Therapy Post

For the first time in a long, long time (I cannot tell you how long because it has been so long), I am sitting here alone.  Jordan left to work, Beckham got onto his school bus, and the younger kids are still soundly sleeping in their beds, which is unusual.  Usually I would fill up this moment with some speedy cleaning or hurry and put on some makeup before I am bombarded with kids.  Instead, I choose to sit.  Which is a very dangerous thing for me.  I hate to sit still.  I never really know why - I just hate it.  I think I figured out a little bit of the "why" to that this morning.  As soon as I am alone in my thoughts, my mind suddenly goes to places I do not want to visit. 

I was casually browsing Facebook posts for a few minutes as I drank my juice this morning and happened upon a post which led to a blog of an old neighborhood friend who is struggling with addiction.  I never had any idea she had struggled with any of this, so I curiously read on, and her post from yesterday tells her story.  I don't know why I read on, but I did, and now I am not only alone in my own thoughts, but reading something that has hit very close to home, and am in tears, shaking, trembling. I have run away from my dark places for so long, have filled up the minutes with every possible thought and activity to keep me from those dark places, and now, here I am, facing them head on.  I am paralyzed by what I face, and decided that I need to hurry and purge some things out on paper - or my computer - before I break down right at the beginning of my day when I need to put on my "mom" face and be strong and happy for my kids any minute now.

So, I'm just going to type and get this darkness out of me.  I have things hidden inside of me that have hurt me for years and years.  To make it worse, I have handled it in ways that have hurt me more and made me more ashamed.  To make it even worse, I grew up in a culture that shames you for any of those things and puts all blame on you, or so it seems.  To make it even WORSE, any time I have tried to deal with any of this, I get shamed by the one who I am putting all my trust in.  A few years ago, when Beckham was a baby, I finally went to see a therapist for the very first time.  It was long overdue.  I had been alone in my pain for way too long.  I thought I was going to her to save my marriage.  I quickly found out I was going to finally tell someone my story.  My therapist was very loving, and very accepting, and non-judgemental.  What made the experience even more enriching is that she did not grow up in the LDS faith so she was able to see my bad experiences from a greater viewpoint rather than just looking upon me as someone who had "fallen."  I had tried to talk to my mom, a bishop, a BYU school counselor, various friends, and my own husband about just little bits and pieces of some of these things that had happened to me in the past, but was always met with what I perceived as judgement and shame and afterward felt like everything was my fault.  For the first time ever, I divulged EVERYTHING and was told that the things that happened to me did not happen because I was "bad" or had done something wrong... they happened because I was good and people chose to take advantage of that.  She told me to not change myself because of them.  To not stop being nice because of them.  To not blame myself because of them.

To put it all out there, and stop sounding so cryptic (deep breath....), I was assaulted and attacked various times in college.  As in rape and attempted rape. I'm being blunt because any time I have ever tried to talk about it, I have always used vague terms and have played it down and acted like it happens to every college girl.  I want to clarify that each incident happened in different settings, all unexpectedly, all by different guys, all - might I add - who attended BYU.  Also, each time it happened, I had tried to safeguard myself in ways that any girl would.  I was not putting myself in harm's way or making stupid mistakes, as some people might assume, especially after hearing that it happened more than once.  Sure, I was naïve and trusting, but I wasn't stupid.  I valued my virtue and purity and dignity.  I was not out looking for trouble.

The first time it happened was during my first semester at BYU.  Summer term.  I had recently broken off my engagement to Josh and I was trying to figure things out with Jordan who I was still in love with but who was leaving on a mission within weeks.  I was a new college student living on my own for the first time, and one day I reluctantly accepted a "casual date" from a return missionary from my religion class who commented on my missing engagement ring.  I had turned him down a few times, and finally gave in one day.  But, I insisted that it be a double date, and that I would bring my friend, and that it be strictly friends going out to have fun, nothing more.  When he showed up he had some story about how his friend that we were supposed to double with couldn't make it. 

I was drugged on the date, without my knowledge until it was too late, and I started to feel funny and realized something was wrong.  By the time I realized something was terribly wrong, it was too late.  I was completely helpless.  I remember feeling like I wanted to fight and I wanted to cry, and I couldn't do either.  I was so weak and disoriented.  I don't remember much of what happened... either because of the drugs he slipped me or because I have blocked it out to protect myself.  I do remember that I kept wishing that Jordan would somehow come walking by and save me.  At some point that night I was dropped off on my doorstep, dumbfounded and confused.  I woke up the next morning in terrible pain, feeling very confused and bewildered and scared, and realized something very bad had happened on that date.  I was confused and tried to put all the pieces together while I was at work all day.  I was horrified at my realizations and called my mom, scared to death and in tears, wondering what I should do.  Should I go to the police?  Should I go to my teacher or school authorities?  I had no idea what to do.  My mom's response was a non-chalant, "Well, I guess you could wait a couple of weeks and take a pregnancy test."  I was so hurt and lost and afraid.  The response she gave made me feel like I was some whore that went out and willingly slept around and now she was telling me to just make sure I wasn't pregnant.  I decided to keep it to myself.  If my own mom came to the conclusion that it was my fault, what would everybody else think?!  I was still scared to death, though.  I stopped going to my classes, because I was afraid I would run into that guy.

I finally told Jordan what had happened (kind of... I told him I was drugged and "attacked" but I could not bring myself to admit it was rape)... I mostly told him because I was scared of this guy coming after me again AND because I figured I might as well tell Jordan everything since our relationship was at a crossroads anyway.  I didn't want to hide anything from him just for him to find out after his mission and decide he didn't want me.  Jordan was furious at the guy and called him and told him to stay the #@&% away from me.  He was the only one who stuck up for me of the few people who knew.  But, he still had his mission to go on and, as soon as he left, I felt so alone and abandoned.  Not by him, exactly.  Just the circumstances sucked.  At the time I needed him most, he had to leave.  I was alone.  I don't remember at what point I talked to my bishop during a temple recommend interview - days, weeks? - but I divulged to him what had happened and asked him what I should do.  His response was similar to my moms - He admonished me, told me that I probably put myself in that situation, and he added that I needed to repent and stop taking the sacrament.  I was being blamed for something I had ABSOLUTELY NO CONTROL over.  I was drugged and taken advantage of against my will.  I had not consented to this.  I had no idea what was happening to me.  And suddenly I was the bad girl, the whore.  Would someone respond the same way if I had told them that my house was robbed or my car was stolen? When an innocent by-stander is shot by a criminal robbing a bank, do people say, "well, you shouldn't have been standing in that bank... shame on you!" ???   I was very hurt.  I stopped going to church at a time that I needed Christ's love the most, other than just socially here and there with roommates and friends.  I felt abandoned and worthless.  I was completely alone in my pain with no where to turn.  

As I was coping silently with the rape incident, I was sexually harassed a few times during the course of my scuba instructor training, right about this same time.  A big lady named Susan, who was taking the training courses with me, started to see what was happening and she finally started to stand by me and ward off the three guys who were always saying and doing things to me.  There was one guy in particular that would say and do the nastiest things to me when no one was looking.  I would back away and tell him to stop and he would just do and say what he wanted.  He was so gross and nasty.  I hated him with a passion.  He would follow me out to my car after classes ended and threaten me and flirt with me simultaneously.  One night while I was carrying all of my scuba gear out to my car he grabbed me and picked me up and was feeling me up and laughing as I screamed and fought.  His friend, who had started out by laughing, immediately backed away with a serious look on his face and looked me in the eye.  I was crying and terrified and understandably upset.  He looked right at me, saw me pleading to be put down, and said to his friend, "Listen, man, this is wrong.  Let's go."  I felt so violated and helpless.  Like guys could just do whatever they wanted and I had no say in the matter.  I told my friend, Susan, about the incident in the parking lot.  I was scared of that guy.  I was scared of a repeat attack.  She turned him in to the owner of the scuba school and got him fired.  I was too scared to stick up for myself, and was always grateful for her standing by me.  Still, when it came time to testify and sign papers stating that he had indeed sexually harrassed me, on multiple occasions, I was terrified.  It was a year after it had happened, yet I was so scared that I immediately resigned from my job so that guy couldn't find me.

That autumn, I was abducted by an Italian guy who had told me he would be happy to tutor me in my Italian.  Looking back, I was really naïve to think that some guy just wanted to tutor me out of the kindness of his heart.  I don't really want to go into the details, but it was just another incident that made me feel weak and helpless when it came to men.

Another time, I was teaching scuba classes for the BYU students, and I was approached by a seemingly nice guy.  He said he needed a tutor for his accounting and math classes, and said he would pay me to be his tutor.  I had taught him in scuba over the course of a few weeks and he had always seemed very nice and decent.  He honestly fit the mold of the perfect return missionary/BYU student.  He was smart and attractive and I thought I knew him.  I saw him in class every week.  He was always nice to everyone.  Not creepy at all.  I was certainly apprehensive and untrusting of all guys at this point.  I wasn't being stupid when agreeing to tutor him.  I thought I was being nice and helpful, and he even told me his roommates would be around.  Bottom line:  I didn't have any indicators that I shouldn't do it.  I drove to his house one night for our tutor session and quickly realized that he had no intention of being tutored on math.  To make a long story short, he was aggressive with me and I finally was able to fight him off and got away from him before anything truly terrible happened.  I ran to my car, shaking and scared, and drove off crying, feeling oddly ashamed.  The worst part about it was that I was more ashamed that I would see him again.  That's how I felt with any of my attackers.  I was ashamed of myself and ashamed and scared to see them again in public.  Like I was the one who had done something wrong.  Or like maybe I led them on and it was my fault.  Or maybe I should have gone along with it and was embarrassed that I hadn't handled it with more class.  Something!  Anything other than the fact that I was attacked against my will!  I did end up seeing that guy again about a year later.  I saw him across the room at a party.  We just looked at each other.  I remember how hard it was to not run out of there away from him, as my insides churned and writhed and my face grew hot.  Instead, I just looked right in his face, head held high, as I casually chatted with friends, and my smile lied to everyone around me.  No body would have guessed what I was feeling at that moment.  His face, on the other hand, dropped the moment he saw me.  I hope he felt like an ass.

Around Christmastime, after the jeep rollover incident and the seemingly LONG two-month recovery from my injuries and broken bones (that's a whole other story), I went to a party one night with roommates and friends - just a bunch of college kids sitting around eating snacks and watching movies.  Nothing crazy.  I decided to leave early to get home and study, so I walked out to my car alone.  It was over by the King Henry apartments by BYU.  A group of guys that were standing in the street saw me and walked over to me.  They quickly formed a circle around me and one guy, who was clearly under some sort of drug influence, started to flirt with me and get uncomfortably close to me.  Then he started to kiss me.  I screamed and tried to push him back and his friends moved closer and the circle got tighter.  He got very aggressive.  I could see there was no way I was going to be able to fight off this guy plus all of his friends who were standing around us.  I didn't understand what was happening.  Not one of those guys could realize this was wrong?  No body could stand up for me?  I was making it quite clear that I did not want this guy touching me and kissing me.  Then, I was afraid... afraid of what would happen if I tried to get away - considering I was being surrounded by at least 7-8 guys.  I didn't know how far this guy would go.  All I knew is that they all seemed to be on drugs/alcohol and they didn't seem to mind that I didn't like having their friend up against me.  I kept swatting him away and telling him to get away from me.  They'd all laugh and he'd do it more.  He had me in his grip and I prayed silently that I would be able to get out of that predicament.  Not a moment later, and I mean almost instantly, a car with 4 guys drove up to the circle and a guy hollered out to me, "Hey!  Are you okay?!"  I yelled out as loud as I could, "NO!  These guys are attacking me!"  The four guys jumped out of the car and the circle immediately split and all the guys ran off in different directions.  I ran to my car, got in, and drove off without looking back, trembling and afraid.  But I will always be grateful to that car full of guys that stood up for me.

All of this happened during my first year at BYU.  Yeah.  Pretty astounding.  What a way to start out at BYU, the "good Mormon school."  I wanted to get away from there so badly.  I was trying to be a fun, carefree college girl and move forward with my life.  But I also desperately wanted to get away from it all.  I wanted to start over somewhere new.

Almost a whole year went by without any incidents.  I coped with the pain I felt inside by staying ridiculously busy.  I took a lot of classes, worked two jobs, went on a lot of superficial dates, visited my Grandma Leona and Auntie Norma a lot, offering to clean their houses or run their errands - anything to fill up the minutes of the day and have someone to talk to rather than be alone.  I never told them what had happened.  I just needed them.  I went running at night when everything was quiet and dark and I couldn't stop my thoughts.  Now I realize how idiotic it was for me to go running alone at night.  But, ironically, nothing ever happened to me during those solitary runs.  And, I guess I figured that nothing would happen to me that hadn't already happened.  I was apathetic and had no love for myself.  Sometimes a good guy friend would join me for protection, but mostly I ran alone.  All through Provo.  I ran and ran and ran, trying to numb myself and block out any pain or regret or shame or sadness.  After I had exhausted myself, I would go back to my dark apartment and shower and then just sit on the couch and study until I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer.  Then I would lay my head against the couch cushion and pretend that I was leaning up against Jordan's chest, that he would protect me and keep me safe.

One night I was sitting at one of my friend's apartments when an old friend of a friend called me for help.  He had always seemed like a decent guy.  Anyhow, this particular guy was supposed to be on a mission in Brazil, but told me some story about how he was on medical leave to get surgery and now he needed me to give him a ride to the place he was staying in Orem.  I agreed to help, having no idea what was ahead.  I picked him up and he asked if he could drive my car.  I naively agreed.  He started to drive up the canyon, to the right, instead of taking the fork to the the left that led to Orem.  I made him aware of his mistake and told him where he could turn around.  He kept driving.  It was the middle of the winter and he explained that he wanted to see the lake frozen over because he had never seen a frozen lake before, being from California and all.  We drove up the canyon in the dark, got down the boat ramp to the lake, and I showed him the frozen lake and asked if we could go.  We got back in the car and he immediately locked the doors.  He suddenly seemed menacing.  He started to put moves on me and act all smooth and suave, but the more I pulled away, the angrier he got.  It was like Mr. Hyde.  He was suddenly a different person, angry, mean, and very cruel.  He started to force himself against me, as I turned my head away from him and tried to push him away.  I fought and I screamed and he fought harder and got meaner.  I was afraid he would strangle me at one point.  He was hurting me and saying terrible things.  He was so angry at me for not wanting to kiss him.  He had seemingly lost all control and was just an angry attacker that I no longer recognized.  There was no body up in that canyon to save me.  I desperately looked down at my phone that had dropped on the floor and got an idea.  There was no service in the canyon, but he didn't know that.  He was from California.  I made a quick grab for my phone and dialed 911 even thought I knew very well it wouldn't go through.  I screamed out, "I'm calling the police unless you take me home right now!"  He pulled back, angry, defeated.  He punched the steering wheel.  I thought he was going to punch me.  He drove down the canyon very, very angry, wrecklessly and out of control.  My new fear was that I would die in a car crash.  It had only been a year earlier that I had been in that jeep rollover up that same canyon.  I gripped onto my seat, crying, praying to survive.  I never saw that dirt bag again.  I never dared mention to anyone what had happened.  I knew, somehow, it would be my fault.  But, I was wounded.  Very wounded.  That was sort of the final straw for me.  I drew away from everyone I knew.  I felt like I couldn't trust anybody.  And I never let anyone see the real me for quite a long time.  On the inside I was very injured.  On the outside, I was carefree and happy.

I continued to stay unbelievably busy.  I continued to fill every waking minute with productive endeavors.  I danced, I worked, I studied, I ran and ran late at night until my legs could no longer carry me, I helped my Grandma and Auntie, I went to the gym any time I found myself with a free minute, and I was always relieved when I would fall asleep instantly when my head hit the pillow.  I was so afraid to be alone with myself in my thoughts.  I had no self-respect.  I was terrified of all men and had no trust for anyone around me, yet I only felt self-worth if guys were asking me out on dates.  I had this idea that I wasn't worth anything to anyone except a pretty face to take out on a date, use and abuse, and cast aside.  I secretly kept wishing for some prince charming (Jordan, mostly) to come along and sweep me off my feet and take me away from Utah.  From all the bad memories.  I withdrew from all relationships of any kind.  I became very solitary.  I blamed myself for being attacked because I figured I must have welcomed the attacks somehow.  I considered myself worthless.  But I was able to hide everything inside.  All the darkness and loneliness and shame was hidden up inside.  I smiled on the outside.  I was a bubbly, carefree college girl on the outside. No body around me could see what was really going on, who I really was. But, on the inside, I was hurt and alone and afraid and feeling very sad and confused and worthless.  Some time went by.  I went through different phases of withdrawing from people.  I failed at school time and again.  I didn't feel worthy to succeed at anything.  I went from being a straight-A student with multiple scholarship offers to someone who could barely pass a class.

It wasn't until Jordan got home, that I experienced what true love felt like again, that I started to get my life back together.  I guess I had it in my head that he would get back and everything could go back to the way it was before he ever left.  That I could erase those couple of years somehow.  That he could whisk me away and all would be right in the world.  I immediately changed my phone number so no one from my past could contact me.  I moved away from Provo and in with a married friend who let me sleep on her couch.  I got a job up in Draper away from everyone I knew.  I stopped seeing old friends.  I was like someone in witness protection.  I changed everything but my name.  And I started to feel safe.  And the closer Jordan and I got, the more I gained hope for a happy future with a very good man.

After Jordan and I got married, I experienced some serious post-traumatic stress.  I had so many nightmares about my own husband trying to chase me down or kill me.  The poor guy felt so bad whenever I would tell him about my dreams.  He would respond with, "Hey!  Why am I always the bad guy in your dreams!"  In reality, he was always my knight in shining armor.  But, in my dreams, my psyche found a way to release all of the anxieties I had from my PTSD.  One night I woke up with his arm around me and thought he was one of my attackers, the guy who had attacked me in the canyon.  I jumped up out of bed, wide-eyed, and ran out my front door in my pajamas.  I hurried to my car and was fumbling in the dark for my non-existent keys, terrified.  It wasn't until I realized where I was - at my apartment that I lived in with my husband - that I came out of my frenzied state.  The latino guys across the street looked on in wonder as I walked back up to my apartment in my bare feet.  I think that's the first time I realized how much all of this affected me.  In college I had stayed too busy and had worn myself out too much to feel anything or think about anything.  Suddenly I was married and had a lot of alone time and it scared me to death. 

Shortly after we got married, my Auntie Norma died unexpectedly from an asthma attack at Christmastime.  There's nothing like tragedy to bring up old feelings.  I started to hit a new low.  I quit school, right after I had made it into the dance program at BYU that I had worked so hard for.  Jordan and I started to fight more over who knows what, but most likely having to do with all my emotional issues going on.  I had never had a chance to cope with the rape and the other assaults.

I think my job as a care tech/psych tech for women with eating disorders saved me.  For one, I worked with mostly women, so it became my "safe haven" away from all men, who I distrusted immensely.  (I had recently quit my waitressing job because my boss kept harassing me.)  For another, I had to keep it together to help them overcome their eating disorders and all of the other psychological issues that accompany an eating disorder.  I wanted so badly to be a good example and help those women through all of their problems.  I could reach out and help them immensely, because I understood where they were coming from.  I knew what it was like to feel unloved and abandoned.  I knew what it was like to be treated so wrong.  Many women there had eating disorders that were set off by them being molested or raped or assaulted.  They hated their bodies because of something that was done to them.  I had been battling those demons.  I had found strength in various ways to survive the depths of despair and darkness.  I felt so much love for the women there and wanted to do everything in my power to help them see the strength and power within themselves so they could rise above everything and lead a happy and healthy life.  I loved the moments when I could make a difference.  In a way, that job opened my heart after I had closed it for so long.  It gave me the opportunity to treat people the way I had always hoped to be treated.  I patiently listened, never judged, and then just loved them and encouraged them and helped direct them to the talents and strengths within themselves so they could find that self-empowerment.  So they could find that self-love. 

As soon as we could, we got out of Utah away from those bad memories and reminders of the past, and I was the happiest I had been in a long time.  I loved living out in Omaha/Iowa Western.  It was one of the happiest times in our marriage.  I started to feel FREE.  I never wanted to return to that ugly place in Utah County where everything had gone so wrong.

When we went back to Utah, things got bad again.  My Grandma Leona had passed away while we were living in Omaha - the one person in my life who I felt always loved me unconditionally was gone.  She was always my comfort and support through the hard times.  Suddenly, I felt like I had absolutely no one on this earth to love me unconditionally and accept me and support me.  Old memories got trudged up again.  Just seeing old places made me cringe.  I hated BYU.  I hated certain streets or canyons or neighborhoods, because I associated it with pain and heartache and the old me that didn't deserve to be treated with respect.  I hated everything about it.  I continued to work at Center for Change, trying my hardest to be strong and be an example for those women. 

I met a new crossroads.  A new LOW LOW.  Some bad things had been brought to my attention by a new friend of mine during this time and it was an especially difficult, heartbreaking time in my life.  I don't really want to go into details here, but I will say that I was sure that Jordan and I were not going to make it as a couple.  I immediately started looking for new hobbies to fill my time to avoid the negative thoughts that were going through my head.  I had to find some sort of SELF.  I was in high-alert mode and had to keep moving to be able to keep my head up high and a smile on my face, as I desperately just wanted to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich and cry my eyes out. 

I had to make some changes, so I started by quitting my job at Center for Change and taking a job as the new Dance Therapist at a private school for teenage girls with learning disabilities and psychological disorders.  It was a new adventure/challenge for me to conquer.  I was super excited.  Aside from teaching various dance classes, I also tutored them in their school subjects and worked as a mentor.  I found out I was expecting my first baby shortly after taking that job.  I was immersing myself in my work, my passions, and in my new role as a soon-to-be mother.  I became super-mom.  I carefully studied pregnancy and nutrition to ensure the healthiest pregnancy possible.  I filled my time with reading books and magazines about parenting.  I was going to be the world's best mom.  It became my new obsession.  That was going to be who I was.  I started to form a sense of identity based on that new role.  It was a start, a very good start, and it is what I built upon.  I have since learned that there has to me more to an identity than one role based on other people, but it was my gateway to a new life.  It helped that we moved across the country to Virginia right before Beckham was born.  I started a whole new life.  Away from my old life.  A fresh start.

When Beckham was born, I felt so much unconditional love for him.  I had a whole other person to look after now.  If something happened to me, who would take care of him?  I found this sense of empowerment as a mother.  I started to take self-defense classes: Krav Maga, Israeli Hisardut, and mixed martial arts classes.  I was NOT going to be a victim ever again.  I was NOT going to let someone treat me that way again.  I was better than that.  I was a mom.  I was a fighter.  For Beckham.  I learned how to take down a large perpetrator, how to get out of any situation of attack including how to turn someone's knife or gun away from me and against themself.  I learned how to handle myself and how to fight.  I got in awesome shape in the process, and felt good about myself.  This was my first step of therapy.  After the place I was taking classes shut down, I signed up for Jazzercise (because I realized the exercise was doing me a lot of good for managing stress) and Therapy (because I realized I had a lot to work through still).

I saw a therapist for the first and only time in my life.  I opened up and I shared my story.  I was validated and told it wasn't my fault and that I'm not "bad" or "worthless" or "deserved it" but that I deserve to be loved and treated accordingly.  My therapist told me that I was a sweet, kind person that bad people chose to take advantage of.  She made me promise her that I wouldn't let other people destroy the goodness inside of me. 

I still have to work through things periodically.  It's a process.  I still have to find healthy coping mechanisms when I find my heart feeling dark and heavy and the tears start rolling down my cheeks and I start to shake and tremble at the memory of those attacks.  I still fight to overcome the bad with the good.  The other night Jordan and I were watching something on TV late at night about post-traumatic stress for rape victims in the military.  We watched both men and women share their stories andshare how it has affected them.  A common theme was that they felt like they were shamed and blamed when they tried to turn in their attacker.  I mentioned to Jordan that a lot of victims feel that way - it gets turned around and all the blame gets placed on them and they can't heal.  I don't think Jordan realizes I was talking about myself.  He doesn't realize the extent to which the pain goes.  How I still need to heal.  That the nightmares still creep up where I am being attacked and feel helpless.  I feel worse  when I admit that I'm still dealing with it after all these years.

But, it helps to get it out there.  It helps to recognize the pain and put it out in the open, even if only on a private blog, to start the road to self-therapy.  I still fall back on filling every waking minute with activity.  I still try to overfill my days and become over-stressed with all the to-do's just so I don't revert back to any quiet moments that let me think about any skeletons in my closet.  The most fearful time for me is when I'm alone in front of the mirror getting ready for the day.  My mind wanders and I find myself in tears remembering things that I never want to remember.  I am working on that.  I am working on creating positive self-talk.  I am working on loving myself, even if no body else loves me.  That's the hardest part of this, I think.  When you're working through painful things of the past, you want to feel loved and accepted.  Instead, I feel like I have to keep it all a secret to feel accepted.  I still struggle with wondering if my parents will ever love and accept me, if I'll ever be enough.  I still struggle at times with trust issues and have a hard time letting people get close.  When I'm being really irrational, I struggle with my relationship with Jordan and wonder if he really loves me for who I am or if he'll leave me some day when our kids are out of the house and I'm just old and ugly.  Those are all things I'm working on.  Building my self-worth.  Building trust.  Finding happiness in unexpected places.  Facing fears.  Not letting the pain and darkness take over.  Finding my light.  My purpose.  My meaning.  My SELF.

So, there it is.  Not the usual blog post.  But, there it is.  Phew!

I need a vacation!

I am in need of some soul-searching.  At the beach.  All week.

So that is exactly where we are going for our vacation.  Yayyy!!!  We leave to the Outer Banks (OBX) early Wednesday morning and will spend the remainder of the week living on the beach in a cute little beach house.  I can't think of a better way to clear my head.  Except for maybe living on a lake in Maine all summer, which is what we did last year :)

Those of you who know me know that I am always doing dozens of things at once, juggling multiple commitments, exploring multiple hobbies and interests and areas of study, and loving it all too much to give up any of it.  I read three or four books at once because I can't choose just one and what if I'm in the mood to read a comedy at one moment and a historical fiction the next?  I changed my major in college more times than I can count and STILL have a running list of all the things I would like to do "when I grow up."  At the gym I dabble in a little bit of dance, a little bit of yoga, a little bit of spin class, a little bit of pilates, a little bit of Body Pump, and so on... each day I like to try something new.  At home I juggle laundry and chores with helping kids with homework and projects while also practicing my dances in the kitchen and figuring out a shopping list and dinner plans all at once.  At 3:00 in the morning, I will lie awake in bed contemplating my Kindergartner's summer plans and come up with the perfect plan to make "play date" business cards to hand out to the parents of the kids in his class so he can maintain contact over the summer, then I'll go to the lengths of creating a template for the card I have in mind and come up with three different options and by 4:30 I'm completely engrossed in not only setting up playdates for the summer but finding summer camps and taking fun field trips around the D.C. area and creating a playdate adventure group.  I just never seem to slow down.  I'm a multi-tasking, constantly moving, always-working, ninja mom.

So, as you can imagine, sometimes I just want to take a step away from life and RELAX! 

For the rest of the week I am going to try to not think about setting up the preschool curriculum for the classes I'll be teaching next school year, or the dances I still need to memorize for the June performance, or plans for my future education/career/business, or what colors to paint the rooms in my house, or how to go about saving the most money for our big move next summer.  I'm just going to breathe.  And live in the moment.  What is it the yogis say?  Be present.  Be mindful.  That's going to be me.  And I always find that by the water, be it a lake or ocean.


(not me... I will replace with a picture of me after our big vacation this week... assuming I can get Jordan to take some yoga on the beach photos for me)

Locked Out

Today the inevitable dreaded event finally happened:  I locked my keys in the car.  My only set of keys.

I have been very diligent about not ever locking the doors until I know exactly where my keys are, but today was a very special day.  Not the sort of special that lights you up inside and makes everything in the world seem happy and full of song and dance.  Oh no!  Not THAT kind of special.  It was the sort of "special" that is trialsome, exhausting, and you wonder where on earth your mind has gone.  I just knew, from the moment I stepped foot out my front door this morning that it would be that kind of special.  And it was.  The first thing I did was lock myself out of my car with my arms loaded full of three different bags (backpack, diaper bag, and activity bag), a stroller, and two kids.  I was already an hour late for dance class, at no fault of mine.  Child minding said they couldn't take the kids until 10:30 today because they were already over-booked with babies galore.  So, there I was with those smug keys mocking me from inside of the car, and all I could do was run with the kids to my dance class.

Our dance critic, Jane, saw me sneak in the back door and watched me as I put on my ballet shoes.  There was almost a glimmer of evil in her eye as she noticed me.  Oh, the stories I could tell you about this lady!  She is the meanest critic you'll ever meet and she takes so much satisfaction in pointing out everyone's flaws.  In fact, that's her ONLY role in our company.  Her job is to show up and point out what everyone is doing wrong.  She used to dance in operettas in NYC once upon a time, but now she's just an old, mean critic that has always seemed to have it out for me from the moment I first started rehearsing with the company.  Furthermore, she knew Elena had created this new dance piece we were rehearsing with me in mind.  She knows I've been waiting for a piece like this one, too.  It's not a folk piece like most of our other dances.  It's this beautiful piece that is a lyrical/modern ballet piece with lovely ethereal dresses and flowing white scarves performed to the instrumentals of The Beatles' "Yesterday."  

As Jane eyed me in the back of the room, she asked Elena, "Now, just who do you plan to have dance this piece Elena?"  She instantly flashed me a look that seemed to say, "Ha!  Take that!" And, to Jane's delight, Elena started to go off on me to the rest of the company.  I am still not sure if Elena was aware that I had entered the room, but she went on and on about how she choreographed this piece specifically for me but if I'm not even going to make an effort to show up and learn it then she will choose somebody else.  She ended with a big "harumph" and hands on hips.  That is one tough Russian ballet instructor that I normally wouldn't mess with.  And, I could see her point.  But I was already having a bad day and I was so fed up with Jane thinking she could walk all over me.  Jane is the same lady that turned her nose up at my sweet little toddler and backed away with her hands blocking her from the forces of the baby cuteness and said, "I don't like babies.  Keep it away from me."  She really is like a witch.  I'm not exaggerating about her meanness.  Anyhow, enough was enough!

I stood up and sharply defended myself:

"Elena, I'm here!  And out of all of you, I am the only one who had to get kids ready and out the door, and I'm the only one who had to juggle childminding to work out a way for my kids to get in just so I could dance today to rehearse this piece, and I'm the only one who locked my only set of keys in the car, and then ran - yes, ran! - all the way here with two kids and three bags.  But I still made it!  I am here!  And I will learn this dance.  Right now."

And I entered the dance floor with my head held high and took position.  Now that doesn't sound so tough, but I felt tough.  The girls all clapped for me and Elena just looked me up and down, and with a frown said, "Okay.  You are here.  Let's dance."

And I did.  I put on a damn good show, did better than anyone else in the room that had already been there for over an hour, and afterward even Jane "The Dance Critic" came to talk to me about my background in dance and was surprised that I haven't danced that style since college over a decade ago.  I felt like I had finally gained her respect to some degree.  Yeah.  Take that!  I felt so hardcore.  Yeah, in my little ballet shoes and ponytail, I felt like a rockstar.  I left class feeling a little more empowered.  I called AAA and had a tow truck come out to break into my car for me, I bought the kids lunch at the health club's cafe while we waited, I made friends with everyone in the room - the guy behind the counter, the old couple waiting for their next tennis match to start, the towel boy, the lady watching television.  I know it's really an ordinary thing for most people, but I broke out of my shell today and felt like I could take on the world.  I was assertive, confident, and self-assured, rather than submissive, shy, and reluctant.  I can tell that dance is going to be really great for me in my life right now. :)  My lack of self-confidence always held me back from taking dance to the next level my entire life, yet, by breaking out of my comfort zone to dance, I find that I'm fostering that very thing that I lacked.  Who knew?!

      

Dancing Queen!

I did it!  I successfully knocked out my first New Year's Resolution:  Dance, for real.

After a month of very hard work learning and perfecting a Bollywood dance piece, attending classes in the evenings after kids were fed and in bed, juggling schedules with Jordan, practicing in the kitchen every time I cooked a meal (to Ava's delight!), and getting juggled around to perform dance A and then dance B and then dance C by my choreographer/director, I got up early this morning and drove to the Martin Luther King Jr. Day/Inauguration Celebrations and put on a good show.  I may have only been on stage for five minutes or so, but it was worth it!

I forgot how much I love to dance.  My whole life, I have loved it.  And I have always dreamed of dedicating more time to it, but circumstances and lack of self-confidence have always held me back.  In the back of my mind I always tell myself that I'll have my own studio one day.

Then, I stumbled upon an adult ballet class at my health club one fine evening last spring.  The Russian instructor was intense and expected nothing but the best.  She screamed at us in Russian and walked by and smacked our legs to lift them higher, and screamed for deeper plies and higher leaps and prettier arabesques.  I knew I had found a gem.  This might not sound appealing to most, but these were signs of an instructor who knew her stuff, and I wanted to take dance seriously again.  It turns out that Elena, the Russian dance instructor, used to dance professionally with the Russian Ballet.  She also toured Europe dancing with a few other companies, up until she married an American and moved to the States, where she started teaching and formed her own small company that performs international dances.  Perfect!  I can combine my love of international cultural studies with dance: my two most beloved majors in college.

After my first class, she introduced herself in her broken English and asked me if I had dance performance experience.  She wanted to invite me to practice with them to see if I had what it takes to perform with them.  It was bad timing.  Jordan was working in Ft. Belvoir and getting home late every night, I still had a nursing baby, and we were going to be moving to Maine for the summer.  I politely declined and continued to attend her ballet classes.  And, every week she asked me to join her company. 

Then, one week, she had all of her company waiting outside of the dance room in the hallway waiting to rehearse for a big upcoming performace.  They all stood there watching me and pointing and so I started to show off a bit.  I certainly didn't want to lag if I had an audience.  And, I admit, I felt a little bit proud of myself for getting some attention doing something that I thought I would never have a chance to do again.  I mean, I was doing real ballet!  I hadn't done ballet since my college classes when I was majoring in Dance Education.  After that class, I was bombarded by the company.  They told me they had heard about me from Elena and they wanted me on the company.  I know, I sound really pompous and I'm definitely bragging - but this is my blog and I promise I'm a lot more humble and polite about this in person.  Unless I'm talking to my sister - then I let it all out and tell her how excited I am :)

Anyhow, I left to Maine for the summer, came back, and Jordan finished out the last of his time at Ft. Belvoir from August through October.  As soon as he was done, I had a minor surgical procedure done that put me out of commission for several weeks, then the kids got sick which led to another two weeks delay... and then, by December, everything finally fell together.  I had my dance bag packed and was ready to start attending rehearsals three nights a week for two hours and one morning a week for two hours. 

I seriously lucked out that I am able to dance and it's made possible by the convenience of it all.  Aside from the close proximity (one mile away from my house, at the Health Club), there is a great Child Minding program at the Club that the kids love, and they spend an hour there each morning painting pictures and playing with friends while I work out or dance.  Most of the rehearsals, thankfully, are in the evening after the kids have had dinner.  Jordan has been very supportive with putting them to bed the nights I have a rehearsal.  In fact, whenever I have any doubts about any of this ("Am I too old?"  "Is it too late for me to start dancing again?"  "Is this ridiculous?"), he's right there in my corner telling me to go for it. I practice at home as much as I can.  It has been so fun! 

One day I got done with an intervals class at the Club and ran into Elena.  She pulled me aside and told me I had one week to learn a Romanian Gypsy Dance to perform for the Martin Luther King Day ceremonies.  She spent maybe ten minutes teaching it to me, handed me the music, and said, "Good Luck!"  At the very next rehearsal, she was scrutinizing my every move, screaming at me that I was late or was missing a step or needed to be sharper or to turn my head this way or that way... My kids were at home with Jordan, sick, and Jordan had to get to soccer.  I had told her that I had to leave early that day, but she was determined to perfect this dance and insisted that I stay.  I could not.  I ran over to my bags and changed shoes and quickly called out my goodbyes to the company as she yelled after me that if I left, I would be out of the dance altogether.  I apologized and said I needed to go.  That was rough.  I cried in the car as I drove home... I was just so exhausted and felt like I couldn't give it my all when I had other priorities.  I couldn't be what she expected - I couldn't rehearse and perform at a professional level as she had at my age.  This is my hobby, not my life. 

I got home and cried out my frustrations to my husband, who sweetly understood completely and encouraged me.  Then, I held my sick baby and felt so much love pour out all around me.  Just to have him in my arms, I would give up the world.  I would do anything for that kid.  For any of my kids and for my husband.  They are my life.  They are my priorities.  They are what really matter.  It turns out that one ten minute session was not enough for me to learn the Gypsy dance, and so what?!  Elena got over it in a day or so, and I still performed in the Bollywood piece I had already been learning instead.  And it was fun, and exhilarating, and I look forward to performing in many more dances in the next 18 months that we are here in the DC area.  And, some day, I'll open up that dance and fitness studio that I've always imagined.

Man, my blog is soooo boring!  Why does this stuff interest me so much.  Sorry everyone.  This is why I don't type on here often.  It's mostly like a personal journal for me :)

I'll post pictures if I can find any.  In fact, I think there will be a link to the performance eventually, but I might be too embarrassed to post it :)

We perform in 6 weeks at the Russian Embassy so I have a lot of work in the meantime......

Does anybody blog anymore?

I was thinking about it the other day, and not only has it been quite some time since I posted a blog entry, but the last few I have posted resemble the emotional writings of a teenage girl.  I realized that my blog is my emotional outlet when I can't sleep in the middle of the night and I need to just unload and feel connected.  I wouldn't want to put that stuff in my actual journal for my grandchildren to read some day!  They'd think I'm plum-crazy!  Ha ha!

(Helllllooooo.... is ANY one still out there reading this blog?!  I feel like I'm yelling into a dank, empty tunnel.  Maybe there would be a bat somewhere in there that would like to hear my ramblings....)

But, things are going to change!  Yes, sirree.  Now that I am taking this class on "Writing Your Personal History," I have realized that my personal journals do not just need to be filled with my exciting events and stories that I would LIKE to pass down to my grandchildren, but also those very real moments when I am struggling to keep my head above water.  I mean, if I am willing to share those personal moments with you - my fellow sporatic blogger and reader - then why not also share with family?  Why always pretend that nothing is or was ever difficult?  Some of my most favorite pieces of literature come from the author's moment of letting personal experience and emotion flow out onto paper. 

The good news for you is, since I will be putting more of those middle-of-the-night rants in my journal rather than in this blog, I will be adding a better diaspora of blog posts.

Now, I can't promise I will add more than one a month, but at least they'll be more interesting and diverse. 

Here are some things I plan to add (your sneak peak into the future of this blog!):

• I was invited to join a dance troupe that performs international folk dance (Irish, Russian, Gypsy, Romanian, etc.) here in the D.C area.   I am starting to learn an Irish Step Dance piece - a dream of mine!  If I am not too embarrassed, I will post videos and photos of performances. 
• I am going to venture out of my non-artistic, non-technological comfort zone and buy a digital slr camera.  I will be playing around with lenses and settings to learn the art of digital photography and will most definitely be posting my practice work to this blog and would love and appreciate any tips or suggestions/comments.  So, hooray for more pictures!  They'll still all be of my kids, I'm sure, but they'll be.... ARTISTIC?!
• I am taking writing classes - all kinds of writing classes - so you just might see another side of me.  The poetic side?  The literary side?  The quirky side?  The dark, yet funny, side?  Okay, so you probably already see that with my quirky posts.  But, I will add some fun things here and there.  And, some day, when I'm a famous writer, you can say, "Yeah.  I used to read her private blog.  We're tight."  Okay, now I just sound like an old mom who is trying so hard to sound cool for her kids.  Sorry about that.  I'm getting old!
• Autumn!  Holidays!  Vacations!  The most exciting time of the year to post ANYTHING! 

So, hang in there!  The best is yet to come!!!

Been a long time.... since I rock-and-rolled....

Here I am. Alive. Well. Feeling very much alive and well.

Life is more than busy. Let's face it, it's even more than crazy-busy. It's frantic.

I spend my days (and nights) rushing to get things done. Not even over-zealous things, just the basic things like feeding my kids, washing the laundry, and running to the grocery store. I never imagined mom life being so much work! So, for all of you moms out there, buon lavoro! I try not to be so hard on myself. I mean, I have three kids at home with me all day. Two of them are in diapers. And I'm teaching kindergarten curriculum to Beckham as soon as Ava and Lincoln are asleep (if they sleep) in the afternoon. And I'm taking classes online in the evenings. It's not as if I have a lot of "free" time, whatever that is. Life is busy. And, you know what? Life is great.

Not a day goes by that I'm not grateful for my plentiful life. I have everything I've ever wanted and more. I am surrounded by beautiful family and friends. I have every opportunity available to me. I am obnoxiously spoiled rotten. If you know my husband, you know exactly what I mean. The man is too good to me. And he has given me three beautiful babes that shower me in love day after day. I am, very much, living the life I always dreamed of. Not that things don't go wrong. Oh my goodness, how they go wrong! Just today I had to cancel a playdate with one of my best friends because Beckham got in some serious trouble in child-minding at the health club for having an angry outburst toward Ava and then some of the teachers. And, since he is considered a "repeat offender" there, the three teachers in the room decided to call the general manager of child-minding(jail warden) to come down and control the situation. By the time I arrived, all hell had broken loose.

We've been down this road before. It's one of the reasons why we didn't start Kindergarten this year. I calmly walked over and put my arm around a very angry Beckham, and asked him to tell me, personally, what had happened. He was on guard and felt very much under scrutiny by all of the watching eyes. I wanted to turn to the warden and tell her to back off, to let me handle my own child, thank you very much. But, instead I politely smiled at her and tried to make Beckham feel safe. But, she just hovered and listened and cut me off periodically to add her two bits. It was more than annoying.

It wasn't over anything huge - he had gotten mad about his sister not sharing a toy, and when she hit him with it, he had taken matters into his own hands and took the toy from her. When his sister yelled, "Bub-bub, time out!" he got angry and yelled at her and threw the toy. But, since this is not the first time such behavior has occured, they panicked and decided to make an example out of the lad. I felt bad for the kid. As his mother, I certainly know he can let his temper get ahead of him, but I also know that escalating the problem won't help it. He needs time to cool off, rather than being closed in by three teachers and a lady he's never met before who surround him and tell him what he's doing wrong.

(The last time I saw him in this sort of situation was back in Fayetteville when two teachers closed in on him. He had flat-out taken off his shoe and held it up like a weapon to defend himself as they moved closer, and as soon as one of the teachers grabbed him, he bit her.)

So, here we were again. I waved off the teachers, and got between the manager and Beckham. I talked him down, cooly, calmly, and found out all the details. I wanted to laugh out loud when I found out exactly why he was in so much trouble. Pish posh! Really, that's all! Instead I nodded sympathetically and stood up and faced the manager and assured her that I would handle the situation and it wouldn't happen again. Then I followed through and told Beckham he had lost his privileges for the day since I could not trust him to be around other people if he didn't know how to control his anger. Somehow I felt like I was the one being punished in this situation.
I tried not to cry on the drive home. Not because of him. Not because of the "warden." But because I felt so inadequate. I try to be the best mom I can be. I teach my children right from wrong. I give them choices, with reasonable consequences for their actions. I am firm, but always loving. I don't hover and save them, but I'm not a brutal dictator. Well, not usually.  I always ask nicely... again and again, and turn to the drill sergeant voice as soon as it's necessary (more often than I'd like). I try to have a perfect balance of teaching and loving, allowing them to make their own decisions, and then following through with consequences where needed. I spend many many moments dropped to my knees in prayer asking God to please help me be a better mom, to please help me survive a difficult day after a night of no sleep, to please forgive my failings.

Beckham had long since cooled off by the time we got home and was convincing me that it would be alright to go meet up with my friend, but I felt like then he would feel like he was getting away with his recent behavior. So, what is a mom to do?! I even called, right there from the car, and got him an appointment with a psychologist to talk about his anger. He's a normal, albeit rambunctious, five-year-old boy, for crying out loud! Yet, I have people making me feel like I'm doing something wrong!
Anyhow, so that's where I'm at.

Living this dream life, yet crying at the keyboard because I'm just not enough. Not by myself.
I need help. And I HATE needing help.

"The Dark Ages" - or - "Let's Shake Things Up!"

For the past couple of weeks, I have sort of envisioned my current existence as "The Dark Ages." A once educated individual, I have diverted back to a life without reading, writing, or thinking beyond meeting primitive needs for my family - food, clean, sleep, food, clean, sleep. Jordan and I always knew what we were getting ourselves into when we decided to become parents of a third baby during residency. We knew it would be INSANE! But, we didn't hesitate for a moment and jumped into the deep end and have been gasping for air ever since. With no regrets.

You see, the funny thing about diverting backwards to a simpler existence, albeit an exhausting one, is that you begin to reevaluate your priorities. For example, is it really a necessity to make sure the entire house stays clean 100% of the time? These days I'm thrilled to have any one room in the house entirely clean. It's a new simple pleasure in my life. Today I vacuumed the kids' rooms and washed their windows and felt completely renewed! It's amazing how much you can take those mundane things for granted. Also, as much as I love to cook nutritious food for my family, I have learned that there is absolutely nothing wrong with ordering out after a long day of changing diapers and cleaning up spitup.

Even more than learning to overlook the things that aren't necessities, however, I have also started to realize, maybe for the first time since I was a carefree teenager, what actually makes life matter. Is it more important that I fold all the laundry right this minute, or go jump in the leaves with my five year old? What will not only make him (and me) happy, but will contribute to the greatest outcome? I choose jumping in the leaves.

The truth of the matter is, having this third baby has not led to a "Dark Ages" at all. It has led to a renewal of life... It's almost like our little Lincoln jumped right into our family with the motto of "Let's Shake Things Up!"

Now I find myself making every moment matter. I feel renewed in this new life of simplicity, for I don't have the luxury of time to waste. I have to carefully evaluate what needs to be done for my children's health and safety, and next turn to what should be done for my children's long-term happiness. And mine! I am quickly learning that if I don't feel fulfilled in my goals, I am not a happy mom. I have always put so much emphasis on doing everything for everyone else and have found myself so stressed and strained, and even sometimes miserable,that I haven't even begun to fulfill my original goal of making everyone happy. Now, I am finding balance. Solace. Joy!!!

I am becoming the mom I always wanted to be. After we got some basic chores and schoolwork done today, we played in the leaves, created masterpieces with sidewalk chalk, baked cookies, and held a hilarious family talent show where Jordan showed off his clapping pushups, Beckham showed us how he can run faster than Flash, and Ava showed us how she could walk backwards, as little Linc grinned his big toothless grin. I even wowed the kids by "floating in mid-air" with a yoga pose. At the end of the day, I ignored the dishes, and exercised. As the baby cries upstairs, I don't feel overwhelmed at all. I feel grateful. I have a family that loves me and needs me. I love this new way of life. Now, I just hope I can let it linger for awhile ;)

Whooo's That Lady....

Here they are... by popular demand. Since most of you did not get to see my awesome side profile this entire pregnancy, I decided to humor you with the shots Mica took of me after the due date came and went. So, here you are folks... Erin at 40.4 weeks pregnant! I cannot tell you how many cracks I got about "smuggling a watermelon" under my shirt. Yes, yes, I know... the belly is huge!

3 kids!

Lincoln's Grand Entrance

I know it has been a good long while since I have posted on this blog. In fact, I will be amazed if any of my blog followers still bother to even check up on this blog! But, I have the perfect excuse, I swear! The summer was spent being pregnant, finshing up a year of teaching Joy School, juggling kids, finishing my classes which entailed studying and typing papers into the painful wee hours of the morning, taking finals, all as Jordan finished up Internship Year.

We have moved to the next phase. Officially. I'm done with school (for the time being), Jordan has moved on to his Residency, and we now have THREE kids in the house!!!

Lincoln Everett Thomson was born August 30th at 9:06 a.m., weighing in at exactly 8 pounds, 20.5 inches. Although born four days past his due date, he was sure in a hurry to get here! We had just experienced a magnitude 5.8 earthquake earlier that week, followed by Hurricane Irene that swept up the East Coast in her windy, rainy fury. Early the morning of the 30th, around 4 a.m., I was sound asleep dreaming that I was playing pro football, fully pregnant, and I had just tackled the Quarterback at the goal line... he had barely made it, to my team's dismay. As the Quarterback made a big deal over his touchdown, I just stood up and said, "Whatever. I'm having my baby today. I don't have time for this." I awoke at that point. I felt wide awake and alert, but I didn't know why. I considered getting up to work on one of my many projects - cleaning the refrigerator, filing our documents, scrubbing the bathrooms. I laughed at myself for having the sudden urge to get everything done at four o'clock in the morning. Nesting. Ha! I talked myself into staying in bed since I had a full day planned and figured I would need the rest.

I wasn't exactly having contractions at that point, but I just knew that something was under way. Before I knew it, two hours had passed, and I still laid there wide awake as Jordan got up and got ready for work. I considered telling him that I felt like I was going to have a baby that day, but decided against it since I had lost faith in my ability to read my own body. I had called him on several occasions over the past few weeks to tell him that I may or may not be going into labor. All had been false alarms, obviously. So, how could I explain that I felt like something was different about that particular day if I wasn't even having contractions? So, off he went to work, and I still laid there... waiting. It was the strangest thing. It's like I knew what was in store for me, only as soon as I decided I was ready. And, just like that, when I decided to get up for the day, around 6:20 a.m., the contractions started immediately - and they came strong and fast at about three minutes apart.

I called Jordan just as he was walking from the parking garage to his building at work, and let him know that he'd better come home. He got back to the house around 7:15, and we left as soon as the bags were packed at 7:30. The contractions were coming about every two minutes at that point and lasting for about a minute. We had what seemed like the world's longest commute to the hospital. I don't remember every single street having so many potholes before! Or traffic lights taking soooo long! Oh, man, it was agonizing! I kept thinking, "what is taking so long?!" the entire drive. We got to the parking garage around 8:10 and had to find parking, which is always a twenty to thirty minute endeavor at the military hospital. Luckily we got a spot after a few minutes since someone pulled out of their spot just ahead of us. At that point, we took the world's longest walk from the parking garage to the hospital. Every few feet I had to stop and breathe through a contraction. In fact, it seemed like I wasn't having much of a break between contractions at that point. I was terrified that I was going to have the baby right there in the street! We made it into the hospital, but it was still a long journey from building 19 to building 9. People were asking us if we needed a wheelchair and would disappear around the corner to go find one, but I couldn't stop and wait for anything. This baby was coming! I kept walking, and stopping when the pain got too intense, and then walked again.

We finally, finally made it to our building, secured a wheel chair, and then had to wait for an elevator. World's longest wait for an elevator. One elevator opened up and was already at capacity with a janitor and a huge garbage bin. I felt like cursing and crying all at once as I sobbed to Jordan quietly, "we can't fit in there..." as the janitor just stared at us, absolutely dumbfounded. We waited for the next elevator. When it finally came, a whole crowd filed in behind us. And we stopped at every. single. floor. all the way up. Each time that elevator door opened I felt an urge to scream in desperation (which I didn't - I still had some composure at this point, ha ha). I then had a vision of what my new biggest fear was: delivering my baby in an elevator.

We finally made it to our floor... and had to check in at the front desk. They finally let us back into the hallway... where we had to wait for a triage room to become available. I felt like screaming, "triage room?! You've got to be kidding me! I'm IN LABOR!!!" At that point, the contractions were coming one on top of the next with no breaks and I was ready to check myself into a room and deliver the baby myself! I grabbed Jordan's shirt and cried pitifully, "what is taking so long?!" They got us into the triage room, where they determined that, surprise, surprise, "This woman is in active labor and needs to be checked in." I was so annoyed! I was further annoyed with the array of questions that were repeated, verbatim, by three different people as I lay there waiting to deliver a baby. "Do you have any allergies?" "Are you on any medications?" "In the instance that you would need a blood transfusion, do you understand the risks?" "Did you have a strep test performed at your last visit... and what was the result?" and so on, and so forth.

I was hoping for the epidural at that point (gone were my dreams of a peaceful, hypnobirth delivery), but I kind of already knew that it was too late for that. The anesthesiologist, bless his heart, hurried in anyway and started to prep me - just in case he could hurry and alleviate at least some of the pain. As soon as I turned to my side, however, my water broke, and talk about PAINFUL CONTRACTIONS! All of the sudden I felt like I was being beaten from all sides by big men with sticks. Sticks with nails in them. I remember thinking, "So, this is what a 'ten' on the pain scale feels like?" My whole body was shuddering in pain and I couldn't hold it in any longer. With my eyes clenched shut, I cried and cried. (At least I think I cried. If not out loud, I sure was crying to myself.) I don't remember any faces, because my eyes were clenched shut. I do remember one nurse telling me to relax my legs and I just said, "I can't... I really can't..." I had never felt so much at the mercy of other people in my entire life.

And, just like that, Lincoln was born. At 9:06 a.m., after the longest two hours of my life, our little Linc was born, healthy and beautiful and flawless. And everything in my mind went from chaos and unbearable pain to absolute calm. I opened my eyes to see people running in and out of the room (apparently no body had expected such a speedy delivery within minutes of us showing up), but everything seemed silent and peaceful to me. As I laid back onto the bed with a sigh of relief, my whole body shaking uncontrollably from the adrenaline of experiencing so much pain, I watched the nurse clean my baby. I just stared at that sweet baby boy, longing to hold him. I didn't take my eyes off him for a second.

Everything after that was smooth sailing. I got to cuddle with my baby all day and night. Jordan went to pick up Beckham and Ava later that day and they were delighted to meet him. I loved watching their excited faces as they met their brother for the first time! We got to go home after 24 hours, and I had the fortune of having one of my amazing friends, Mica Hale Hauley, here with us to share in the joys (and exhaustion) of having a newborn in the house.

I don't know what I would have done without Mica's help and companionship! I remember feeling so lonely after the birth of my other kids, but this time I felt like somebody was there with me to celebrate and just be there with me! I really am fortunate to have so many amazing people in my life. Mica is like a sister to me. We've known each other since we were about 14 years old. She's been there for every major event in my life. In fact, she was even there the night I met Jordan. And for our first date. And then for our wedding :) It seems more than appropriate that she be here with us for the birth of our baby. I love that girl!

Three weeks has gone by. My baby is getting bigger by the minute (that might have something to do with his current 72-hour growth spurt streak where he has been eating EVERY HOUR like clockwork). As I juggle my three babies, I hope I never forget the quiet peace of being so in love with them and being so grateful to have them here with me, in the midst of the noise and chaos all around.

Today my baby #3 is three weeks old.

The nights are lonely... The days are so sad....

Okay, well the days aren't SO sad. But the nights are long and lonely when your husband is gone working 90-100 hours per week including those dreaded 30-hour shifts. I cannot wait for this rotation to be OVER!!! And, in two more months, we will have survived Internship year, notorious for its long, horrible hours. I don't care what anybody says, this lifestyle affects the entire family. The kids miss Jordan. I miss Jordan. We try to stay busy during the day - which really isn't the challenge. There are always so many things we have to do and want to do in the day. But as soon as night comes, and the kids are tucked away in their beds, I find myself alone in our house.

Since moving in last May, I have never been able to walk into our living room and sit down and relax if Jordan is not home. It feels so sad and lonely in there without him. The couch seems too big and cold. There's no point in turning on the tv because the whole point of watching anything is to sit there with Jordan and laugh together.

So, I either clean or study or stare at my computer screen thinking about how I should study, like tonight, but instead do nothing. I am tired. But, I cannot sleep... not yet... Jordan is gone and falling asleep will be next to impossible. I have so much to do. But I cannot be productive because I'm exhausted. So, I sit. I stare ahead at my empty computer screen where I should be laboriously typing yet another paper. Instead, my head fills with lyrics from years ago.

...And I'm dying inside
And nobody knows it but me
Like a clown, I put on a show
The pain is real even if nobody knows
And I'm crying inside
And nobody knows it but me

Why didn't I say
The things I needed to say
How could I let my angel get away
Now my world is tumbling down
I can say it so clearly
But you're nowhere around

The nights are lonely
The days are so sad
And I just keep thinking about
The love that we had
And I'm missing you
And nobody knows it but me

I carry a smile when I'm broken in two
And I'm nobody without someone like you
And I'm trembling at night and
Nobody knows it but me
I lie awake, it's quarter past three
I'm screaming at night as if
I thought you'd hear me
Yeah my heart is calling you
And nobody knows it but me....

So, there's my sappy, missing-Jordan tale for the evening. This man has haunted me now for over 13 years! It was about 11 years ago that he played this song for me for the first time. At the time we had been broken up for a few months and I had gotten engaged, foolishly, to somebody else during that time. I was an idiot. Yet, Jordan and I both missed each other like crazy despite our stubbornness. I cried over him every night and nobody knew it. Then, right before he left on his mission to Kentucky, Jordan and I spent a few weeks together. He played that song for me right before he left. And that's the first song I heard on the radio the very next day as I got into my car.

It kind of became a theme for us. Missing each other. It has never been easy but we have had several times over the past several years of having to miss each other. Mission, work, school, military. Sometimes it has been a mere matter of tasks taking over and not having enough time together. Other times he has had to go away for a few months for military and school. This year, it has been long hours at work. But, as much as I miss him on nights like tonight, I'm so glad that I have that reassurance that I get to be in his arms tomorrow. Sappy. I know. Blame the pregnancy hormones or the lack of sleep or whatever, but it has been a really long couple of weeks and on nights like this all I really want is my husband by my side and that's something I will NEVER take for granted.

Ban on TV

I'm back from the dead! Or at least from the world of pregnancy exhaustion. :) I just got to week 15 and am happy to announce that I am hungry ALL of the time now rather than cringing at the sight (and smell, and thoughts, and so on) of food. And I have my energy back for doing spring cleaning, getting out for spontaneous activities with the kids, studying regularly, and .... banning television. And that final thing has been an amazing thing!

Introduction into a tv-free environment:
Anyone who knows me already knows that I hate tv. I don't enjoy watching it and have never had a desire to have a tv for any reason other than watching the occasional movie. Through most of our marriage we have not had television. Occasionally Jordan would sign up for a three month summer deal or would get cable just long enough to watch the NBA finals, but other than that we haven't really cared to have tv set up in our home. Therefore, Beckham has grown up in a television-free environment. And it has always been such a great thing. He's an active little boy and doesn't care to sit still anyway. Every now and then I would buy him a $5 movie at Target of Elmo's World or Thomas the Train or whatever his current phase was at the time.

The slippery slope:
About a year ago, we signed up for Netflix and all of the sudden he had all sorts of great kid shows to choose from. Commercial free, might I add ;) With a combination of him being old enough to fall in love with cartoons at age 3 1/2 and the birth of Ava, he was all of the sudden watching 1-2 hours of netflix cartoons every day. Then we moved and Jordan wanted to get a satelite dish to watch sports and politics... and Beckham was introduced to the world of cable tv. Unlimited cartoons on at least a dozen stations playing all day long! It was a 4-year-old's dream! And, for the sake of saving my sanity, I let him watch about an hour a day while his baby sister napped and while I got ready for the day. It was the perfect babysitter. And then for Christmas he got his first video game and he was ecstatic! So, on top of his hour of tv every morning, he was begging to play his video game for an hour every afternoon.

The accidental epiphany:
Then, something happened. He had started taking food out of the kitchen every morning without asking. Not just any food, but any junkfood he could find. If we didn't have candy or popscicles, he would eat all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms, or eat all of frozen fruit in the freezer. We tried taking away privileges, and nothing was working. Then, I took away tv and video games for a whole week and told him he would have to earn that privilege back by NOT taking food without asking that entire week. It worked like a charm. But something else happened, too. Beckham started playing with old toys again, drawing pictures, sculpting with playdough, building blocks, reading more books, building puzzles, completing his pre-k workbooks (sometimes an entire book in one sitting!), and participating more and more in make-believe play. His behavior changed significantly. Less arguing and bad attitudes and more politeness and cheerfulness. I never worried about his activity level because he has always been extremely active, but I guess I forgot about all of the other productive, educational things he was missing out on while wasting away his time in front of the tv for 1-2 hours daily. I mean, think of what you could do as an adult with an extra 1-2 hours per day... and then double that productivity level with the energy of a young child who soaks everything up like a sponge. At this rate he could learn Chinese in a year! ha ha!

The academic studies to back my claim:
I remember in college doing a research paper for my Philosophy of Childhood class. It was about the long-term effects of television on children. Thousands of studies have been carried out on the subject, and most of them say the same things, essentially. I looked into these studies again and read an article posted by the University of Michigan. Extensive television watching and video game playing leads children to anti-social behaviors, eventual adult obesity or poor lifestyle habits, attention difficulties in school, sleep difficulties, behavioral problems - particularly in boys acting out violently, making poor choices in their teenage years regarding sex, drugs and alcohol, and poor study habits. Television also takes away from more enriching activities such as reading (which, neurological studies show, activates the brain significantly more than staring at the television), socializing with family and friends and learning and practicing good values in the process, getting outside for exercise and fresh air, and practicing skills such as music or drawing and so on. Anyhow, it all came back to me as I watched my own son revert back to his productivity level from the pre-tv days. And I was sold. No more regular tv from now on.

The new lifestyle of my 4-year-old:
We have made tv a special "entertainment" privilege. He can watch for 30 minutes a day if he has already done all of his chores and his homework (which for him means making his bed, cleaning up his toys, and completing at least one lesson in his pre-k lesson book), and if he has followed all the household rules such as not taking food without asking and being nice to his sister. Then he chooses a show, if he wants. But I have found that MOST days the tv doesn't even go on and he doesn't even request it or miss it... which actually allows us to have a little more flexibility as parents on those random days when he does want to watch two or three shows at a time because there's just nothing else to do or he's tired, etc. As far as the video game goes, now he gets to play it for 30 minutes once a week as a special privilege for the week. And he loves it! As soon as it's his day to play, he treats it like we're taking him to Disneyland.


So, what's my point in all this? I feel like I got sidetracked as a busy parent for awhile there and was using the television as my babysitter for my kid so I could get things done. Once I realized, again, all the long-term negative effects this habit would have and all the good that could come of decreasing the amount of television in his life, I feel almost enlightened! This no tv thing has been a wonderful thing for Beckham, will be a wonderful thing for our family in the long run, and - here's the great part! - my fear of banning the tv creating more work for me in the end actually isn't true at all. Now Beckham is keeping himself occupied with better, more educational endeavors while I get the baby down for a nap or while I exercise. I'm convinced once again, tv is such a waste of time! Now that's not to discredit the good that can come out of tv. I think with limited, parent-censored tv, kids still get valuable things out of it such as cultural education, creative imagination, interactive stimulation, (and somethin-somethin combobulation... perhaps I'd be able to come up with a more creative ending to all of this if I did a little more reading myself :)

The First Trimester Blurrrrr

I have no energy for typing on this blog lately. In fact, I hesitated even starting this post knowing very well that it would be very short, sweet, and absolutely uneventful. The first trimester of pregnancy has never felt so absolutely exhausting before! I count myself lucky for having experienced two very easy pregnancies in the past because this current one is hitting me like a ton of bricks. I had never gotten so sick before... Luckily I know someone in the drug business and got some Zofran immediately ;) I never thought I would welcome any drug into my life so readily. That miracle drug has been what has saved me from absolute misery and I kiss the feet of whoever invented it. As far as the old lady exhaustion goes... well, let's just say I'm doing the bare minimum these days. I wake up, keep the kids fed and happy all day, and that's just about it. By the time they are in bed for the night, so am I. I joke with Jordan that it might look like I'm doing absolutely nothing, but there's actually a whole factory production going on manufacturing a human-being with fingers and toes and a nervous system and a fast little heart beat and, frankly, it's just taking up all of my resources. So, by the looks of this blog, it might look like I haven't been up to much... But, I assure you, I AM, I AM! Thankfully, I only have one more week until the first trimester has passed and then hopefully I can start getting more energy, stop feeling so sick all the time, and can add some cute pictures of the kids to this blog!

I will add a cute story about Beckham because he just cracks us up every day. Lately he insists on wearing something very unique that will get attention and will "look cool." He wears his Captain America costume quite often. One day it got dirty and I told him that I'd have to wash it and he got so upset and said, "But, mom! Then no body will think I look cool!" Then he asked if he could put on his new church suit. That always gets a lot of attention at church, so he figured he should wear it to the grocery store. I told him "no." So, the next thing I know, he's up in his bedroom putting on camo pants with his "super hero belt" and a lime green shirt and THREE clip-on neck ties. He found a way to still stand out and look super-cool. I laughed so hard (not at him... just later when telling Jordan about it). Then, today, he wanted to wear his baseball hat to Joy School. I told him he couldn't wear it to class because it would be too distracting but that he could wear it in the car. Again, he wanted to look cool, so he made a point to wear it as he got out of the car and waited for all of the other kids to notice him and only then did he take off his hat and hand it to me and run inside to join his friends. This kid makes me laugh every single day. He is always doing such cute things!

So, that's us. More eventful, energetic, exciting things to come in the near future (I HOPE!)

Surprise!

Christmastime was a whirlwind of activity. I have yet to download the photos to add to our blog! With sick kids, a constantly-working husband, holiday festivities, shopping, baking, parties, visits to friends and neighbors and the elderly, all the while feeling like I had some sort of persistent flu bug that wouldn't go away... well, it has just been impossible to keep up with emails and blogging.

I never get sick. I never get the flu shot because I've never needed it before and I've never regretted not getting it. I have the immune system of a horse (do horses have great immune systems?... I just always assume that "healthy as a horse" comment has some clout). I proudly and mercilessly fight off anything that comes my way. When someone in my family gets sick, I whip out my get-well remedies and heal them overnight (for this, Jordan thinks I'm a witch... and because I can predict weather, have strange psychic abilities and put hexes on him from time to time... but we won't go into any of that, ha ha). But, then all of the sudden there was this relentless nausea and exhaustion that would not go away no matter what I tried. There was absolutely no way I was pregnant, so I ruled that out. NO way. So, I pushed through the holidays trying to ignore my symptoms waiting for them to pass.

Two days after Christmas the symptoms not only hadn't subsided, they had gotten worse! Not only that, it was affecting me in every way. All of the sudden egg nog tasted like Lysol cleaner might taste. Then it happened to the broccoli. I couldn't figure out what was happening to me! I was beginning to question my super-human ability to fight infectious disease. Was I becoming soft in my ripe old age of 29? Then, it happened. I gagged while brushing my teeth one night. That has always been the tell-tale sign for pregnancy in the past. I LOVE to brush my teeth. I will sit and brush my teeth for 10 minutes if I have the chance, but when I'm pregnant I gag on the toothpaste and can't stand it for longer than a couple of minutes, tops. So, at the store, just to humor myself, I bought a pregnancy test. I snuck it into the cart the same way Jordan sneaks in soda pop and junk food. It was going to come out negative anyway. But, I threw in a kit with two tests... just in case.

As soon as we got home I stealthily ventured into the bathroom upstairs... where Ava followed me. I opened the pregnancy kit, laughing to myself about having even bought it and just knowing it would come out negative. As Ava pulled on my pant leg crying for me to pick her up and Beckham hollered for me downstairs (he still didn't know where I disappeared to), I watched two pink lines appear instantly in the indicator window. Pregnant, eh? Nope. Couldn't be. That one was defective. I threw it away instantly.

I mentioned it to Jordan in passing a few minutes later. It went something like this: "So, I took a pregnancy test a few minutes ago... and it says I'm pregnant. But, I'm going to take another test because something is wrong with that one. I probably didn't do it right (total lie - I have done at least 20 of these in the past few years while trying for baby 1 and 2)." He excitedly embraced me and told me he loved me as he congratulated me, completely baffling me by his utter excitement. Couldn't he see I was terrified... and nervous... and TERRIFIED?! I kept a calm, cool face as I explained I would just go ahead and take another test the next day, no big deal.

Yeah, right. Like I was really going to wait an entire day.

Less than an hour later, the kids were in bed and I quite literally ran into the bathroom and tried again. Two pink lines appeared instantly. Huh. Two positive pregnancy tests. Go figure. Both defective? I mean, I just COULDN'T be pregnant. That's not how it works. An an "experienced" mom of two, har har, I know how this goes. And the way it goes is this: we talk about having a baby for about a year, then we try to get pregnant for a year, then we inform the doctor that it has been a year with no luck, at which point I start the round of fertility medications for several months, all the while taking pregnancy test after pregnancy test, month after month, hoping for a positive reading, until the time has finally come when I see those two pink lines on that plastic contraption I have grown to both despise and love... and THEN we give everyone the wonderful news of "Hooray we're pregnant!"

Now, here I was, with a baby who was just shy of turning one, still nursing, and we'd only barely decided to try for baby #3 on a whim a few weeks ago (our third and final - and might I add: fearful - attempt at making babies ... we both knew we wanted a third, but we both felt like the longer we waited the more we'd chicken out, so we took the "now or never" approach).... Could it really happen THAT FAST?

YES... YES, IT COULD.

And Baby #3 wasn't going to give us the option of backing out or deciding to wait a year or two. This baby is on it's way, ready or not!




P.S. And, after the initial fear and denial, I am very excited about this :) I was afraid because I know exactly what I'm in for, but thankfully I love every minute of this relentless - yet rewarding - job called motherhood. I was in denial because it seems like it was TOO easy. It's like as soon as we made this spontaneous decision it just happened overnight, which is a new experience for us. I'm used to the year of planning, the year of trying, and then the 9 months of being pregnant - it's always a 3 year process. Now all of the sudden it's this instantaneous event that makes perfect sense and no sense to me all at once. For starters, Jordan, the logical-about-everything-super-planner was so on board with trying for a baby with no prior planning, no spread sheets, no diagrams or budget forms or calendars of due dates based on conception dates - he was just all for jumping into this decision. Secondly, as soon as I found out I was pregnant, he wasn't at all shocked and surprised, only excited and happy. Come to think of it... maybe Dr. Thomson has been slipping fertility pills into my drinks for the past few months and planned this whole thing??? Tricky man.

(AND, on a side note, if anyone knows of student who would like to live in D.C. rent-free for a semester while getting paid as a part-time nanny, I'm definitely considering hiring someone to help me out for the first few months!!!)

Tried and True... Broken-In Mommy

Every now and then I feel as if I'm being tested - by my kids, by my husband, by the powers that be - to see if I'm really cut out for this mommy business.

Luckily, I always pass. So far.

These past two weeks have been a little rough. Beckham had three days of being sick where he not only felt miserable with a fever of 103, but was also throwing up. Jordan happened to be working on-call at the hospital the entire time, which seems to always be the case when something is going terribly wrong at home. As I tried to keep my 4-year-old hydrated and cooled off and well-rested, I was toting around a happy baby on my hip. As soon as she would go down for a nap, there I was scrubbing vomit off of floors and walls and toilets and doors, and sanitizing the entire house in hopes that nobody else would catch the bug he had. I spent night after night caring for a sick child, feeling so absolutely helpless that he had to feel so miserable and wishing I could magically make him feel better. I slept by his side, I catered to his every need, and at one point got teary-eyed because I felt so overwhelmed with love for this kid. I really would do ANYTHING for him.

As soon as he was feeling better, I was rushing to quickly put together the Joy School Christmas Party and Kindergarten Readiness Lessons for the week as well as preparing for the party we were throwing at our house that weekend. The day of the Joy School Christmas Party, one girl showed up to my house absolutely plagued with illness! She was coughing a hoarse, raspy cough the entire time as goop ran down her face. Since she's only 3, bless her heart, she would cough on everyone around her as she walked by, wipe her nose with her hands before touching all of the toys and craft supplies, etc... without realizing that I stood there wincing each time, praying that my children would stay healthy and wouldn't get sick again. The next day I frantically cleaned my house and had a little Christmas get-together with some local friends. Then, two to three days later we all suddenly have horrible colds with fevers.

Now my baby has that hoarse, raspy cough and runny nose with a fever that seems identical to the symptoms displayed by the 3-year-old girl at my house that day and I find myself ranting on the inside about how parents should not send their sick kids to other people's houses to get an entire family sick! (Which I would never say out loud because I know these things happen and I love their sweet family and would never want to offend them - and can safely type it here because they'll never see this blog :)

So, now I'm taking care of a coughing 4-year-old and a sick-as-can-be 11-month-old WHILE I'm also sick and I'm wondering if this is MY test this week and I can't help but laugh at the irony. Last week I passed the test of taking care of one sick child while juggling a healthy child and household responsibilities on very little sleep and I think I may have become a little prideful after mastering this feat. Now things have been kicked up a notch and I'm taking care of two sick children while I'm sick myself still running on very little sleep while running around preparing for Christmas.

So, Santa, if you're out there, all I want for Christmas this year is a full night's sleep and a healthy family. If you can give me that, I promise I'll stop whining and complaining about how tired and achey and sick I am and be a good mommy all year long.

merry christmas everyone

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Years and Years of Dedication, Hard Work, Sacrifice....

Tonight, as everyone else was going to bed for the night, I watched as Jordan changed into his work clothes to pull a 10-12 hour graveyard shift in the Emergency Room down in Fairfax, dealing with drug addicts, drug-seekers, detox and overdoses, bar fight patients, vaginal bleeding, suicide attempts, kids with fevers and coughs and diarrhea, lacerations, you name it. All the while he helps these patients to the best of his ability, using vast medical knowledge with great confidence and know-how, trudging through the late night and wee hours of the morning, helping patient after patient, always with a great attitude.

Like all residents, he does this while getting reamed by some know-it-all attending who has something to prove by being a jerk. After hours and hours of this, Jordan drives home, exhausted, in the morning rush hour traffic of D.C. for 2 hours. He gets home, crashes on the couch in the basement for awhile, wakes up, eats, studies, and starts all over again with another 10-12 hour graveyard shift.

I cannot accurately express to you how much dedication, hard work, and sacrifice goes into this career. He worked so hard for four years as an undergrad to get the top grades, taking the hardest science classes, volunteering at hospitals, passing the MCAT, while working a full-time job... all of this just to get his foot in the door and get into medical school. Once in medical school, he was waking up at the crack of dawn to study for upcoming board exams before going to class all day, taking a brief 10 minute break for dinner, and then studying all night for exams for his classes. Weekends included. During 3rd and 4th year rotations, he spent a total of 5 months living away from home. He worked extremely hard while simultaneously studying for boards. After passing board exams and getting through those years of medical school, he got into his dream specialty: Ophthalmology.

So, here we are in the inevitable Internship year. 80-hour work weeks. On call every 3rd night. 30-hour shifts without a break, sometimes even without a meal. This man goes to work each and every day making a difference in many lives with a smile on his face. He cares about helping them. When he comes across something he doesn't have the answer for, he comes home from his long shift and studies about it. He has been going to school and studying HARD for years just so he can help his patients. He doesn't do it for the paycheck. He doesn't do it for the recognition. He does it because he is a caring doctor. And I'm willing to bet that he's not the only one. I know doctors get a bad rap sometimes - people tend to think they are overpaid for what they do. I can tell you here, they are NOT. Doctors sacrifice their youth to study. They pay for a solid education and live below the poverty line as students for 8 full years of school. They get overworked while being seriously underpaid all throughout their residencies and training years. Once they do get a paycheck, they get to pay off years worth of medical school student loans. Aside from the fiduciary sacrifices, they sacrifice their time with their loved ones. They sacrifice sleep, proper nutrition, recreation, any semblance of a normal life. I have watched Jordan work so hard for the past 8 years and am amazed at this level of dedication and sacrifice. It is hard on an individual and on a family. We move a lot, we live like students with the bare minimum, my kids rarely see the father they love as he's out sewing up some guy who got in a fight or counseling a drug-seeker.

He never complains about his long hours. He works nights, weekends, holidays... never complaining. And I realize that every doctor out there has gone through what my husband is going through. I don't think I ever appreciated that fact to the full extent until witnessing it first-hand. Where would our society be without these dedicated men and women? This does not only go for doctors for that matter. I know there are other professionals out there that dedicate so much for a good cause. But, for the sake of personal experience, let me just say, DOCTORS WORK SO DAMN HARD! I love my husband. He has such a great attitude. He is so intelligent and hard-working, but he doesn't give himself enough credit for this. He just goes on day after day working hard, providing for his family, changing lives. In fact, he'd probably be downright embarrassed reading this because for him it is all out of duty. He doesn't do it to be recognized. He does it out of duty.

I got a letter on my door the other day, left by the garbage man, telling us who to make our check out to in order to tip none other than the same garbage man that left the note. I am happy to tip my garbage man, don't get me wrong, but I chuckled a little and thought of a great line from The Office:

Dwight: "Why tip someone for a job I'm capable of doing myself? I can deliver food. I can drive a taxi. I can, and do, cut my own hair. I did however, tip my urologist, because I am unable to pulverize my own kidney stones."

Well said, Dwight. Well said. :) Not that you should start tipping your doctor, by all means! But I do wish more people would appreciate their doctors instead of complaining about how much money doctors make. Yes, some doctors out there make a lot of money... after, 8 years of school + 4 or more years of residency + 10 years minimum to pay off medical school loans = 22 years or so of dedication, sacrifice on every level and really, really hard work. Okay, I'm done with my rant.