Make a "T" and Shake It

It's been almost 2 weeks or so since I've blogged. I've got things ruminating but life has just been a bit busy.

We take the kids to Mass each week and, for the most part, they are really well behaved. Potty training has added a new layer to any outing, since Maya especially enjoys visiting EVERY bathroom in the world, but it's going well (again, adding the 'for the most part' caveat).  At Mass, the priest is about the start the Gospel when Maya announces she needs to go to the potty.  She says it and signs it (in case we (and the pews around us) are deaf), so I discretely take her to the bathroom in the Narthex.  So, we're all done and I'm walking towards the doors to reenter the church proper when I noticed my daughter isnt next to me.  No, she's pulling on the heavy glass doors that lead into the Shrine for the Holy Family.  I try to tell her that we are missing Mass and need to go back when she proceeds to tell me that she's going to pray and visit "Mama Mary, Papa Joseph, and Baby Jesus". Now, far be it from me (even though I'm irritated by this point because we are missing Mass and, since we sit in the front, I'm going to have to walk back THROUGH THE CENTER AISLE back to our seats in the middle of the homily) to tell my kid that she can't pray.  So, into the Shrine we go, where she proceeds to kneel on the altar, cross herself, close her eyes, fold her hands, and start praying (only the Holy Family knew what language she was speaking).   When she's done, we get up and go back to Mass.  Things are fine. Amen.

During the Eucharistic prayer, however, we arent so fine.  Bobby says, fairly low, "Stop." Now, this is what he says when we are out and he needs to go to the bathroom.  (It comes from the song we sing, "Stop and Go... Stop what you're doing, stop and go." Peter tells him we will go to the bathroom as soon as we stand up (you know... trying to be respectful of the priest praying, we're kneeling, we're praying, etc). He repeats "Stop" three more times, getting louder each time, to the point that Peter is practically knocking me over to get Bobby out to the bathroom.  (First, because who wants a kid yelling STOP in the middle of the Eucharistic prayer! and second, because I no longer bring a spare change of clothes out with my mostly, well trained potty-goers!)

We stand up and Maya, who asked me to hold her, is facing the congregation.  In a clear, authoritative voice, she says "Bobby has to go potty.  Make a "T"," she makes an ASL 'T" with her fingers, "and shake it!" 

There isnt a rock big enough, I tell you...  And it isnt better when the poor priest is doing his best not to laugh when you link eyes with him to somehow apologize.  At that point, all I wanted to do was laugh, too!

All in all, taking the kids is a good experience. They enjoy going and expect that our Saturday evenings will include a visit to "Jesus's house".  But last weekend, it was quite the experience!  (Of course, now everyone knows the sign for 'potty'!)

Broad Street Low Down

Normally, I'd write some sort of post about this awesome race (more than what I have), but Brig did such a nice job here that I cant think of anything else to say!

Songs

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
-Aldous Huxley


I'm a musician. I love music, actually. It courses through my veins much like my blood and I breathe it in as I do air. It brings me to a place of peace, a place of heartbreak, a place of joy, a place of sadness, but always a place. It can remind me of a moonlit night on a sunswept beach or of gardening in the sun... Of holding my children... Of the beating of my husband's heart.

Each of our children has their own song. I dont know that I ever thought it would work out that way or that there would be some song that reminded me of each of them. But, as the years have gone on, there are certain songs that just bring them to mind.

For Nicholas, it's You Are Mine. This is a religious song and, although we've sang it to each of the kids and it was played at Nicholas and Sophia's Memorial Mass, for me, it is his song. They may borrow it, but it's Nicholas's.

For Sophia, it's the Evanescence song, My Last Breath.  This is part of my running playlist and it never fails to give my heart a tug when I hear it.  The words... Chills just thinking about it.

Little Alexander lightens the mood (and takes us back a few decades) with the Beatles' Here Comes the Sun.  It was the first morning home after he was born and passed away, and we were listening to music.  For some reason, I had a Beatles CD in my computer.  This song came on.  The sun streamed in through the shades and I felt like I was going to survive.  It would be hard, but we'd make it.  It was as though he was telling us "It's going to be okay. You're going to get through this."  And we did.

Bobby...  Clearly, for me, it's Oh Bobby Boy, aka Oh Danny Boy, but with Bobby's name inserted.  (I sing Oh Maya Girl too, but Oh Bobby Boy was NICU favorite and, to this day, is the song they get put down to nap to).  Now, for Bobby, I think he'd  tell you it's Ode to Mabon, a song that I wrote to herald the fall equinox years ago.  For whatever reason, all I have to do is play the first few bars of the opening and he is spellbound. He will crawl into my lap at the piano or pull his chair over and just watch me sing it.  Loves that song.  It is guaranteed to bring him running from wherever he is.

Maya... For me, it's Carrickfergus.  Another NICU hangover.  I always sang this to her and she'd lay her head down on me (and still does) to rest and relax.  If she had to pick, I think she'd say my simple version of Stones on piano.  Peter played this version of Stones, which has my voice mixed with GrottoDragon's beautiful score, to all of the kids but I'm not nearly as talented as GD, so my piano playing is a lot more simple and based on the original music.

So, as the sky continues to be overcast and I set my playlist for these songs, I can take a few moments to reflect on each of my precious little ones and the lasting marks they've left, written across my heart, like their own unique sheet music. 


Are there any songs that remind you of your child(ren)? Reasons why or just that the song hits 'that' spot in your heart?

Broad Street - PreRun Pics

L-R: me, Sarah, Brigid

L-R: Sarah, me

Sore or Sorry???

Yesterday, after waking up at 3:30am and grabbing a quick shower and bite to eat, I joined my BFF Sarah and her baby sister Brig (who is no longer a baby and, FYI, if you click on her blog entry about the race, be prepped for some language to those with sensitive ears) to run my first big race of the year.  Broad Street, in Sarah's words, is THE race to run if you are remotely from Philly (which those of us in the 'burbs sort of are).  :)  She ran it back in 2008 and we stalked registration in order to get three of those coveted spots.  Brigid took a 7 hour trip down in order to do it with us, and we were on the road by 5am in order to get a good parking spot and a place on the subway.  The run covers a 10 mile stretch of Broad Street; you pass by City Hall around the middle of the trek and end at the Navy Yard (which, I'm sad to say, isn't full of handsome young sailors, but oh well...)

I was hoping to run it in 1:40 or so, but I knew that would be pushing it.  My Half time was 2:14, which, if you divide that down to 10 miles,would put me at around 1:43.  My finish time?  1:37:29  Pretty darn cool!!  Brigid and I ran together and finished seconds apart (she beat me- she totally deserved it!  That chicka ran like she stole something that last quarter mile!! WOO HOO BRIG!!!); Sarah crossed the line 10 minutes later, in spite of an old injury paying her a visit and causing her to stop and stretch at one point.  YAY SARAH! AWESOME JOB!!!  I was the 18,843 of 33,982 finishers (over 40K actually ran the race!), and the 8509th woman (of 19018 women) to cross the finish line; in my age group, 3700 women ran and I was 1611th to cross the finish line. 

I'm pretty proud of myself.

Yesterday, I was shot.  Spent.  Totally wasted.  When I got home, I just crashed.  I showered and could barely stay awake (getting up at 3:30am and running a 10 miler, I guess, will do that to you).  I dozed on the couch and at the dinner table (after Peter lovingly prepared dinner).  He was on kid duty all weekend, since I had packet pickup on Saturday then spent the evening with Bobby and Maya's oldest godsister, shopping for her dance.  Sunday, I was gone before they woke and didnt get home until 4pm or so (thanks traffic... Who thought scheduling a playoff game for the afternoon instead of night was a good idea when THE biggest 10 miler in the country was being run????)  By the time the kids were in bed, I was sound asleep. 

But I woke up at 5:30am and debated going for a run, so I'm either crazy or okay. :)

As Brigid and I were chit-chatting on the course, we shared different motivational quotes that we found funny or actually inspiring.  Some of our favorites:

Run like you stole it...
Run now, wine later...
You may be slow, but you're lapping the people sitting on the couch...

Brig busted this treasure out: Tomorrow, you can be sore or you can be sorry.  And Peter, as I was in the shower telling him that I was slightly sore but nowhere close to sorry because I am PROUD of myself, tossed in his college motto of "Pain is temporary but pride is forever."

True that, folks.  True that.

I'm actually not that sore.  It's more of a pushed-yourself-to-muscle-failure type feeling; I'm still teaching yoga tonight so, obviously, I'm not that unhappy.  My legs know they worked hard but they could run today.  They just aren't.  (I'm not that crazy.)  I did struggle to get Bobby dressed today (he didnt want his pants on and man, that kid is STRONG), but I'm doing alright.  And mentally?  Cloud 9. 

I'm not sorry.  Sore?  A bit.  But sorry?  Not a chance.

Because, really, the pain that comes from running like you stole it (while lapping couch potatoes) is temporary but pride?  The pride of finishing (with a side of 'wine'/'whine' after...)... that's going to last forever.

Just like the medal. :)

RUNNING In His Shoes

This post is brought to you by the sentence "My husband is right."
(and, it's written for Brig, the little sister I didn't have (but Sarah did!) but love just as much, LOL!)

Just wanted to get that out there first, seeing as Peter isn't going to let me live this down for a while...

As I mentioned yesterday, I succumbed to Peter's "encouragement" and got a pair of Vibrams.  I thought I might trail run in them but mainly got them to wear around the house since I like being barefoot (save the 'in the kitchen' jokes since that's actually true in our house!).  I have sworn up and down (and sideways and... you get the picture) that I wouldnt run in them outside of the ocassional trail.  I've even been known to make fun of runners in them... I know, I'm pretty awful.

For some reason today (perhaps it was Brigid asking if I've run in them, but really, who knows), I decided to go for a short run around the neighborhood.  I've been training with only 2-3 runs a week and have missed my daily 2-3 miles since I had dropped my dailies over the winter (dont know why... I missed them and yet couldnt get my butt out of bed in the early a.m. to go). As I put on my running clothes, I decided to forgo my sneakers (it's been raining and they are new... but really that's just an excuse I think) and keep the Vibrams (which I've worn all morning to clean in).

2.05 miles... 5 songs on my phone... 18 minutes.  Yeah.  9 minute miles.  (I'm a 10 minute mile kind of girl).  I felt like I was flying and, get this, there was no added stress to me.  I wanted to do my 'race pace' which is about a 10 minute mile, but something happened. I was running with the output that I planned but realized as my playlist went by that I was way ahead of where I thought I should/would be. 

So...Peter was right.  These shoes are a bit more amazing than I thought. I can't believe I PR'd my 2 mile standard on my first run out...

(Of course...We'll see how my feet are going to feel later this day but, for right now, they feel pretty darn fine!)

Walking In His Shoes

Last fall, Peter broke the mold and bought a pair of Vibrams. He actually wore them for Robert's Run as part of the 2011 Alex's Lemonade Stand Lemon Run.

Since then, he's been on me to try them.  I love being barefoot and, 12 months of the year, sport my Almost Bare Foot Croc flip flops.  I loathe socks and love the feel of my feet being feet. (Excluding when I'm running when I love my running shoes and fave socks like nothing else.)  But, he keeps telling me to go for it.

And so... I have.  No pics of me in them yet (although I'm wearing them now!) but I'm a Vibram wearer too now...  Since Saturday, I've been sporting a pair of KomodoSport in black/grey/pink.

 Due to a pricing error at the store, I got them for cheap and decided to give Peter's advice a chance.

I wore them on Sunday afternoon and HATED them.  As I lamented "my feet hurt", Peter noticed that I had them as tight as humanly possible.  Yeah... Not a good thing.  So, yesterday, I tried them again (sans socks that time) and they werent so bad.  Today, again, without socks, and I'm sort of digging them.  So... We'll see!

Will they replace my flips?  Never!  But for actually wearing a 'shoe', I think I could get used to this...

The Eyes Have It

Today, we took Bobby and Maya for their annual ophthalmology visit.  Last year, we moved to a new doctor, where the kids had a meltdown for their appointment. (I mean, in their defense, I dont like drops in my eyes or having them held open with metal clamps either). At their visit last year, Dr. C. prepared us for the likely possibility that Maya especially, but possibly both kids, will need glasses in childhood. 
Amazingly enough, the kids scored exactly the same this year, with Maya at a "0" and Bobby normal for age (which I'm assuming is still around a "2").  The kids handled the dilation okay (they weren't happy but the nurse let them pick out a sucker afterwards, which helped that). Bobby sat (and squirmed) with Peter for his appointment, but Dr. C. was able to see what she needed to.  Maya sat with me even though she didnt want to and she cooperated well.

Dr. C. anticipates that, although Maya doesnt have severe nearsidedness (which premature babies are at a statistically higher risk of), since she is at "0" right now, statistically she will probably need glasses by the time she's kindergarten age.  Bobby may need them, but right now his eye shape is more farsided  (as it should be for a young child) although she saw the shadow of a stigmatism. So, they will both continue to be followed annually (and Maya will have her annual retinology appointment in the fall, as well).

I keep telling myself that I was a preemie who should, statistically, have poorer vision, and I'm still 20/15. So, will they need glasses? Possibly, likely. But, will their eyes develop with them? Only time will tell.

I'm in a better place about this that I was last year, perhaps because last year happened. It still hurts to think that had I been able to carry them longer, they'd be better off.  But thinking about the what if's... It doesnt seem worth it. They are here. Safe. Healthy. Whatever hurdles we jump through, we do it together.  This is a small thing in the grand scheme of things.

So, kudos to the kiddos for rocking their appointment and behaving so well!!

The Scar Remains

"The wound heals, but the scar... that scar remains."

-Every Rose Has It's Thorn (Poison, c1988)

I was in the shower on Sunday morning, as we were getting ready for church. Normally, we go to the Vigil on Saturday nights, but a combo of a birthday party for one of B&Ms friends and Ps mom speaking at the Masses at our old parish (her parish), led us to get ready for the 9:30am.  As I'm showering and shaving, I go to put the razor back in the caddy and drop it. This isn't a big deal. Except that it is.

Instead of the razor falling to the floor and perhaps snapping off the top, it falls down my upper thigh, grazing in on the way down. The spray from the shower hits it and suddenly me leg is burning and in pain. I look down and see blood all over the tub of the floor and running down my leg. Immediately, I put it under the water to clean it and get a look at, what I'm sure, is just a scratch- it's a freaking razor not an unhinged blade!- and when I back away, a sliver the length of my hand, middle finger tip to wrist, starts pouring blood. I call Peter and turn the water off.  By the time he gets to the bathroom and I grab my towel, my leg is covered in blood and he has a look of WHAT DID YOU DO on his face.

Long story short, we were able to stop the bleeding and he bandaged my leg; all the while, it's burning like I've held it to an open flame and there is a throbbing that continues all day and into the night; I eventually took an Advil because the pounding gave me a headache. The next day, I have the pleasure of removing the bandage (and the gauze wasn't no-stick... That wasn't fun). We're able to see that, in addition to the thin line of a slash, the razor also hashed my leg as it fell (how it accomplished this, I have no idea... Let's just call the damn thing possessed by a demon of some sort). The marking looks like some sort of strange,elongated tic-tac-toe board.

I have no doubt that it will scar.  I'm a scaring type person.

My scars are kind of a road map of my life.  As the Metric song says, 'under every scar, there's a battle I've lost'. My right knee and right arm: reminders of a car accident that almost did me in.  My right thigh, my left shin: reminders of fights that, funny enough, I did come out on top of. Memories of broken bones- ribs, ankles, wrists, fingers, even a cracked jaw- memories of accidents or sparring matches gone wrong (or right, if you count that I won some of those). Maya is at the age (and because she likes to narrate her life and the lives of those around her) where she points to my scars and says "Mommy hurt" and vacillates between wanting to cry over it and wanting to kiss it and make it better. I tell her that I was hurt but that I'm not hurt anymore. At seeing my newest addition and watching the bandaging unfold, she now says "Mommy hurt but Daddy fix it."

Yes. In ways more than you know when I think about some of the scars I carry around, but superficially correct this time as well.

If only all scars were so clear.  And, yet, better that they aren't.

It's National Infertility Awareness Week.  While every day is National Something Day, I was struck by something Mel said when she mentioned that infertility isn't just a part of a week, it's a part of her every day. 

If only it were a week.

If only Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day were just a day.

If only all scars were so clear.  But they aren't; that's why they are scars.  Wounds heal and we move on from them; scars stay in place, forever a reminder of the battles we lost- and the ones we've won.  Fading but every present; changed but never erased.

Today, Bobby had speech therapy and his therapist asked about the photographs on our wall.  Turns out a friend just buried her identical twin girls, born too soon at twenty weeks and living an hour in the arms of parents who loved them and wanted them so much.  Last night, I chatted with a student who has become a friend; she and her husband lost their much wanted and adored identical twin boys just as we were celebrating Bobby and Maya's second year of life.

If only our losses and our pain were enough to spare another parent the grief that we know too well.  If only our scars were enough to keep the nightmares of the what if at bay.

As I counsel parents who are trying again (or considering it)... As I walk through steps of infertility treatments... As I listen to them talk about their struggles and the lack of compassionate care and understanding...  As all of their stories unfold and interlock, I'm always amazed by how infertility is a disease by which the sick person is blamed, mocked, or ostracized.

Spend a day with my kid and you wont want kids anymore.
You have so much freedom now! Why would you want to give that up to wipe butts and snotty noses?
Just walk away with what you have and stop thinking about what might have been.

When was the last time you heard someone tell that to a cancer survivor? An AIDS patient? A war veteran who has lost a limb?

It is a war; a private one, waged on that battlefields of intimacy and hope.  It's a war where some survive and walk away, physically intact, with the medals of success (in a sling rather than pinned to their chest) in place, grateful to be home and out of active duty.  It's a war where some lose their best friends- their partners and spouses- by stray bullets that they never even saw coming.  It's a fight to save the things that others take for granted, all while trying to stay true to even a small piece of yourself.  You carry guns when you are pacifist; you take lives that you'd rather save. All in the hope that, in the end of the day, you might be able to get out of the battlefield and back to the home life you long for.

It's a war where, just when you've thought you've won, you're hit by a canon blast that leaves you limbless... childless..

It's a disease that no one sees.  That is easy to ignore.  It's a pain for which there is no medication to ease.  And the wound it tears into your heart and soul is one that, although it may one day scar, is forever hidden, ignored...wished away.

I was told a short time back that I was no longer infertile because I had my happy ending, as though the battle had been won.  But I don't see it that way.  For me, the war is one that is forever engaged in the privacy of my own body. Perhaps there is a truce at times between the two sides...Perhaps one side gets a leg up here and there. But the war still goes on.  The armistice that brought me Bobby and Maya has given me a pass to the sideline, but the war is still being waged.  And I, the forever soldier in its battle, am scarred and limbless in places, but still able to walk.

If only all scars were visible... If only people could see inside the war torn heart and realize that the scars carried are reminders of wounds too deep to heal completely.

Each night, after the kids are bathed and we do a potty run (after lotion and pajamas- of course), we read stories, take a drink of water, and say good-night. Part of the good-night ritual involves the four of us holding and kissing Nicholas, Sophia, and Alexander's box, sort of as a prayer to them to watch over us and a reminder that they are always apart of our family.  Bobby and Maya say their names now, which feels strange because Peter and I said them for so long. These little voices, saying, "Nicholas...Sophia...Alexander".  But Maya's latest edition has left me breathless and fighting back tears.  "Bobby and Maya's brothers and sister". 

"Nicholas, Sophia, Alexander; Bobby and Maya's brothers and sister."
Yes, my love...  They are your brothers and sister.

The first time, my heart choked me and the tears could not be stopped.  Maya looked at me and then wrapped her arms around my neck.  "Mommy hurt; Maya fix it."

The wound has been fixed.  Healed by kisses and hugs and love.

If only all scars could be. But they aren't; that's why they are scars. Wounds heal and we move on from them; scars stay in place, forever a reminder of the battles we lost- and the ones we've won.

Fading but every present.

Changed but never erased.

Best Friends

I had a best friend growing up.  We were three months apart in age (I'm June, she's September) and we lived next to each other.  Thanks to the joys of Facebook, we reconnected a bit back and it brings me joy to think back on growing up together.  We grew somewhat apart in high school, when she moved away (but she moved back for part of it!) but, as kids, we were as tight as two kids can be.

Maya and Bobby have a godsister (daughter of M's godmother and B's godfather) who is close in age (she is June, they are September- sound familiar to my childhood BFF?? ;)  ) and they are a riot to get together.  L is tomboy enough to want to play with Bobby and girly enough to be inseparable from Maya.  My girlfried, M, and L visited today and we all had a blast of a morning that finished off with lunch at Subway and ice cream at the connected Maggie Moos.  We sat outside and the kids ate and had fun (after a morning of snacking, playing outside, and running around inside at Casa Haytko).  It was great... Really...

And, because M is awesome, she was able to pull Maya's hair back in a band (something that kid refuses to let me or anyone else do- have we turned over a new leaf???).  Adorable. 

On the way home (where we were going straight to nap), Maya cried because her "best friend, L..." wasnt going to be with her.  "Here when up?"  "No babe... Sorry, L... is going home to nap and hang out with Aunt M.... and Uncle N...; sorry."  There were sniffles.  It was heartbreakingly cute.  Then, as she gets in bed, she says.  "L... will come over again and we'll play."  Very matter-of-factly.  Not sure anyone wants to go up in court against this one if she chooses law as a field of practice. :)