I never want to spend a second away from her.

Kinnie is on the move. She is discovering new parts of the house every day. This week, the dogs' toy basket was particularly intriguing to her. I am learning to choose my battles. I figure we have recently washed all the toys in there, so if she pulls those out, it's not so bad. And then she got into the brushes, and I thought that they must be neat to feel. Then, I looked over, and she was chewing on an old beef bone. Eww...

We laugh together, and we cuddle more than ever. Though she was not one to be held a lot when she was younger, now she curls up on me daily. This morning, she fell asleep on me. It warms my heart. And, it makes all the hassle of all these teeth that are growing in totally worth it. She has been almost refusing to eat baby food. Despite the fact that she currently has approximately 2.5 teeth, she much prefers "real" food. When I have a snack, I now have three beggars, instead of only the two usual four-legged suspects. I continue to feel lucky, and blessed, and grateful.

Dawn

Dearest Granddad,

When the phone rang at 6:00 this morning, I knew what the news would be. We had been waiting, as patiently as possible. With it came a slew of emotions, and incredible gratitude.

You died this morning. Your kids were with you, and all of us were, too- at least in spirit. You and your beautiful bride of 62 years created an incredible family, an incredible life, one which I am grateful to be a part.

I can imagine you scoffing a bit at the thought of all of us being sad. I realized this morning that you wouldn't want us to be mourning the loss of you. But, it is impossible not to. You were kind, funny, ornery, caring, stubborn, loyal, strong. You were admired, respected and very much loved.

I remember when I first met you. You and Grandy had driven to Evergreen to visit Kevin and family. You were a young 69. Brian and I had been dating for just under one year, and somehow, even though I was but a teenager, we connected. Your warmth was there from the beginning, and I have carried it with me since.

Some of my favorite memories with you include all the times I tried to match your wit. You were full of it, but I think I got you a few times. And, of course, I will never forget visiting you in January. You had changed a bit. I know it was hard for you to talk, but your smile and laugh were still vibrant. The fact that you met my daughter, your Great-Granddaughter, means the world to me. As we said goodbye, you held our hands and said, "thank you for coming."

Thank you for coming, Granddad. Thank you for your presence. Thank you for being so giving. Thank you for all the laughs, and the smiles which shine on now through these tears. Thank you for being a man we can all look up to. Thank you for those blue eyes, which I see every time I look at Kinnie.

We will carry on. We will watch after Grandy, and do all we can to make all her days cheerful. We will live the rest of our lives with you in our hearts, and we will make you proud. We will miss you.

I love you very much,

Kelsey

An historic day

My mom called me late last night with the news: "Osama Bin Laden is dead." Ten years after he masterminded the attack that killed thousands of innocent Americans, our hunt for him has ended. I remembered exactly where I was on 9/11/01, and I'm sure all of us who were alive then can. I hope for closure and for peace and for a sense of justice for those who lost loved ones.

I do not feel joy. I do not feel happiness. I do not feel like celebrating.

In the war started with the goal of finding Bin Laden, to date, 2441 Coalition forces have died in Operation Enduring Freedom. And though an exact number has not been recorded, it is estimated that up to 10,000 Afghani civilians have died as a result of this war.

It is not a joyous occassion.

A senator interviewed on the news this morning said that, while an important day, he is not sure that Bin Laden was still the threat he once was. The senator said that Bin Laden had remain so deeply hidden that he was unlikely to mastermind another attack.

I am reminded of a saying attributed to Ghandi, "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind." I look into my daughter's eyes, and imagine, if she were older, the questions she would ask if she saw on TV people celebrating the death of an enemy. And I'm not sure I would have the answers. In an oversimplified way, it seems that the message is this: hunt down, regardless of cost, those who wrong you. I just don't think that's right. Nor, something to celebrate.

Showing affection

Kinnie is fine. It turns out the test of her hemoglobin in the office was not accurate- through the lab, it shows that she is not anemic. And all her other tests were perfect. *Big sigh of relief*

This morning I lifted Kinnie out of her crib. She had been sitting there, quietly babbling. I gave her a squeeze, and she gave me a kiss. I think I explained previously that a kiss from Kin is her open mouth pressed against wherever it happens to land on your face. Still, there is nothing better. Yesterday, she gave me a kiss with a bad runny nose. I barely noticed the boogers she left behind on my cheek.

There is something amazing about having her show affection. She likes cuddling more than she used to, she gives hugs with her whole body, and, of course, the kisses. I guess it feels like a good reminder that we're doing something right. I feel so blessed.

On being human

Kinnie had her 9 month check up yesterday. She is tall (29.25 inches and in the 90th percentile), and is almost 20 pounds. Her doctor discovered that she had infections in both ears- thanks to this cold- and is also slightly anemic. While worrisome, it is likely that her anemia is related to her diet, and nothing more serious. We headed to Children's hospital after her check up to have a more extensive blood panel drawn. She was a champ. She let out a scream when the needle went into her arm, and then quietly watched the face of woman drawing her blood. I was sure I was going to cry, but when Kinnie was so brave about it, I was brave, too. We should have the results in the next couple of days, for which I am eager.

My mom was with us for the check up and subsequent blood draw. When the three of us arrived at Children's, we parked on the second level of the parking garage, and headed toward the elevators. As we neared them, a woman pushing a double stroller was exiting. There were two children in the stroller, a little girl in the front and boy in the back. It was evident that the boy was not well. He was under a thick blanket, and had a very weary pallor. It was evident, also, that the mom pushing the stroller was crying. We, along with another person or two, held the doors for her. As my mom and I entered the elevator, my mom asked, "what should we do?" I said I didn't know. The elevator arrived on the first level, and I asked, "Do you want to go back up?" My mom said, "yes," and we went back up to the second level.

We saw the woman loading her children and all their things into her car. Kinnie and I stood back as my mom approached the woman. I think my mom said, "you look like you could use a hug." The woman leaned into my mom, and cried and shook. My mom held her for a long time.

My mom told me later that the woman explained that she and her kids were here from Nebraska. She said her son, who was maybe 4 years old, has cancer, and they were at Children's for chemo. She told my mom that her son has not been doing well, and that this day was her dad's birthday, and that he had recently passed away. She said that her husband had been unable to come with her and their kids. My mom held her again, and slowly walked away with tear stains all over her shoulder.

I went to bed thinking of this woman, and awakened thinking of her. And I wanted to share this story, in part, to honor my mom. I feel as though we live in a world where we feel so separate. Our politics, our opinions, our fears keep us apart. When I first saw this woman, my heart broke for her, and, to be honest, I felt as though I didn't know what to do. I probably would have kept walking. There are all those thoughts about minding my own business, about the fact that we were strangers.

My mom walked right past those doubts. Because, ultimately, we are all human. And, in this case, we were all Mamas. And I have no doubt that my mom, in that moment, provided some relief for the woman's burden. She carried it for her. She helped her not feel alone.

I learned so much in those moments. And, imagine what this world would be like if we operated from that place of being human, without focus on all those things that separate us. The woman is in my heart and in my thoughts. And, I am so grateful for this lesson. I hope that in the future I have the strength to reach out, and to teach my daughter, as my mom did this day.

The art of change

Changing diapers, that is. Some may want to turn away from this post now, as writing about my baby's bowel habits may be too much information. I was a pro- after all, I've changed probably 20 million diapers in the last nine and a half months. But suddenly, we have gone from the typical infant poo to what I like to call "turdlets." More formed, less soft. And very roll-y. Every time I attempt to take the diaper containing turdlets from under my daughter, they want to roll out of the diaper. Any tips would be appreciated. One escaped this morning, and I didn't even realize it until I picked Kinnie up from the changing table. Sneaky little things.

When I walked into Kinnie's room this morning to get her up, she was sitting there in her crib. That was a first, and a little surprising. Then, later, when I put her down for a nap, she cried more than usual, so I went in to check on her. She was sitting up again, and this time I think she was crying because she was unwilling to lie herself down to have a nap. Because, what baby would choose to have a nap when she knows how to sit up and play in her crib? Certainly not mine. She is increasingly mobile. She can crawl backwards now. And yesterday, for the first time, she stood holding onto the headboard of our bed.

Kinnie is teething and has yet another cold. I think this is cold number 4 or 5. There is a little girl in daycare with her who seems to get sick every other week, and kindly passed it on. Poor baby. Kin had a rough night, and has had a bit of a rough morning, so far. though she is finally asleep now. Yesterday, we curled up on the futon together and watched Sesame Street. It was so sweet. We'd play a little, then catnap a little. Those moments are so precious.

I am reading a book on mindful parenting and found a quote that I love. "Every child that is born really is an incarnation of what is most sacred in life, and we as parents are guardians of the unfolding and flowering of their being and their beauty." Even through the new teeth, the innumerable colds, and rolling poops, I am blessed to have this job.

Inspiration comes in waves (and, ROAD TRIP)

It has, once again, been too long. It's not that I feel a lack of inspiration in my life- quite the opposite, in fact. But, the inspiration to write, well, that's another story. My work has been very busy, and on my mind outside of work hours, despite my effort to not let it. I am working on being present with Kinnie every chance I get. She is still, and even more so, a delight.

Last week, we were in Austin, TX, to visit family and to attend a friend's wedding. We drove approximately 15 hours each way, stopping for one night in each direction in the northern part of Texas. Kinnie is a road trip champ. There were only a few meltdowns, which were, generally, easily remedied by a snack or a quick walk.

Many of the views on our drive were monotone. There was mostly flatland, or ever so slightly rolling hills. We drove through modern ghost towns, no doubt hard hit by the downturn in the economy. As we made progress south, the spring green began to infiltrate the otherwise dusty views, and by the time we got to Austin, it seemed an oasis.

We had a lovely reunion with cousins Katy and Armando, who were the inspiration for our move to Mexico two years ago. Armando prepared authentic tortas ahogadas, which Brian and I have craved since we left Mexico 10 months ago. We then joined college friends for the weekend, as one was getting married. There was much fun to be had, especially by Brian, who pretended for one night that he was 21 again, and, I think, is still paying the price.

Austin is a beautiful city. I'll admit, I have a bias about Texas typical of Coloradans. But, I think I could live in Austin. It is clean, outdoorsy, friendly, and perfectly sized. The downtown area is full of life, but not overwhelming. And the Colorado river meanders through the city, wide and calm and providing for innumerable recreational activities. One day, Brian, with Kinnie in the back pack, and I walked for over 5 miles, exploring the city, the botanic gardens, and the river walk. Everything was in bloom, and the temperature was perfect. We were also privy to an Austin specialty- a food trailer park. Literally, multiple trailers (think taco truck) serving a variety of food much more exquisite and diverse than any food court. These are all over the city.

It was sad to say goodbye, and I was eager to get home to my puppy, who had had surgery for what turned out to be a benign tumor. The last night before we got home, we stayed in Childress, which was typical of most quiet towns in northern Texas, though perhaps not so ghost-y. The closet door in our hotel was a full mirror, and Kinnie spent at least an hour, when all was said and done, playing with the baby in the mirror. Thus, the photo of her kissing the mirror baby.

Kinnie is growing so fast, and is nearly mobile. My family has made bets about when she will crawl, and all bets are within the next week. Today will be a day of babyproofing, as things are about to change...

A different lens

In therapy terms, we often try to look at experiences, thoughts, etc., through different "lenses." Kind of like looking at things from a different perspective, a different point of view.

I had a training late last week at Children's hospital. While the training provided some profound learning, my presence in the hospital provided a profound experience seeing things through a different lens.

As a kid, I spent my fair share of time in Children's hospital. In addition to the auto-immune disease I had, about which I have previously blogged, I had several surgeries for a malformed hip, one that required that I stay in the hospital for 2 weeks recovering. So, I know the place well, from a kid's perspective. Walking into Children's, or any hospital, for that matter, brings back a lot of memories, good and bad.

What I didn't understand, until last week, was the experience of walking into a kid's hospital as a parent. I wasn't there for any medical reason- just a training related to work. But as I went to the cafeteria for lunch, I could not ignore the kids in wagons, pulling IV poles, in hospital gowns. The feeling I had in my gut is hard to explain.

Sick. I felt sick. Because I know how much I love Kinnie, how much I want to protect her, how there is nothing more important in my world than her well-being. And, I know that these kids' parents feel the same. And they must feel so helpless, watching their kids fight serious illness. I wanted to cry for them. And, I admire them. I can only imagine the strength it requires to be there for your kid through such a thing.

We have been blessed, in Kinnie's first 8 and a half months. Beside several colds, she has been healthy and happy. I'll admit there are times when I have had the "what if" thought. And just imagining any illness, injury, could bring me to my knees.

I stop those thoughts, though. If I get stuck in worry and fear, I cannot be present. And each moment that I am present with my daughter is magic. I am grateful for every one.

Health insurance

I wonder if it isn't quite appropriate to use my "Mamacita" blog to vent my feelings about social issues. Ultimately, I suppose that my views on issues are a part of being a Mama.

So, here's the thing. In Mexico, because I was employed, I had access to "public" heath care. Meaning, I could obtain care, any care, free. The clinics were a bit rundown, and I think the wait for certain testing could be long. But, it was free. Brian and I opted to use a private doctor for my prenatal care, which cost $550 MX per visit- about $40 US- including a full exam and ultrasound. That wasn't a copay. That was the cost of the appointment. My doctor was located in a new, state-of-the-art, hospital.

Our plan to return to the States for Kinnie's birth presented a lot of concern about how we would pay for it. We knew I would probably have a c-section. If we stayed in Mexico, it would have cost about $1000 US if we had it done by the private doctor- it would have been free if we used the public system. After working for pesos for almost a year, we did not have the money to pay the tens of thousands out of pocket that a c-section would cost in the States.

I researched options. I discovered that I may qualify for Medicaid, and when we got home, we applied. I was approved. It was such a relief. I knew that whatever care I needed, and any care Kinnie needed, would be covered.

I was aware of the stigma. When I would walk into the doctor's office, or to get a prescription, I felt myself wanting to discuss my insurance in a whisper. What do you think when you see someone who is using Medicaid? I never had anyone judge me openly, but am aware of the judgments often made. Ultimately, I decided to carry my head high. I had paid into the system, and was truly in need of the care offered through the government. And it covered everything. I paid nothing out of pocket for Kinnie's birth.

Now that Brian and I are gainfully employed, we have "real" health insurance. I went to the pharmacy yesterday to pick up my thyroid medication. I have had hypothyroidism for several years. It's no big deal, and has been stable since I was diagnosed with the daily use of medication.

Because of the stability of my condition, my doctor has prescribed 90 days of medication for each refill. When I was using Medicaid, this presented no problem. However, when I picked up my script yesterday, I was informed that my new insurance would only pay for 30 days at a time. The copay for the 30 days would be $8. The pharmacy had filled the 90 days, and for the sake of ease, I asked if I could just pay out of pocket for the 90 days. The cost, without using my insurance, was $26. So, If I go back every 30 days, and pay just my copay, I'll save $2 over 3 months. Hardly worth the gas.

It gets worse. We were sorting through our mail last night, and found a letter from our new insurance company. Mind you, this is a major insurance company in Colorado. The letter indicated that if we have any prescriptions for which we want a 90 day supply, we must first fill a 30 day supply 2 times through the insurance company's mail-order system, and then we can begin to obtain 90 day prescriptions through the same mail-order process. And, they'll only charge us 2 copays for the 90 day script.

What?!?! Who makes these rules??? Why in the world does it need to be so complicated? Seriously? I just can't believe it. Clearly, there needs to be a change. If my doctor believes it's okay for me to have a 90 day supply, because my condition has been stable for years, why should I have to play games with the insurance company to obtain that prescription?

I hope for an improvement to our system. It is ridiculous. To think that this is the process one has to go through in order to obtain a simple, inexpensive medication. What would it be like if we needed something for a much for significant condition? Perhaps when Kinnie is grown, we will have had the ability to simplify. I hope.

Cold season

Kinnie has a cold. This is her third or fourth in her life. Seems like a lot to me, since she's been here for only eight months. This, I think, is the worst so far. Of course, I have probably thought that of each as it has come along. In the infancy of my life as a mother, there is nothing worse than knowing my baby doesn't feel well, and having little to offer for comfort. We were up a couple times last night, which hasn't happened for almost 6 months.

I, too, have a cold. I think I got it from Kinnie- probably when she was "kissing" my nose the first day of her cold. I find myself wondering where she picked it up. I know, babies get sick. Especially babies in any kind of daycare setting.

For me, it begs the question of how sanitary is enough, without going overboard. I think my overall feeling is a bit old-fashioned. I don't have a fancy cover for the shopping cart. She sits in it as I did as a kid, often trying to mouth the metal. If we're out, and she gets irritated, I often hand her my keys, upon which she chews. She has chewed on my cell phone, and the dogs have kissed her on the face- sometimes even catching her open mouth. I don't feel panicked when a stranger touches her hands in saying hello.

You see, I don't want Kinnie to grow up in a bubble, thinking of the dangers that things pose prior to experiencing them. It is not that I don't care. Quite the opposite, in fact. I feel a fierce sense of protection over my child. And, as she grows, I will teach her when there are true dangers present. But, a little dirt? A few germs? I guess I wonder if I panic about these things now, what will I have left when it's time to really panic?

Pick your battles. That's what I think. Now, somebody promise to remind me, when Kinnie is a teenager, that this was my perspective...

Playpen

Much to my chagrin, I ordered a playpen for Kinnie. Several important people urged that I do so, in order to keep her safe once she is mobile, which will be very soon. It arrived last night. It is 3 feet by 3 feet, with a padded bottom, and mesh sides about 3 feet high. It is brightly colored, with fun animals printed on the "floor" and sides.

My Papa reminds me frequently of a family trip to Newport Beach, California, when I was maybe one or two years old. He teases me that I nearly ruined the trip because, while on the beach in playpen, I screamed and screamed. I tease him back that I was screaming because I was jailed in my pen, and wanted to be free to play.

It is with humor that I tell Papa I was jailed. But, last night, the playpen for Kinnie arrived while I was at the grocery store. When I left home, Kinnie was on the floor, playing with her Daddy. When I got home, she was in the pen.

I was surprised that I felt a strong reaction to seeing Kinnie this way. My instinct was to get her out and let her roam. I'll admit, it made me feel like crying. And, I'm still sitting here thinking, what is this all about?

Two possible explanations come to mind. One is that I never want Kinnie to feel limited by me. I want her to know that the world is at her fingertips, so to speak (or, in this case, write). I hope that she will explore all her potential with excitement. I realize, also, that it is my job to keep her safe as she does the exploring. Thus, the need for the pen. But it pushes against my general philosophy.

The other explanation could be that she is growing. Not that that, in itself, is a bad thing. I wonder if, as my baby changes into a little girl, there is a part of me that is sad to let go of the teeny tiny being who relied on me for everything.

Well, back to the psychotherapist I go... Every day is an adventure, with lessons to be learned. I am still more grateful that I could have ever imagined.

PS
My baby give me kisses. She opens her mouth wide, and puts it on my face. Sometimes they're more like moose kisses. It cracks her up, and warms my heart. If I'm having a hard day, I imagine getting a kiss and all my worries melt away.

Fathers

Here I am, early in the morning, thinking again...

At work, I currently have 7 families with whom I am working. Of the 7, NONE have a biological father who is consistently involved. One has a step-father who has stepped in and attempted to fill that space. Two have never met their dads. One dad is incarcerated. Others seem to pop in and out of the lives of their kids at their discretion. ALL of the kids have legal involvement. They ALL struggle in school, and many are using drugs. ALL of the kids have always been with their moms.

I don't want to appear to be blaming fathers. I know that some of the Moms may make it extremely difficult to be a part of the kids' lives. But, ultimately, does that matter? Shouldn't it be that nothing can stand in the way of being there for your kids? Is there anything more important? Even if the courts are involved and say these dads can only see their kids on the weekends, shouldn't the dads be showing up at 6 am Saturday to fill that time?I think it is likely not coincidence that these kids all have these commonalities- their fathers are MIA, and they are acting out.

In my relationship with my dad, there have been bumps in the road. There have been times when we were less close, communicating infrequently. I know the emptiness that leaves, the void in the heart, the yearning for something better. And, I don't know that anyone could have stepped in and made that feel better. I suppose, after some time, those feelings diminish, but it seems that they would always be there. I know I'm lucky to not have to know.

Brian is the light of Kinnie's life. Even at 7 months old, there is a special bond. Probably mostly because Brian does anything and everything to make her smile. If she hears his voice, even a cough from another room, she'll stop whatever she's doing to look for him- even interrupting a meal, which is a big deal for this little girl.

I know there are special circumstances, things that happen beyond people's control. I don't want to appear judgmental. I just don't understand being absent from a kid's life. You make a baby (whether you meant to or not), and from the moment you know, there should be nothing more important.

To hear

It seems to be my pattern these days to lie awake in bed in the early morning hours and think. Kinnie is down the hall from our room, and we don't use a monitor. Even so, I generally hear, and awaken for, the slightest peep.

I was thinking this morning about the day Kinnie was born. I was lying on the operating table with some knowledge that behind a curtain hiding my belly, something amazing was happening. The anesthesiologist helped me lift my head so I could see Kinnie as the doctors pulled her from my abdomen. I then had to lie down and wait as the incision was sutured.

I think my ability to hear changed in that moment. I couldn't see what was happening, as Kinnie had been taken somewhere in the half of the room to which my view was blocked. I remember lying there, listening for reassurance that she was okay. Not only was I listening for her little cries, but also to the nurses who were tending to her, to the voices of my mom and husband who were by her side, to insure that there was no worry in the words they said. There I was, with (forgive me) a gaping hole in my abdomen, being stitched up, and I was totally focused on the sounds surrounding my baby.

This morning I was lying in bed, listening to assure that Kinnie was still sleeping soundly. It is amazing how a mother's senses are heightened and changed by the need and desire to protect her children. I had a vague understanding about that instinct, but no idea how powerful it is.

In unrelated news, we have adopted another 4 legged baby. We went to Dumb Friends League last weekend, and picked a few dogs about which we wanted to inquire. When I sat down with the adoption counselor, he informed me that each of the pups we had picked were either aggressive or unfriendly with children. I explained our loss of Fifi, and that we just wanted someone easy going to be a friend to Koda. The counselor suggested we meet a dog named Charlie.

Charlie is fat. And a mutt. I have no idea what he is made of. The DDFL said he is 5 years old, but I think he is closer to 7, based on the way his teeth are worn. He should be about 40 pounds (right now he's more like 50), black on top and tan and white on his face and underside. He has a long tail that curves slightly upward, which is black with a white tip. His ears are floppy, and came with an infection. But, he loves Kinnie. And us. And Koda. Koda is not sure that she loves him yet, but she will. The fact that she tolerates him is a big deal for her. She can be a bit of a cranky old lady.

He has been a good boy, with the exception of one incident involving the diaper pail. And it was funny, the sense I had, as we were going to sleep the first night he was with us- that our house is full again, complete. We miss Fifi, and knowing there's another friend with us warms everything up.

Parenting styles

I had this experience while lying in bed early this morning that has me thinking...

Koda is our 8 year old heeler mix. She is our 4-legged baby, and, until Kinnie came along, the center of my universe. Since the birth of my 2-legged baby, I have worked hard to include Koda, and to reassure her that she is still one of the most important things in my life.

Koda sleeps in our bed. We adopted her when she was a year and a half. She started out sleeping gated in the kitchen. Then, she got a dog bed in our room. Then, she made her way into our bed. I'm not sure how it happened, and I don't mind one bit. There's nothing better than waking in the early morning hours and feeling a warm, soft pup curled up next to you.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Koda feels it is necessary to wake me. While still lying by my side, she'll tap me with her paw. If I don't respond, she'll do it again. Usually, when she does it, I pet her for a minute or two, and she and I readjust our positions and go back to sleep. Sometimes, this requires me to move because she decides she wants to lie on top of me.

So, this morning, at about 6, I felt a tap. Koda had crawled up next to me, between Brian and me. She rolled on her side, and I scratched her belly. Apparently, she decided to also paw at Brian- which she usually does not do. I watched him, with his eyes still closed, lift his hand and point to the foot of the bed. Koda got up, moved, lay down on my legs, and went back to sleep.

It was a minor event, routine even. But it made me wonder what it means for how we will parent our 2-legged baby. It seems I go out of my way to comfort- some might say I'm a push-over. And, it seem Brian has some boundaries around his sleep and whether it is to be disturbed. I smile as I wonder...

Some kind of validation

I was having a discussion with my mom the other day about Kinnie's first several months. She said to me that Kinnie's early infancy was one of the most difficult she had seen. This, coming from a woman who worked in pediatrics for about a quarter-century. It validated a strong sense I had that my baby, early on, was not easy. I, of course, did not know what to expect, and didn't know what bad or good could be. She would cry for hours some days, for no known reason. When you're going through that, it's not as if someone is going to say, "jeez, your baby is difficult." Because, then you'd be offended. But now, looking back, I'm glad it was evident to someone else. I looked for the good in every day with Kinnie in those first three months. And, sometimes, it was hard not to be overwhelmed by all the worry and sadness that she was so often upset. I can still conjure up some of the anxiety I felt if I think about it for long.

The good news is that we got through it. Kinnie is an absolute delight. She rarely complains now, except when she is tired or hungry. And those are things I can help to fix. I felt so helpless when she would wail and we had tried everything we could to comfort her. I often wonder what it was all about. I've questioned whether the experiences I had as a pregnant woman in a foreign country affected her- primarily the stress. Or, maybe it was the caffeine that I couldn't quite give up. Or, the 35-hour car ride from Guadalajara to Denver 2 weeks before she was born. It's interesting, because I am so often to be the first to speak up and protect women from being blamed or feeling guilt. It's not that I blame myself, but mostly just my curiosity about what happens in the months directly before and after birth.

Kinnie sits up pretty well, and her spitting up has almost vanished. Hallelujah. I think I can soon have my carpets cleaned. And, she doesn't go through several bibs or outfits every day. I hope that it also means that she is more comfortable. In the past few days, she has figured out where her primary food source lives. If she's hungry, she'll stare directly at my chest while voicing her complaints. Sometimes, she even grabs my shirt. I plan to nurse until she's about a year old. We'll see what she learns between now and then as far as finding her way to her meals.

The two bottom, center teeth have now broken through Kinnie's gums. Another hallelujah. She was miserable for a while. They are just tiny nubs at the moment, barely poking through. But, I think getting them through the gums was the most difficult part. In the past 3 days, she's been a whole new baby. I am so glad she's not hurting anymore. At least until the next ones come in.

I continue to be grateful everyday, and amazed at this process called parenthood. I love it, and am pretty sure it is what I was meant to do with my life- even though I've only been at it for seven months.

Warmth in my heart

I just walked up to Kinnie's room to get my phone, which had fallen from my pocket. I had put her down to bed a few minutes before, and she was still awake. She was quietly looking at the art on her walls, her hands resting on her chest. There is something about the innocence in these moments. I know she is peaceful, taking in the world around her. And there is so much she has yet to learn, to discover. It is a beautiful thing.

We traveled to St. Louis this past weekend so that Kinnie could meet her Great-Grandparents on the McNeill side. Granddad's health has declined in the past few years, and we want to take advantage of every opportunity to see him. And, the chance for Granddad and Grandy to meet Kinnie was priceless.

The travel itself was exhausting. Never again will I take a 6 month old on a two night trip. Unless someone else is paying for it (again). Kinnie was a champ overall, but by the end of day one, was a wreck due to being overtired and overstimulated. There may be some teeth on their way in, too. When we got to the hotel that night, much later than she would usually go to bed, Kinnie cried for over an hour. The next day was better, as we allowed a lot of time for napping. And then the next day, we headed home.

Despite the challenges, I would do the trip all over again. We have some invaluable pictures of Kinnie with her greats. More importantly, I imagine that for them, meeting a member of the next generation of their family means the world. To be able to bring smiles to Grandy and Granddad's faces was worth it all. They are incredible people. Granddad, who has difficulty with movement, reached out to Kinnie several times, once to grab her foot. And though he has some trouble with speech, when we were saying goodbye, he grabbed my hand and Brian's, and thanked us for coming.

Four years ago, Brian and I seriously considered trying to get pregnant. We felt that the chance for our child to meet our grandparents would be worth the interruption in our life paths at the time. Ultimately, we decided not to pursue having a baby at then. I am so grateful that the way it worked out, with the surprise of Kinnie, still allowed for these most important people in our lives to know her, and for her to know them.

Catching up

I was thinking about giving up on this blog. I'm not doing well in keeping up with it. But, then, when I get the urge to write, I sure am glad it's here.

Kinnie is six months old now. Every month, around the 30th, I end up having a very sentimental day or two, when I think about how fast time is going. To be honest, the rest of the time, I am just grateful for every day, and for all the new adventures. It is so exciting to see all the changes.

I was watching an interview on TV the other day, with a woman who had experienced multiple miscarriages. She said, "I know I'm meant to be a mom." I realized that I didn't know that until the minute Kinnie was born. From 1:18 pm on June 30th, 2010, for the rest of my life, I know what my purpose is. I have never felt more passionate, more sure of what brings meaning to my life.

Kinnie had her first Christmas, and the holiday season also brought her first road trip. She did very well. And what road trip with an infant is complete without a poop blow-out in the car? We visited her grandparents, aunt and uncle, and cousins. She loved all the attention.

Kinnie has begun eating cereal every day. She likes it, I think. Last night, there was barley cereal on the table, all over the high chair, on the floor, in her hair... There's no way to control where it flies. She tends to put a finger or thumb in her mouth immediately after taking a bite, which ensures a mess.

I have had two naps with Kinnie in the last month. My Papa will likely scold me for allowing this to happen. In both cases, we were playing on the bed, and fell asleep. You see, Kinnie is not a baby who likes to be held constantly. In order to sleep, she has always been put in her crib. So, technically, the first time we napped together, I couldn't sleep because it tickled me so that she had fallen to sleep right next to me.

She laughs every day. She's trying to sit up, and is very nearly doing so independently. She has rolled over a few times. She puts everything in her mouth. She loves to eat. The words "bonk" and "boing" crack her up. Perhaps her favorite thing is a ride in her snuggli. She is a joy, pure delight, and wonderful.