Live like you are dying

It is interesting how much a person changes their perceptions of people and life in general as hey grow up. When I was a kid I never had a second’s hesitation about riding my bike from one end of Yakima to the other. As an adult I look back and think that it was a miracle I was not taken by some sicko. I believed in Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and the Tooth Fairy whole heartedly when I was younger. Now I play those roles for my children. I used to see family as a value that had more worth than gold. Now I see the hypocrisy and the barely hidden animosity that family brings.

I used to love staying with various extended family members when I was younger. I loved watching my dad’s family get together and drink themselves silly while us kids played poker for Ritz crackers and tried to steal sips of alcohol when the adults were not looking. We used to go swimming in the Willamette River (YUCK), riding on my uncle’s boat, and playing on the wave runners. I loved hanging out with my dad’s family because they were so much FUN! I still love hanging out with them I just don’t quite fit in because I cannot hold my liquor at all. That is an unforgivable sin to the Sanchez’! 

My mom’s side of the family was never the "fun" side with the exception of just one of my aunts. Whenever the rest of the family got into a room with one another they always came off as fake. No one really seemed to like each other and no one valued anyone else. I never really liked going to see my mom’s side of the family except to see my cousins and the one “fun” aunt. This aunt was always loving and generous and I enjoyed spending time with her and her kids. She had a house by a lake that was surrounded by woods which everyone knows is the greatest place ever for Washington brats like me. We kids would spend hours at the lake swimming to the dock and diving off, digging our way through the Lilly pads to go fishing, and trying to catch dragonflies. We would lose ourselves in the woods surrounding her house. We searched every bush and plant for edible items such as blackberries and huckleberries and tried not to eat too many of them so that there was enough for my Aunt to make them into a pie.  She would take us to the local rivers and show us how to look for agate stones, coprolite, and craw dads. She was the first person who tried to teach me to cook and she always listened to anything I had to say.

I remember trying to make her dinner once when I was 11 or 12. My sister Melissa, and my Aunt’s future step-daughter got the idea in our heads that we were going to cook for my aunt and her boyfriend so that they could share a romantic dinner. None of us had any idea how to cook, but I thought I could work my way through making spaghetti since I had seen my mom make it a million times. You just add tomato sauce to a pan with a packet of spaghetti seasoning and then boil noodles. How hard could it be?  I don’t know what it tasted like, but I do know that my aunt did not have the special seasoning packet that my mom had so I just opened up spices at random and threw them in with the tomato sauce. I bet it was the worst meal they had ever had, but they ate it up like it was created by a 5 star chef. That was just how my aunt was and I think it is why I was always so drawn to her.

As I got older, I learned that she was no different from the other members of my mom’s family, she was just better at hiding it from the kids. My cousin once told me that she had overheard my aunt telling my uncle that I was such a horrible child for my parents because I had a drug problem and I was an unbelievable slut. When my cousin told me this, I cried. How could she have said these things about me? I had never done drugs and I had never done anything with a boy other than kiss one. Why would she say that about me?  That conversation changed the way I viewed my aunt and it colored every single happy memory I had of her. It was like my mother had said it about me. She was the one person outside of my mom and dad whose opinion I truly valued and that was what she thought of me. So I did what I have always done when I get hurt and I put up walls and pushed her away.

I have never really spoken to my aunt in the 13 years since I was told her true opinion of me. I see her very rarely at family functions when I am forced to go by my mother and I try to pretend to be nice to her though I am sure she can see right through it. That is how our relationship is now. We are fake to one another and ask questions about the other’s life so we can put up this pretense of being civil to one another so that we can pretend that we are a loving and close family. Actually I don’t pretend for those reasons. I pretend to keep my mom happy. I could care less about her or anyone else in that family and I only put up the façade for the sake of my grandmother when she was alive. Now that she has passed I have no trouble letting them know what I truly think of them and the way they treat one another.

It wouldn’t bother me in the slightest to never see or speak to any of them again so imagine my surprise when my mom called 2 days ago to tell me that my aunt has cancer and that it is very advanced and she will be lucky to see Christmas. Initially, I tried to be supportive for my mom who’s last year has been so rough on her I am amazed she gets out of bed every day, but the longer I talked to her the more I found that I was upset. I figured it must because my mom was upset and I have always been WAY TOO empathetic for my own good. The more I thought about it the more I realized I was not upset because my mother was; I was upset because I felt like a piece of my childhood was being taken away from me. I have not hardly spoken to this aunt in more than a decade yet I hear she is dying and I feel like that 15 year old girl whose cousin told her that her aunt cannot stand her and thinks she is a drug addicted slut. I felt all of the pain of that come back like it was happening again. I may not care about the person she is now, but I still care about the person I thought she was back then and it taught me that life is too short to hold on to grudges and anger. I let one of the best relationships I had turn to hate because of her gossip. I should have confronted her about it and set the record straight. I should have forgiven her long ago instead of waiting to hear that she was dying to do so because now it seems empty and fake just like we have been to one another.

From this day one I will try to live my life like I was dying. I want to love more, hate less, anger slower, forgive quickly and live my life every single day like it may be my last because you never know when it will be. I don’t want to find myself in this situation again where someone is dying and it takes the reality of that fact to shine light on my hardheaded stubbornness and to see that it was nothing but a waste. I do not do many things well or for long periods of time with the exception of holding a grudge. I think it is time to change that from a grudge to forgiveness.

The power of positive thinking

Growing up my mom always told me to have a positive outlook about things. Whenever I was sick she would tell me to tell myself I was not sick and that I would get better soon. To be honest, she irritated me every time she said things like that because no one could get better simply because they believed they would. It was a complete waste of time to even try, but I indulged her. Kinda. I never felt any better after my foo-foo I feel great sessions so I never put any stock into the idea, but then again I never really tried to believe in it. I had my mind made up before I even started. I was recently introduced to a new way of thinking that if you think good and happy things, good and happy things will happen to you. I am going to put myself into this idea and give it a go and see if it makes a difference in my life. The first thing I intend to do is remember the things I have in my life rather than what I don’t have. I have an amazing husband who loves me. 4 kids who are beautiful, healthy, and full of life, a beautiful car that I absolutely love that my wonderful husband bought me, and I am about to move in to a gorgeous house that is going to be my first home. When I take a look back at things I do not understand why I am negative about so many things because my life is pretty darn great when I think about it. 

It's all about me

I have given small bits of insight into my world through the blogs I have shared, but there are a few things that I have been told “define” the real me and I thought I would share them with everyone.

I love drinking Pepsi. I don’t care for any other pop with the very occasional Coke-a-Cola thrown in. I probably drink 2, sometimes 3 cans of Pepsi every single day.

I have a very freaky obsession with numbers and I always look for patterns in them. I do it with every single number I come across and I cannot move on to anything else until I have found a pattern or have been able to reduce the number to a single digit by adding each number up until there is only one. 8789=32=5. If for some reason I cannot do it, it literally can ruin my entire day.

I am an absolute slob. If it was not for my husband, I could very possibly see myself being one of those people on Hoarders.

I LOVE strawberry Skittles. I like all the rest of them (except grape, BLEH), but I love the red ones. I wish they made bags of only red. When I eat my Skittles they can under no circumstances (JESSICA!!!!) be mixed with other colors and they can only be eaten in reverse rainbow order. Purple, green, yellow, orange, and then red.

I love reduced fat original Pringles. I currently have 5 jars in my cabinet and that is only because I finished off a jar yesterday or there would have been 6.

Almost every single day, I eat a burned Totinos Combination flavor pizza. Yes the burning is intentional. I like it burned and yes it is unbelievably disgusting that I eat one almost every day. Well more like half of one. Trouble always eats about 1/4 – 1/2 and Pooka eats what is left of the half Trouble didn’t finish.

I never complete anything I start.

I have about a million trains of thought in my head and the damn trains always jump track and very rarely ever find their way back to their original track.  

I LOVE socks. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE them. I currently have 73 pairs of socks and that is only because I threw out about 25 pairs a month or two ago.

My nose is chronically cold, as are my fingers, toes, and behind. I have circulation problems. (THANKS DAD!)

I love Grey’s Anatomy and other than the complete whoring around she did, I identify with the lead character more than any other character on any TV show ever.  

And…

Whenever I listen to music or the TV, the volume must be set to an even number unless the even number is immediately before or after a number ending in 5 an then it can only be set to the 5. For example, radio volume can only be set to 2 5 8 10 12 15 18 20 22 25. Above 25, however, volume numbers can only be divisible by 5. 25, 30, 35, 40…. I would rather turn the radio off than lesten to the volume set to a number that is not one listed above.  

Get over it!

I am neurotic. There is no need to sugar coat it or pretend otherwise. I am not trying to get people to jump on here and pump up my confidence by saying I am not neurotic or anything like that I am just making a blunt statement so that I can make people see what it is like to be me. I have been cover to cover on the DSM IV (diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders) and I cannot find any that fit me exactly. There are several of them that come close, but none that I meet all of the diagnostic criteria on. Well I take that back, I do meet the criteria for ADHD, but that has nothing to do with the crazy that I feel I live with. I wish there was a definable diagnosis so that when people say to me that I need to let things go or stop stressing all of the time, I could just tell them that I have blah blah blah and it makes it very hard to just stop worrying or obsessing.

Trust me; I do not want to do the things I do. I would love to get upsetting news and be plagued by it for an hour and then move on. It would be a gift to handle stress the way normal people do, but I am not normal. I can take normal levels of stress and be okay for the most part depending on what the stressful situation is. If I feel I have the slightest sense of control over the issue, I do not take it into me like a poison. If, however, I cannot control the outcome of whatever I am stressed about, the stress fills me with a dread so crippling, it takes all of my energy to function.

When the stress gets bad there is a process that I go through. The very first thing is that my heart speeds up and my heart is not the strongest. Then the worrying sets in. I obsess over every single tiny detail of something until I am entirely consumed with it. I have no control over this and it is the one aspect of dealing with stress that I hate the most. From there, the nerves kick in and every little thing sets me on edge. After that the nausea takes over and I get so worked up and so sick that I am unable to eat or drink. If the stress is severe enough I can go for days with only a few teaspoons of something to drink and I can go for days and weeks with only eating a bite of food a day. It usually isn’t until the dehydration has gotten so bad that I am disoriented that I usually realize that it has been 2-3 days without more than a sip or two of water. It is about that point I realize that I am so tense; I am in danger of snapping.

As I said earlier, I am not saying these things for sympathy. I am saying them in hopes that people may understand just a tiny bit what it is like to be me. When I get stressed out it is okay to tell me to take a deep breath and try to relax, but telling me to get over it, let it go, move on, forget about it, stop obsessing, etc. does not help me, it makes it worse. I know people are just trying to help, but you can help me more by saying you support me and are here for me. Telling me I am overreacting only makes me feel bad which starts the cycle all over again. 

Dear 16 year old me

One of the best public service announcements I have seen in a long time and one that I think every person should watch.

It is okay to ask for help.

We were talking about this in class today and some jerk made a rude comment and it prompted me to not only jump his shit, but to share my story with others so that they may know PPD is not anything to be ashamed of.

People say that having a baby is the most joyous time in a person’s life and while that may be true, there is a darker side to having a baby that many people don’t consider and a whole lot of people don’t talk about. While a mom should feel joy over having a baby, it is not uncommon for her to also feel despair and overwhelming sadness. I know this personally because this is how I felt after having both of my children.

With Pooka, I did not realize anything was wrong with me. I was so scared all of the time and I felt as though I couldn’t do anything right. Every time she made the smallest sound while she slept I was certain something was wrong with her and not only that, but I was sure I was the cause of whatever it was. I remember when she was 4 or 5 days old she had the worst gas and she was not crying, but screaming out in pain. After 4-5 hours I had exhausted everything I had read about in every parenting book and magazine I had and I called the advice nurse for her pediatrician and tried their remedies as well. Nothing was helping and her screaming was becoming desperate. My mother in law took her from me, rocked her in the chair just I had been doing, and patted her bottom just I had been doing. Pooka stopped crying and soon she was expelling the gas that was hurting her so much. I felt like my heart was going to break watching Dot with my daughter. Don’t get me wrong I am so glad she was there and able to help Pooka, but I was her mommy. Why couldn’t it have been me? After that I went in the bathroom, laid on the floor, and cried. I remember thinking she would have been better off if she had been born to a different mother. It was with that thought that I began to think something was not right with me, though I didn’t know what it was.

A couple of days after that I was feeding Pooka and she was frantic. Those of you who have babies know that when they get real hungry there is an urgent feel to them when they first start feeding and they calm the longer they feed. This was not the case with Pooka and the longer she fed, the more frantic she became. I had been feeding her for almost 3 full hours out of the last 5 and I could no longer get any milk out of me because she had taken it all. What was I going to do? Her crying was heartbreaking and I knew she needed more food, but I had no more to give. I did, however, have some formula samples that the hospital had given me, but I did not want formula. I wanted to feed my daughter myself. After arguing for more than an hour I was told it didn’t matter what I wanted, it mattered what she needed and that was more food and since I still was unable to get anymore, I would have to give her a bottle. It felt like defeat to go to the kitchen and make those couple of ounces. I sat in front of the stove with tears streaming down my face as I waited for the bottle to heat up. What was wrong with me? I gave her the bottle, she drank it down so fast I thought it was leaking out somewhere and then I realized she was just that hungry, but I didn’t know why. The rest of the night she would feed from me and then from a bottle because I was not enough to satisfy her.

Her 2 week checkup was the next day and I explained to her doctor the situation. After weighing her, feeding her, and weighing her again the doctor determined I was not making enough milk and that Pooka was developing failure to thrive (growing at a rate that is too slow for healthy development). They then gave me a contraption to wear around my neck that would hold formula and I would tape to myself and allow Pokka to feed from me thereby stimulating me to make milk, while also getting formula at the same time. 

It was humiliating. I also was given an electrical pump and was told to pump for 10 minutes at the end of each feeding and I was given a medication that would hopefully increase my milk production. I was scheduled a follow up to see how things were going a week later and while Pooka had gained a little bit of weight, it was still not enough. They then had me wait for 4 hours while feeding Pooka only formula and then they hooked me up to some fancy-schmancy machine to pump my milk and see how much I was making. The lactation consultant and doctor said I should be able to pump 4-5 ounces from each side after waiting for 4 hours. I pumped a total of just less than an ounce. How was that possible. I was doing everything they said and I was drying up after only a couple of weeks. I was devastated. I was a failure. What kind of mother could not feed her own child? That was what we were made to do and I was failing on the most basic levels of being a mommy. I had no hope after that. I wore the device for another month and pumped at the same time. Eventually it was all gone and she moved on to formula.

Slowly, but surely I got out of my funk. It took about 6-8 months, but the depression went away and I began to not feel so worthless. When I got pregnant with Trouble I did not think of the depression I had with Pooka and it was not until I was 8 months pregnant with him, that I knew it even was Post-Partum Depression. This time I was going to go at it with all the gusto I could manage, but I had the mindset that if breastfeeding didn’t work I would use a bottle and all would be fine. Things were going very well and in order to make LOTS of milk I fed him every hour and I pumped after each feeding. The day we went to check out, they weighed and measured him. All babies lose a bit of weight, but they tend to get concerned if they lose 10% or more of their birth weight in the first 2 days. I was confident we would not have that problem since I was feeding him even when he was not hungry just to make doubly sure he was getting enough to eat and I was being stimulated enough to make plenty of milk. It turns out I was right. He did not lose 10% of his weight. He lost 13%. The doctors put me through the entire process like they did with Pooka. Weigh, feed, weigh again and sure enough he was getting very little from me. A new prescription was given for the milk production along with strict instructions to come back in 2 days for another weigh, feed, weigh session.

I had said it would not matter if things came out the same way, but here I was again in the same situation only I felt even worse. I could almost literally see the black wave of despair build up and then shallow me. This time it was worse. I could not enjoy my little boy and feedings became so stressful I would gag and sometimes get sick (my reaction to stress). I stopped eating and it became unbearable to even smell food much less eat it. One bite of pizza, which I love more than any other food, would make me so full I thought I would get sick. After 3 more days of that, I began to resent my baby. I was so consumed over my failure to make milk and feed my child that I could not appreciate him.

Then one day I thought he and I would both be better off if I had never had him. The shock of those feelings was like ice water in my veins. I was terrified. How could I think that? I made Mack take me to the hospital and though he didn’t know it, I had every intention of making them commit me. I feared I was a danger to my child. I had to be locked away. I talked with a nurse at the hospital for a long time and she sent me over to my OB who I also talked with for a long time. New medications were prescribed, but this time they were antipsychotics rather than milk makers. I was also told to stop breastfeeding Trouble and use only the bottle with formula. The first feeding using my new Prescription and feeding instructions was eventful to say the least. I think it may have been the first time I really bonded with him. I watched his every single movement while he ate and he watched me right back. I did not gag, I did not get sick, and I finally felt like I was his mommy instead of someone who gave birth to him.

It took a couple of days, but my emotions settled down and I was able to appreciate my baby. I lived for feeding him and received joy from it I had not known. I look back now and can see the wide variety of warning signs that were hidden or misinterpreted, but they are not what is important. What is important is that when it really mattered, I asked for help. Any woman out there reading this needs to know that being a mom is hard, but it is more rewarding. Do not do you or your child a disservice by keeping your head down and muddling through it as I did with my daughter. Look up and meet depression in the eye and tell it you will not lie down for it. There is never any shame ever in asking for help and anyone who tells you otherwise is not worth your time. 

Being a mommy ROCKS!!!

Before I had kids I always thought it was cheesy to hear someone say that the best gift they had ever received was their children. Now that I am a mom I understand the sentiment. Yesterday made me reflect on my kids and how much joy they bring into my life and I started thinking about how they came to be.

Growing up I never wanted kids. I wasn’t the little girl who planned her wedding down to the place cards or had names picked out for 2.3 kids I planned on having. I just wasn’t that kind of girl. I was the kind that enjoyed playing in the mud and searching for bugs out in the woods. I remember people telling me I would change my mind when I got older and I also remember being irritated that they didn’t know me very well if they believed that.

What irritates me now is that they must have known me better than I knew myself because they were right. All through school and even through my first major relationship, I detested the idea of having a kid. Why would I want something that never sleeps and demands all of my time? I took great precautions to not have children including using a birth control method that made me gain 40 pounds and lose 2 cup sizes in my bra, but neither of those mattered to me nearly as much as not having a kid. I would have given my arm at that point to not have a child especially not with that person.

After my relationship ended, I began to think about things in my life ditfferently, but I still held true to not wanting kids. I had moved on and met someone new and we were enjoying the beginning stages of our relationship. He had two children already and for the first time it didn’t send me into a panic to think about being a mom to a child even if it was only as a stepmom to his kids.

About a year after we moved in together I went to my lady doctor to have everything checked out. He was updating some missing info on my chart and asked me how long I had been using the birth control I was on. It turns out I had been on it for just over 6 years. After telling him this, he left the room and then came back a few minutes later with several large books. He would look in one and then turn to a section in one of the others and go back and forth. This went on for about 10 minutes before he said that he wanted to take me off of the medication because this particular birth control could make it difficult to get pregnant if you take it for more than three years. He said the damage may have already been done given that I had been on it for 6 years, but he felt it was best to try something else and see how things went. I was about to tell him that I didn’t care if the medication made me lose the ability to have kids because I had no intention of having them and then I felt all the air whoosh out of me. In that moment I realized that my fiancée’s kids were not enough for me. I wanted to have kids myself.

The doctor and I decided that the shot I had been given just 2 weeks ago would be my last one and since he wanted to run some tests after the birth control wore off, my fiancée and I would use condoms to prevent pregnancy. After doing the math, my doctor told me I should start using the alternate form of birth control at the beginning of November and we would begin testing after the new year. In January I was having some blood work done for something else and they asked me if I could be pregnant. I said I doubt it, but since they needed to know for whatever it was they were doing, they ran a test. Then I got excited because I figured out I was a week late. I knew I shouldn’t have because my cycles would be very irregular for the first 6 months or more, but I couldn’t help it. The nurse who drew my blood said they would know by 10am and she would call me and let me know. By 10:05 I had not heard from her. At 10:10am I couldn’t take it and I called the lab result phone number. The lady looked it up and said they never ran a pregnancy test so she couldn’t tell me if it was positive or not. I was crushed and began babbling about how they said they had to know so they were going to add it to my labs and then I just kind of trailed off and I think I may have said thanks for your help. I was about to hang up the phone when I realized she was saying something about added labs being in a different part of the screen so she would check and yep there it was and “oh honey, I am sorry. Your test came back positive.” I don’t remember my exact reaction, but I know I was crying and I think I may have done a double back flip triple axel combo. I could hardly wait to tell Mack and considered leaving work right then and there to tell him, but I settled for a phone call during my lunch break.

It seems so silly now to think that I was ever worried about it since we didn’t even know if there was a problem and there apparently wasn’t seeing how my doctor figured I got pregnant about a month after the birth control was out of my system. In fact, when I got pregnant with my second child it was very soon after stopping birth control. Maybe I was meant to have these kids or maybe the chemistry between my husband and I works very well. Whatever it was, I have two perfect and beautiful children to show for it. Sure they have their moments when I am so desperate to sell them to first gypsy I find I cannot see straight, but they are my babies. I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world and they are THE BEST gift I have ever received.

 My daughter and her first diaper change

My son right before we left for the hospital

I don't even know what to say...

While waiting to see Trouble’s doctor in Vancouver today, I had quite possibly the strangest conversation with someone. I was sitting there waiting to be seen, but I was about 25 minutes early for the appointment. I was trying to compare Harry Sullivan’s theory with Sigmund Freud’s in my head so that I could do this week’s homework assignment when I got home. While I was waiting, a teenage girl came up to me. It is so hard to tell nowadays, but I would say that she was 16 or 17. She was fiercly whispering to the two girls with her and finally she came over and stood in front of me. When I looked up at her, she opened her mouth and the words just fell out of her mouth.

Girl: OMG! I just have to tell you that you are so great and I loved your husband. He was so great and I cannot believe he is dead. What are you doing in Washington? Are you filming a movie? Can I have your autograph? Is this your daughter? She looks just like her dad. Is that your son? I didn’t know you had another kid.

Me: Um, I think you have me confused with someone else.

Girl: I bet you say that to all of your fans just so that they don’t know who you are, right?

Me: No. My name is Katie, who do you think I am?

Girl: (High pitch painful laughing) Hi, Katie (she winked at me and then whispered) Can I have your autograph?

(Insert this same round and round where I said I was not famous and she didn't believe me at least 3 more times.)

Me: (A little pissy now) Really, I am not whoever it is that you think I am. My name is Katie and I am a student. I do not make movies. My husband is not dead, he is a teacher.

Girl: So, you aren’t Michelle Williams?

Me: No.

The girl then left and went back over to her friends and told them the news. One of her friends then looked over at me and said “Of course she isn’t Michelle Williams. She is way too fat to be her"

Me. O.O 

FML

So I leave it up to you. Do I resemble Michelle Williams?

Today was a good day

Today got much better after I vented my little tirade earlier. Mack and I got to talk with the boys and we had a good video chat. Stitch, Trouble, and I went outside and played with some bubbles on this beautiful day and then we packed up and went to the park. We let the kids play and chased Noah around the playground for a bit and then got some amazing burgers from 5 Guys Burgers and Fries. I do not care for their fries at all, but their burgers are so good. Probably have 1000 calories in them, but I don't are. After that we did some shopping and hung out with my man of honor. From there we went to look at a house that we may get if all of the stars line up perfectly.  There are only 3 things that could make this day better. In reverse order they are: Reduced fat Original Pringles, a ICE cold Pepsi, and my laying in bed with my hubby.The pringles and pepsi will have to wait, but I think I am going to go see what I can do about last one.

Excuse me while I lose my mind for a moment.

Really people? I know that I am guilty of it too sometimes, but the whining and the drama that some people go on and on about is enough to make me want to punch them in the face. Face Punch! I am so unbelievably tired of logging on to my Facebook account who are all "boohoo my life is over. I cannot buy the new Iphone 4 because the store is out of stock. What am I going to do??!!?" (insert whatever whinyass bitchy diatribe you would like here) 

What really pisses me off is when the drama queens cry, whine, and complain so you offer some advice and they freak out and get pissed off that you even bothered to respond to them. Then the real kicker for me that makes me want to really cause physical pain is when they complain forever about the same crap, get pissed off when you try to help them, and then they say it was all a big joke. Seriously? Just admit that you were not joking, that you are an attention whore who thrives off of the sympathy of others, and get over your damn self because your life really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things and the sooner you get over yourself, the better of your life will be. 

The new cure for cranky

It is amazing that my kids seem to know when I am having an off day because they always come up with a way to make me laugh. Take now for instance. I am in the middle of trying to do a very boring research proposal for school involving an experiment I am supposed to conduct next week, but I am tired. And cranky. I think I may have gotten 2-3 hours of sleep last night and my boys did not trade up to take Mark Ingram in the draft and let my husband's team take him which I will never hear the end of so I am a little short with my fuse today. How do my kids respond to this? They bring their musical toys into the living room and start playing with them and then they begin dancing. It starts with them just standing their moving their bodies back and forth from one foot to the other with very exaggerated head swaying. Left. Right. Left. Right. After a couple of minutes of this I am almost smiling, but these kids are smart and know that it is not enough. They then move to the middle of the room and begin dancing with jerky almost violent looking motions with their arms up in the air all the while spinning circles. There is no way this can end well, but miraculously, they do not run into each other. When they notice one another they start laughing and then try upstaging the other. Stitch begins jumping while spinning and dancing and possible even convulsing while Trouble put his hands out to the side and starts flings them up to the left, down in the middle, and then up and to the right. He looks like a marionette that a child is playing with because he then tries to involve his legs. How can you not laugh watching these two. Thankfully my two goof balls have chased away mommy's sour mood and I can begin to really enjoy my day! 

There is no finish line, until there's a cure

Sabrina and I were in math class and trying to cheat on the test as usual without getting caught. We had developed a system of using sign language between our desks to help each other with the answers that we couldn't figure out by ourselves. Once the test was completed we were supposed to go to the next room and begin working on our homework. Yeah, like that was going to happen. Instead we began talking about the weekend and our plans. I was going to a friend’s house if her mom ungrounded her and Sabrina was going to the Relay for Life.

I had never heard of it and Sabrina said I should come by and check it out given that I lived just right across the street. It turned out that Debbie was still grounded and since I had nothing else to do, I decided to head over and see what was going on.

Sabrina met me at the entrance to Zaepfel Stadium and took me inside. It was a sea of white, blue, and purple and finding anything was going to be next to impossible. In fact, it took us more than an hour to find our campsite. There were actually two teams sharing our site. One was for the adults and the other was for the teenagers. We settled in, had dinner, and then listened to the adults go over what was going to be expected of us. The teenagers were at one side of the campsite and the adults were at the other. If anyone was found in a tent belonging to anyone of the opposite sex, their parent’s would be receiving a phone call regardless of how late the infraction occurred. 

Back then, the threat actually held water as most parents still punished their children. There was no doubt in my mind that my father would have tanned my hide if he received a phone call in the middle of the night notifying him that I was trying to sneak into a boy’s tent. Sabrina’s dad was the one who informed us of the rules and I have to tell you that he was a very big and very intimidating man. I got the distinct impression that no one ever crossed him and if they did, their bodies were likely snack food for the fish in the Yakima River. He let it be known that if he even suspected that there were thoughts of not following this rule, the only person they would find themselves sleeping next to would be him. Not a picture I wanted in my head then and one that still makes me shudder today.

After we got settled in we headed over to the stage for the opening ceremonies. Songs were sung, poems were read, the usual thank you for coming speeches were given, and then there was a call for survivors to come to the stage. What were they talking about? Survivors of what? I was trying to figure out what they meant by the survivor comment when the stage began filing with people. There must have been more to 100 people and they were all wearing purple shirts. All of the other participants were wearing white so why did these people have purple shirts. Sabrina had told me the white shirts were to show unity so what did the purple shirts mean? Surely they stood for something, but I had no idea what it could have been until a little girl was wheeled over to the microphone and began to talk to the crowd. She was 6 years old and she was a cancer survivor. That is what the shirts were for. It was to signify the people who had beaten cancer and those who were still mounting daily battles against it. The crowd got very quiet as this little girl told her story.

She was on her third round of chemotherapy, but the cancer was still spreading. At the age of 6 she had already undergone 9 surgeries to remove tumors and one surgery to remove her left leg. Doctors were hopeful that removal of the leg would help to slow the overly-aggressive cancer. Her hope was that the cancer would slow down long enough to allow her to play outside that coming summer instead of spending it in a hospital bed. She was 6 years old and she had only been able to play outside once in her life. Her story broke my heart. After completing the story, she led what is known as the survivor lap. The first lap of the Relay for Life is walked by cancer survivors to celebrate them. After they complete their lap the rest of the participants join in and the relay kicks off.  

Sabrina and I were slotted to do the first four hours and the last four hours of the relay so we stayed out on the track and kept on walking. About an hour into our shift white bags began lining the track. When I asked her what they were, Sabrina explained to me that they were luminarias. People pay money for the bags and then put the name of a loved one who has cancer, or who has died from cancer. Bags that say In Memory of Jane Doe are for the people who have died from cancer. Bags that say In Honor of Jane Doe are for people who have had or currently have cancer. The longer we walked, the more bags they added. At one point I left Sabrina walking for the both of us and went over and purchased a bag for my grandpa. If these bags are to honor cancer patients, I want to honor him. After I write out his name on the form and hand over my money, I make my way back to Sabrina. We began walking slowly as each of us read every bag. I remember being sad when I realized that more of the bags said "In Memory of" than "In Honor of". As the sun began to set dozens of people knelt in front of the bags and began to light candles that were nestled inside the luminarias.

At 10PM our block of time was done and Sabrina and I head to the main stage for the luminaria ceremony. Where the opening ceremonies were upbeat and encouraging, the luminaria ceremony was subdued and quiet. The speaker said there were many different ways to carry out the ceremony, but the method she felt drove the message home the most was to read each and every name from the bags lining the track. As they began reading I broke off from Sabrina. She went to find her mom and I went to find the bag I had purchased for my grandpa. After about 20 minutes I found it and just stood there. As the names were being read in the background, I was thinking about how much I missed my grandpa and that the last time I had seen him alive, I was sick and couldn’t touch him because his immune system was too weak. It was at that moment that the announcers read out his name.

 I cannot describe how it felt. It was as though something broke inside of me and for the first time since he had died, I grieved. In a way, it helped me to heal because it changed part of me. I think it was the first time in my life I realized the true magnitude of my insignificance. I was a freshman in high school and my life or death moments involved clothing, boys, and gossip. These people represented by the luminarias fought real life or death battles daily. I knew from that moment on I would be different and that every year after that I would take 24 hours of my life to celebrate their lives.

I have participated in 13 other Relay for Life events since then and unfortunately my list of "In Memory of" Luminarias continues to grow. What started out as 1 at my first relay has now turned into more than 10. If you ever get the chance to attend a relay, I urge you to go. If you cannot attend the entire event at least make it for the Luminarias. The beauty held inside those bags becomes tangible at 10pm and ceremony speaks volumes through the quiet. My first relay changed my life and if you let it, it can change yours. 

Three blondes go to get a Christmas Tree

So this night started out like most others. Three people sitting around talking about what they were going to do for the evening. I do not remember now which of us had the brilliant idea to go get a Christmas tree at five in the evening, but knowing my love for Christmas and the fact that we were only about a week into December, I would bet I was the one to suggest it. My mother and sister had no objections to my crazy plan so we decided to go up and get me my Christmas tree.

Now you have to take into account that I am not talking about driving over to Walmart and getting one of the trees from some lot. I was talking about driving to the U-Cut tree farm that was about 30 minutes from where I was living. We loaded up into the car and headed up to the farm. We were almost to the tree farm and we were laughing, talking, and singing in a way that can only be described as painful for anyone who would have been subjected to it, but we were having a great time.

About a mile away from the farm, the skies opened up and rain began to fall. I wasn't all that worried about it though. We would just have to wait it out. After pulling into a space and waiting in the car for 10-15 minutes, we decided to throw caution to the wind and brave the elements. Outside the window of my car and only about 20 feet away from where we sat was MY TREE. Everything inside of me was screaming that this tree was perfect. There were no gaps, it was full and bushy, it was the perfect height for my apartment, and there even appeared to be a golden light illuminating it to really signify that the tree and I were meant to be. Okay, maybe the golden light was from the headlights of the car, but who am I to judge whether or not God was speaking to me or if it was just the shine of headlamps? Obviously I had to act in case it was an omnipresent message meant for me.

After checking in with Santa who was taking time from his busy season to take photos with little kids and hand out tree cutting saws to would-be customers, I was on my way. I walked right over to the embankment above the tree and made eye contact with my . My mom thought I was crazy and she was going to walk all of the way around the lot (maybe 50 feet) to the flat place where you are supposed to enter. I, however, could not risk someone else possibly coming along and taking my tree in the time it would take me to make the trek, so I decided to slide down the very muddy slope on my feet snowboard style. Now, if you know me you are laughing already just thinking of me, the girl who is possibly the most uncoordinated person in the entire world, trying to slide down something while standing up. I cannot even walk down stairs without falling and it sometimes happens when I walk up them. (I still remember you laughing at me Tammy!)

With my resolve set and Jessica snickering in the background, I planted my feet, and then grabbed onto Jessica. As we began to slide down the hill, we realized we were actually going to make it. Filled with elation, I looked back at Jess and we lost it. Literally. Turning around made me lose my balance and as I slipped, I grabbed Jessie for dear life who in turn grabbed my mom. I only fell down onto my hands and knees and I believe Jess fell the same way. My mom on the other hand was not so lucky and ended up on her backside…in the mud. So there we were, the three of us sitting in mud. It must have been a sight and I think we all realized it at the same time because all three of us suddenly broke out in our silent Muttley laughs.

Once we were able to compose ourselves, I set out to harvest my tree. I took off my hoodie and laid it on the ground so that my shirt would not get muddy. I then laid on top of that and stretched my arm out under the tree with the saw in hand. I began sawing. There was very little room for my hand and the saw under this tree and absolutely no room for my face, so I was looking up at my mom and sister rather than looking at what i was doing. When I was certain I had cut through the tree’s trunk to a point that we would only have to push it over, I pulled the saw out. We then pushed. The tree shook and then stayed exactly the way it had been. It did not topple over as it should have. I was perplexed. I crawled back down onto my sweater and had my sister lift the branches up and out of my way so that I could see under the tree. I had been cutting for what must have been 5 or 6 minutes, but I had cut approximately an inch into the trunk. So I hunkered down to try again. This time I stayed there until I knew the saw had cut through the tree. This took about 30 minutes and during this time, my brilliant plan to use the sweater as a buffer between my body and the mud had failed horribly. I was completely covered in mud and the rain had picked up so that it was now a torrential downpour. I had sap and dirt and bugs in my hair. My arms were covered in Christmas tree droppings of a wide and disgusting variety and I was cold. I hate being cold.

My thrill over finding the perfect tree had quickly diminished and I was left feeling dejected and a little broken. My first Christmas by myself was slowly turning out to be something I wanted over and done with. After we knocked the tree down, some teenage boys came over and asked if I wanted all of the debris shaken out of the tree. I did. After they shook the tree, they netted it and tied it to the top of the car. One of the guys got snarky and then asked if I wanted them to shake the debris off of me. I did not laugh though my mother and sister seemed to think it was the funniest thing ever. We drove the tree home and set out to carry it inside my house and begin decorating. Unfortunately when I got inside, I saw that it was almost 9PM and I had to get up for work at 4AM. Tree decorating would have to wait.

We untied the tree and rolled it off of the car. I took the bottom of the trunk with my mom and Jessica took the top of the tree. 1. 2. 3. Lift. The tree raised about 6 inches and then dropped. We dropped with the tree. How was it that the tree weighed more than the car that brought it home? It was impossible to carry it up the stairs and into the house so we rolled it to the bottom of the stairs. We then drug it into the house. After battling with the tree that somehow resulted in a broken picture frame and me with a black eye, we were able to wrestle it into the tree stand. Apparently when I was cutting the tree, my arm grew weary and the tree trunk was not cut in a straight line therefore allowing the tree to stand the way it should. Instead it leaned, kind of like this. 

I didn’t care at this point however and I just left it. My mom and sister went home and I took a shower. I scrubbed and rubbed and picked and loofah’d every inch of my skin. Some of it was bleeding though I do not know if this was from the battle with the tree or from the scrubbing. After removing as much of the sticky sappy goop as I could, I decided I was as clean as I was going to get and I got ready for bed.

I like to unwind by reading before sleeping and I picked up my book. I opened the cover and turned the page. I did not let go of the page. The sap had glued my fingers to the pages. I then used my other hand to peel the paper from my skin. I ripped off the corner of the page. It also happened to be stuck to my other hand now. Think Chevy Chase in National Lampoons Christmas Vacation.  I can tell you from experience they did not exaggerate that scene. At all. The more I tried to remove the paper, the smaller the bits became and I eventually ended up with 34 tiny pieces of paper stuck to me rather than the 1 I started with. I gave up and slept. Fitfully. Every time I rolled over, my sheet came with me. Sometime around 2AM I finally dozed off and I dreamt….of Christmas trees.