A What???

I'm having a girl.  You know, the mental image of a baby with one of those huge flower headbands and mountains upon mountains of pink can be awfully scary.  

All along with this pregnancy I'm thinking "I'm having another boy.  I know how to do boys.  They're low maintenance, and you just get clothes that are red, blue, or orange.  Easy.  No problem.  I can do two of those."  And now I have to adjust to the idea of that all going away.  I don't know how to dress a girl!  Little accessories like hair bows and bracelets are completely foreign to me.  Maybe I could just let her wear some of my jewelry and be done with it?  Sigh.  That would never work.  

But then I start thinking about it.  A girl!  Fluffy dresses, matching headbands.  Pink, purple, and green.  Instead of monster trucks and sports I get flowers and lady bugs.  And it's going to be heaven!  A little girl to primp up and play dollies with.  I can just see the tea parties and baby dolls.  

It's going to be a whole different world.  Not a better one, per say, but a good one. 

Am I Sure About This?

Um, wow.  Did I really just do that?  Did I seriously just join a writing group and sign up to write 50,000 words in the month of November?  I'd think I was hallucinating or something, but I've got the confirmation email to prove it.  

I guess I just got tired of wondering and waiting to see what would happen later on.  Stopped thinking about how much time I don't have and how much talent I may or may not have.  I decided to just dive in, and now I'm scared to death.  Scared that I might actually be able to swim.  

My husband said something that really hit me a few days ago:  "I think you're afraid that you might actually be successful.  You don't know what that would be like, so you sabotage yourself."

Ack!  Do I really do that?  

I do!  My philosophical mind has been mulling over it since.  I am subconsciously causing myself to fail, or at least not succeed.  I find road blocks, obstacles, issues, that make it "not worth the trouble."  And I'm sitting there thinking Why in the heck am I doing that?  I swear, I must have been crazy or something.  And, sure, I might have snapped and done something totally irrational.

But you know something?  I'm committed now.  In 100%, no matter what.  I'm telling myself that failure isn't an option.  Not a chance!  So, here we go.  Deep breath... and go. 

I had another one - what I call a "story dream."  I sometimes get these dreams that stretch out into this perfect story, almost like I'm watching a movie.  Then, they dominate my thoughts until I write them down.  Most of the time I just write in my journal the general outline, which helps.  At least I am able to dwell on something else.  It has been a source of a lot of wondering though.

I used to think I was a good writer.  Back in junior high and high school, I would feel words pour onto a page, whether I was writing an essay, a story, or a poem.  It was enough to get me good grades on most of the writing I did.  But, then harsh life interrupted and my confidence in my ability to write was squelched.  I now write carefully, scrutinizing every sentence, feeling like I can never quite get what I want to say across.  I have wondered if writing was really a gift I've been given or if it was just fanciful thinking.  

Then, the dreams begin.  I wonder whether it's just my imagination finding an outlet, or whether this is some sort of "nudge" from a higher power telling me to start writing again.  At once, I'm ashamed.  What makes me think I could actually write something that could even compare to the writers I admire and whose words I hungrily devour on a regular basis?  There's no way my story could be that good, and I'm sure nobody would read it.  But... then enters the doubt.  Is it real lack of talent that is causing me to dismiss these opportunities as flights of fancy, or is it lingering humiliation from that experience?  And thus it goes, in endless circles, until I am utterly exhausted.  I have often come to the conclusion that the only way I'll know for sure is to really start writing and see where it leads.  Of course, my emotions seem to shrink from the idea; what if I fail?  

And therein lies the crux of it all.  Fear of failure.  It haunts me day and night, is the shadow behind every door.  It never leaves, never rests, and I cannot seem to rid myself of it.  If I can overcome this fear, I believe I could do anything, even write.  Perhaps I just need a bit more strength.  A little more courage.  Some hope.  I'm slowly gathering it, and eventually it will all come bursting out and then I'll see where I'm lead next...

Just call me a chicken...

a fraidy cat, a wuss.  I thought I'd gotten past this, at least to a point where I could function.  But, apparently, I am still petrified of needles.  Specifically needles going into things like my mouth.  I had a dentist appointment today to fix the last of my many problems for the moment, and was feeling relieved to get it over with.  I asked for the laughing gas, as usual, because it makes me not care that a very long and very sharp needle is going to be shoved into my mouth.  As an afterthought, I mentioned I'm pregnant - which makes the laughing gas a no-go.  Ack!  "I can handle this," I thought.  " I just won't look.  It works when they take my blood, and soon it will all be over."  I get reclined and ready to go, but fatally, tragically, I open my eyes at exactly the wrong moment.  I see the long, pointed end of the needle rapidly descending towards me and completely freak out, shaking, crying, and repeating over and over "I can't do it."  Luckily, I have an amazing dentist (who has been around many pregnant women before, he says) who quickly took the needle out of the room and handed me a few tissues so I could mop up my face.  We discussed some options, and found a way to get the necessary work done without having to use a needle to numb me.  

I publicly broke down today.  I cried in front of people whose names I don't know and who I don't know anything about.  And, guess what:  I'm still alive.  I always thought that public embarrassment like that would be the end of me, but it wasn't.  I'm not going to be afraid to go in that office again because I know that although I may not be "normal," I'm special.  I'm an amazing person who just happens to have a phobia of needles.  I coped.  I went home, hugged my baby, ate a huge amount of banana chips, grapes, and donut holes, and I coped.  I know that somehow I will get through what I need to.  Not because I'm brave, or strong, but because I'm human.  I am built to cope and move on.  It's kind of freeing, to know that I can get past whatever goes on with me.  And the adventure continues.

Here We Go Again

For me, there's this elation, this joy, that wells up inside me when I find out I'm pregnant. I want to shout it to the world, and at the same time keep this delicious secret all to myself.  I must admit - part of it is smugness.  I woke up one night about a month and a half ago, with the clear idea that my little Ryen is on his way to me.  I had the same sort of experience when we began trying to conceive Wil.  It's difficult to describe how sure I felt.  Like God had touched my mind to prepare me for what is to come.  Tate's amused words when I told him about Ryen:  "Well, here we go again."  I couldn't have said it better myself.  I'm in for a whole new round of mood swings, life-and-death cravings, weight gain, morning sickness, and eventually labor.  Of course, it's not going to be the same as last time.  Now I've got a fifteen-month old baby in the mix and finishing school to worry about.  But, honestly, none of the challenges can dim my excitement.  I can't wait for the first time he kicks.  The first time I see him on the ultrasound machine and know he's real.  When I find out for sure he's a boy.  Setting up another little bassinet.  And the best part of all is that I get to meet him in about 9 months. 

Luckily, I'm not doing it alone this time because my younger sister Amber is pregnant as well.  We found out the same day, and will be due more or less at the same time.  Imagine that!  It feels like I'm on one of those daytime drama shows where weird things happen all the time.   I can just imagine the two of us, big as elephants, sitting uncomfortably on the couch yelling for our husbands to bring the pickles and ice cream.  And with that mental picture, I think I'll go find myself something to eat.  What I wouldn't give for some chocolate right now...

Dream On

Dreams can be pretty crazy things, don't you think?  One can have a perfectly normal dream about events that happened during the day or some twisted dream where nothing is how it seems and everything is wrong.  Dreams are actually pretty controversial in the psychology world, as I learned this week. 

There are a few psychologists who say that dreams are our brain's interpretation of our unfulfilled desires (I'll give you one guess who thought this one up).  I can see that.  For example, dreaming about being a famous basketball star or dancer would support this theory.  But what about when I dream about failing a test in school or my baby dying?  I certainly don't desire for those things to happen!  How do we explain it then?  

Another theory is that dreams help us to reconsider and reprocess information that we received during the day and is critical to our survival.  This would explain why we often dream about bad things happening - our mind may be deciding whether the fear is real or immaterial.  The theory says that we dream about our concerns, fears, indecisions, ideas, and desires.  Makes a lot of sense, right?  

The third is called the Activation-Synthesis Theory.  It says that while we sleep, our brain produces random electric surges that access different parts of our memory.  Because our brain has to have order, it weaves the random memories into a storyline that we dream.  This is how we can dream that our old pet dog is green and lives with us in our current house even though he's been dead for many years.   

I personally have had dreams that fit into each of these theories, which leads me to believe that each of them has some merit.  My challenge to myself this month is to keep a dream journal.  Maybe I'll find out some interesting things about myself! 

  

Frustration

There are some days, like today, when I hate my life.  I get woken up much too early - I didn't sleep well last night.  I don't want to be cooped up at home today, but it's stormy outside and much too cold for an outing.  I watch my husband walk out of the house with a "love you, hon."  Oh, how I want to follow him and trade days with him!  Sadly, there's no way I could do his job, so I simply attempt to get Wil and me some breakfast, which is promptly thrown all over the floor, even though my new suction cup bowls were supposed to fix that!  

I think "well, at least I can pour myself a bowl of sugary cereal and calm myself down for a minute.  But, of course, there is only a few straggling pieces of cereal left.  I sigh and pour the raisin bran instead.  Just as I add the milk, Wil starts screaming because he has no food to eat (it's all on the floor).  I'm starting to get a bit angry now.  I go find something that I can distract him with so I can eat in peace.  Fruit snacks!  They'll do the trick!  I dump a few on his tray.  And go back to my now soggy cereal.  

Taking the first bite, I gag at the texture and have to put it down the sink.  In desperation, I eat some of the fruit snacks, which causes Wil to scream again because I'm eating his food.  "Fine then, I'll just let you eat them all!"  I scream in my head.  Okay, Michelllie, calm down.  Just let him finish his breakfast and then you can put him down for his nap.  I wait patiently for Wil to signal he's done (he screams) and take him down from his high chair.  

Somehow the child is soaking wet and I can smell the stinkiness that tells me he has a dirty diaper.  No problem.  I'll just get him dressed and change his diaper, then put him to sleep and get to eat.  I undress my child, peeling the sopping clothes from his body.  I unfasten the diaper, reach for a wipe, and -?  Where's all my wipes?  The box is empty!  I quickly look around and see a white pile over in the corner where Wil had pulled out all the wipes sometime between bedtime last night and this morning.  I look around frantically, trying to think of anything I can use to wipe his bum, while holding his flailing legs in a vice-like grip and absently handing him a clothes hanger to play with.  Aha!  There it is!  The extra wipes!  I just have to let go for one second, turn around, bend down, and grab them!  I can do this!  I count to myself "1, 2, 3...Go!"  

I execute my moves perfectly, turning back around just in time to see my baby pull the diaper up over his stomach and head, launching it onto the floor.  Then noticing he has poop all over him, begins rubbing it around in an attempt to get it off him.  For a moment all I can do is stare in absolute horror.  "Wiliam!" I shrill in a high-pitched yell.  "Stop!"  Which, of course, causes him to burst into tears and begin trying to roll over and stand up.  I pick him up by the least dirty parts and rush into the bathroom, where I turn on the water and proceed to wash my baby.  He calmly begins to drink the water.  I gag, almost throw up, and hurry to finish washing him off.  I somewhat roughly yank him from the draining water in the tub and wrap him in a towel.  I've made him angry now! 

Finally, several minutes later, I almost-gently lay Wil in his crib, dressed and newly diapered, tell him I love him, and hurry out of the room in tears.  I am sitting here crying, stomach growling, trying not to imagine what the rest of the day will be like.  I think I'm going to go take a shower and a nap.  Maybe, I sigh, the day won't turn out so bad.  After all, what else can go wrong?  :)