Success and Positive Thinking

1. Success!

Avery is going potty on the toilet. Hooray! I have to confess: I was really stressing over the idea that he may not be potty trained by his third birthday. Then, last Saturday morning, he woke up and wanted to wear some BBU's (Big Boy Underwear). We've tried this approach a couple of times in the last year; putting underwear on and telling him he can't go potty in them, placing him on the toilet, etc. He was excited about this whole idea previously, but never had the patience to sit and wait for the potty to come. Last weekend, though, he stayed on and peed like a champ! Occasionally, after that first successful attempt, he would reject the suggestions I made that he try to sit on the toilet again (usually in about 1/2 hour intervals). So to entice him, I used these little incentives:

- A squirt of baby soap in the toilet, so that when he went potty, he made bubbles!

- A Potty Poster - one star sticker for potty, two star stickers for poop (which we haven't succeeded at yet). Once the poster is filled, he gets to pick out a new toy from the toy store.

- One M&M for each time he even sat on the toilet the first day (thankfully, he forgot about this incentive by the second day, and was more focused on the bubbles and star stickers).

- Fun Disney character underwear. He was so excited to pull those pants down and see his Bob the Builder (actually, I don't think this one is Disney, but you know what I mean), Batman, and Finding Nemo undies every time we went into the bathroom!

It has now been just over a week since we started this potty training shove, and we've only had a handful of accidents. So far, he hasn't made a #2 deposit (he is still wearing diapers overnight and has saved the pooping for then), and aside from making sure he gets lots of fiber and drinks plenty of fluids, I'm not sure what to do to make this one happen on the toilet. I'm trying to be patient, though!

We have an adapter seat on the standard toilet that Avery usually goes potty on, but I've read that doing the "big job" on something so high up makes them feel nervous, which means they're unable to relax enough to poop. (I'm sorry, by the way, if anyone reading this is offended by my topic today. It's a Mama thing, and I doubt I'll offend other Mamas out there. Anyone else can just skip this first portion and go straight down to the Positive Thinking section of my post.) We have a little potty chair in both bathrooms (three kid toilets total)...so we have just been using each of the different ones randomly throughout the day, thinking that maybe he'll find one is "The Perfect Pooper."

So, the point is: I'm open to suggestions. How do I speed this process along? Or at least keep it on track?

2. Positive Thinking

My subtitle for this blog is a quote by Norman Vincent Peale. While I love the quote, I honestly hadn't even heard of Dr. Peale until I Googled famous quotes about zest for life. I decided it's quite uneducated and ridiculous, really, to quote someone about whom I know nothing (I just spent the last 10 minutes trying to figure out if I had written that last sentence properly).

To solve this issue, I decided to order this from Amazon last week. Since Dr. Peale was a minister (preacher?), much of his focus is on the role God plays in one's life. I would say that I'm spiritual, if not overly religious. The reviews I read before purchasing this book were pretty impressive - one reviewer even goes so far as to say the book is like a pocket psychotherapist. Hm...

I have barely begun reading it, but already it has me thinking about my beliefs. I have always questioned why Catholics believe their version of Christianity is better than all others. I have also wondered why each niche religion insists that what they believe is different from the beliefs of others'. From my standpoint, many - if not all - beliefs are centered on the idea that there is a greater power, and that we, as believers, followers, humans, disciples, etc. are to keep that in mind while going about our lives. We are not to feel entitled to everything the world has to offer, but to feel thankful when we are blessed with good things and experiences, and to reflect spiritually - internally - when those things or experiences are not so good.

If the intent of old Norm's book is to make people realize that sometimes we are not in control, I've already figured that out, thank you. I'm hoping I can take something more than that from this collection of three books in one, though. In the first few pages of The Power of Positive Thinking, Dr. Peale declares that the answer to diminishing self-doubt is to fill those doubt-filled spaces with God's love, support, and dependability.

Now I understand this idea...really, I do, but doesn't this thought process also give away responsibility for one's successes and failures? If I put God into every nook and cranny of my being, the way I'm told to, does that really solve my feelings of insecurity? It is my belief that we are ever-changing individuals - and we are intended to be this way. I think, for instance, that I could be a more generous, giving person...doing more to impact the lives of people who are less fortunate than I. But (unless I'm taking Dr. Peale's thoughts too literally) if I just fill this shortcoming with the knowledge that God accepts me as I am, does that really help me to become a better person?

Perhaps I haven't read far enough into this book yet. Maybe there are more defined, proactive steps to bettering myself than I have found in my initial 26 pages of reading. So far, though, I find myself a little doubtful that this book will be the magic tool I use to improve my quality of life.

Untitled

We wake,
Work,
Love,
Hate,
Worry,
Conquer,
Celebrate!
And during the moments
in between,
we take a deep, steadying breath,
and close our eyes.
Cherish these quiet moments.
This life is
so very fragile.

10/14/06

Today marks our third year of marriage. Three years ago we stood in front of our friends and family and exchanged vows. With our baby growing inside me, you promised to love, cherish, and be faithful; I promised the same to you.

We've been through a lot together, Matthew, and I feel it has only made us stronger - as individuals, as partners, and as friends.

I dream of having more of your babies; seeing the best of both of us in them.

I look forward to the days when we are blessed with wisdom that only age and experience can bring us, and of our children's children bouncing on our knees and giggling into our joyous faces.

You are so much more than my husband, and I love you dearly.

Happy Anniversary.

Seeing Red

*If you have a weak stomach, please don't read the rest of this post. Please.*

Sunday.
I went grocery shopping.
Concocted Pioneer Woman's Baba Ghanoush.
Made scalloped potatoes and ham for supper.
Tried to tell Avery he didn't need to watch Spiderman 3 for the fourth day in a row.
Washed the supper dishes.
Baked cookies for my grandma, who helps with her church's version of the "Welcome Wagon."
Washed baking dishes.

And started to miscarry.

Being nearly 8 weeks pregnant, the last thing I expected when I took a bathroom break was to find red-tinged toilet paper. My mother is a nurse, as I've mentioned, and she calmly and confidently told me not to get too worked up; that some women have spotting during pregnancy. I was to just monitor the situation and call my Dr's office in the morning.

So I did. I monitored the situation like a fanatic.

Every couple of hours I would sit straight up in bed, unable to shut off my mind and return to sleep. Is it worse? Has it stopped? I would try to fool myself into feeling confident, trying to walk slowly to my bathroom like I had all the reason in the world to take my time.

Like my brain wasn't clanging against my skull with jittery nervousness.
Like my hands weren't shaking uncontrollably.
Like my heart wasn't trying to pang its way out of my chest.
Like it wasn't a strong conscious effort to take a deep breath.

So with those shaking hands, I swiped again with the toilet paper. It was redder, darker, and there was more of it. And was it just my mind overworking, or was I feeling some cramping?

Each time I went to check, it was worse than the time before. My heart was plummeting to places that were shady with their incredible sadness and negativity, and each time it dove down there, I reeled it back in, attempting to stay positive.

When morning finally came, my husband kissed me and told me everything would be okay. He left for work, and I called my OB nurse...and left a message. I felt like I watched every damn minute tick by until she finally called back - nearly two hours later. She told me that some women experience bleeding between their 6th and 8th week of pregnancy, when the embryo burrows down into your uterine lining. She told me this doesn't happen to every woman, and it doesn't occur during every pregnancy. I was to come in for some blood tests to check my hormone levels. I was also told that some women's bodies don't produce enough progesterone to support pregnancy, and that if I had low levels, they could supplement them to help my body be more stable for the baby growing inside.

I called Matt. He was coming home to watch Avery so that I didn't have to keep track of a two-year-old while I had blood drawn.

I put in Spiderman 3 and headed for the shower. I undressed and looked down at my barely-showing belly.

What's happening? I wondered for the hundredth time in about 8 hours.

I said a little prayer and stepped into the shower. (Why do I only think to pray when things are scary or not going well? What makes me think my prayers will be answered? For someone who isn't incredibly religious, it seems a bit pathetic to reach out to God when I don't regularly make Him a part of my daily life.)

As I felt the hot water stream down my body, I looked down. And saw clots. Horrible, deep scarlet splotches dropping to the floor of my shower, and being quickly whisked down the drain. I made myself look up and continued showering. I finished, stepped out of the shower, and hoped the worst was done.

The cramping wasn't my imagination, and it continued.

Matt returned home, and I left for the clinic. After I registered, I entered the lab waiting room. Do you know how many large, pregnant bellies one sees on a Monday morning in the lab? Thirteen. I counted. And that was in a 20 minute time frame. Finally my name was called, and I followed the phlebotomist back to have my blood drawn. I have "terrible veins" apparently, and watching the vile woman wriggle that needle in my arm, searching frantically for my vein just about put me over the edge. But I just closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and imagined bashing her head against the Band-Aid dispenser.

I was told that it should take only an hour to have the results back. I was to call my OB nurse again and let her know we were awaiting my results. I had left the clinic at 10:45 that morning, so by my calculations, I should have my results by noon - at the latest.

I tried to show I was cool, calm, and collected - I waited until 11:51 to call. And left another message. I endured their insanely long, informative but infuriating voicemail message about pregnant women needing to get flu shots, and how their line is answered "between the hours of 8 am and 5 pm. We are not available to take your call right now, so please leave your name, date of birth, chart number, your doctor's name, and contact number, and we will return your call as soon as we are able."

Which turned out to be three minutes before 2 pm. Do you know how evil your mind can be in that length of time? Very.

It turns out my Hcg (pregnancy hormone) and progesterone were extremely low. I was told that the normal level for a pregnant woman's progesterone is 20 - mine was 1.4. And the tale I was told about getting this hormone supplemented, should it be lower than normal? Apparently a pregnancy is only worth "saving" if your levels are 10 or above. The OB nurse informed me that it's best "just wait and see how things play out. We don't want to try and save a bad pregnancy."

Wow. Did this woman take lessons to become cold and careless with her words?

I sat propped against the pillows in my bed.

I tried to stay calm.

And dammit, I needed to pee. I was beginning to despise the bathroom. Every time I entered, I would cling desperately to the hope that maybe this time I wouldn't see blood. And every time the bleeding was worse.

I hadn't cried yet after hanging up with the nurse. On my way out of the bathroom Matt asked me how I was. Evidently he hadn't heard the phone ring; he didn't know of our news. All I could manage was, "The nurse called back. Not good." Then I scurried back into my cave/room and burrowed into the covers. I just wanted to sink in and never surface again. I rolled onto my side, facing the closet, and saw all of the maternity clothes hanging there. I looked down, and at the foot of my bed was the double stroller I had purchased at a garage sale only a couple weeks earlier.

I was sobbing so hard I thought surely I would wake Avery from his nap.

How could this be happening? We wanted this baby. It was no accident that we were expecting! And after two unplanned pregnancies before this one with no problems to speak of, why this? Why us?

---------------------------------------------
I have to go in today for more blood work. They will need to check whether my body has done its job and pushed everything through, or whether a doctor will have to assist with completing that job. It's called a D & C. And I am desperately hoping that it's not necessary.

I believe I'm a strong woman.

I know I will get through this. And I know we will try again when we're told it's safe. But I know there will be fear of this happening again. And I believe it will make me more reserved and cautious about announcing a pregnancy, should we be fortunate enough to have another.

The absolute only positive thing that has come from this is that I look at Avery and see a miracle. The stars aligned, we were blessed, everything went as it should have with his fetal development.

Of that, I am now so incredibly grateful.

Reflections of Melodramatic Megan

So I'm 3/4 finished with my second glass of wine.

And I'm listening to Eric Clapton's "Stormy Monday" on Pandora, along with similar moody, blues-y type songs.

And I'm feeling a little introspective.

And a little pessimistic.

And here are my thoughts:

1. How realistic are wedding vows? Specifically: "Until death do us part."

2. What a waste of 25+ years. (Obviously I'm not referencing my own wedding vows.)

3. What will life be like from now on?

I don't seem to have the patience to type out a more detailed or rational explanation of what's going on right now. Hopefully I'll get a better grasp on it all in the next few days and be able to express more eloquently what's developing.

You title it - Part One

****I thought I was doing quite well coping with the changes that have occurred in my family over the years. Turns out, all it takes is a little reminder, and I'm back where it all began. I've attempted previously to put this all down on paper, and after reading Jennifer's post yesterday, I took them out to try and finish one. After deciding they were inadequate, I started this one, and so far it's given me what I wanted. I just can't seem to come up with a title I'm happy with.****




One autumn day, during an especially grueling beet harvest, my father had a heart attack. I was in the seventh grade that year, and he was just 42. He’d been feeling some arm pain and thought it was caused by his bum shoulder, which was constantly getting dislocated. Dad's remedy for this had always been to ram his shoulder against a door frame in our house, or to use one of his seldom-used dress belts as a sling until he had time to set it back in place.

The details of how my father actually got to the hospital are a little foggy. All I know for certain is that after school that day, I met my sisters at our town's grocery store (which was owned by our maternal grandmother); where my paternal grandparents picked us up to take us to the hospital in Fargo.

When we got there, Dad was sitting up in his hospital bed, looking a little strange in his gown and mussed hair, but wearing his usual smile and joking around with us. I don't really remember how long he was there, or glimpsing any sign of fear in him, but I was old enough to realize a heart attack was serious business, no matter how minor my parents told us it was.

Once Dad was home, Mom sat my sisters and me down to talk to us about the changes that needed to take place. According to her, Dad had three strikes against him; he was a smoker, he had a very stressful job, and he ate terribly. Mom said we were all going to have to work together to try and change each of those things, and to make it a little easier for Dad to stick to them. She told us we had to start eating healthier, which would include a lot of chicken and fish, Dad was going to have to quit smoking - and she was going to try, too - and that he'd likely have to figure something else out for a career.

I couldn't imagine any of this. There are few things that stick out more clearly in my mind than my father smoking. Every morning, my sisters and I would wake up, pick out our clothes, and start the descent down the stairs of our home. Halfway down, we'd encounter a wall of smoke, created by my father as he downed a pot of coffee with his cigarettes each and every day. Sunday and Monday evenings were strictly for watching football, and I can recall many nights spent sitting on my father's lap, hearing the click of his lighter, the sizzle of tobacco and paper being sucked aflame, and the deep inhale and exhales of that putrid smoke, while the Vikings played on the television. The only thing that interrupted the up/down motion of my father's cigarette to his mouth was the up/down motion of potato chips to his mouth. Pepsi quenched his thirst, and if ever he offered me a sip, I could always taste cigarettes and salt on the rim of the can.

Suddenly, suppers consisted of baked cod, lemon pepper chicken, and steamed vegetables without butter or salt. My mother is an amazing cook, but far too often, she would get distracted from her cooking and the meat would wind up resembling fish or chicken jerky. Where was the homemade pizza? Where was the beef stroganoff? Even the milk was different! Instead of 2%, my mother was now purchasing Calci-Skim, which tasted like chalky water to my sisters and me.

During one of these uncomfortable suppers, my father told us that he was going to quit farming. He was going to sell his half of the farming operation to his brother, Kevin, and was planning to take a job at our local Case-IH dealer working in their parts department. His eyes were so sad. Farming was the only thing my father knew. But he tried to appeal to us all by telling us that this meant he'd have more regular hours. Rather than staying home to plant, combine, or repair broken machinery, he'd now be able to take us to the lake cabin more often, make it to our sports events, and be around in the evenings if we needed help with homework.

For a while, things were looking pretty promising. Dad got the job selling parts, and seemed to like it well enough. He had always been a very quiet man, so the smile we saw on his face each day was all we had for reference. He had quit smoking, he was eating the healthy meals my mother made, and his new job certainly was less stressful than farming.

My mother only lasted a few days - maybe a week - on her path to quit smoking. When my sisters and I confronted her, she said something along the lines of, "I'm not the one who needs to do it, your father is. I was just going to try with him, but I decided I'm not ready yet." And a few months down the road, we noticed that in the evenings Dad was coming up from his woodworking room in the basement smelling like cigarettes. No one said a word. We knew how much life had changed for Dad in these last months, and though we disagreed with what he was doing, we were certainly not going to tell him so. After a few weeks of this routine, however, Jessica, Danielle, and I spoke to our mother about what was going on. She told us that we should confront our father; tell him that if he loved us and wanted to live to see us grow up, that he would quit smoking for good. Danielle, the most brazen of us girls, walked up to him in the kitchen and told him just that through tear-filled eyes. My father just stared, his own eyes filling, then took her in his arms, hugged her, and told her everything would be all right.

Facing Mortality...

"Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome." ~Isaac Asimov


A friend of mine blogged about her preferences regarding the planning of her funeral. I had never really given this topic much thought. I've been to four funerals in my lifetime - a pretty small number, if you ask me. I'm not especially familiar with what's traditional, nor do I particularly care what is expected. "To each their own," as the saying goes.

The whole point of a funeral, I believe, is to gather every person who cared about you during your lifetime together, so that they may offer support to your family and to bid you farewell (sort of, I guess, since technically you're already gone). How does a person learn how to let go of a loved one, though? If you're very young, you are probably just told that Grandpa (or whomever) was taken to heaven to be with the angels. Maybe you write a little note for him and send it away with a balloon - I don't know...I'm just kind of brainstorming here. This might help a child adjust to the loss, but what about adults? I'm guessing not many of us send notes into the sky with balloons. I'm also guessing there aren't many of us who sit at their computer or pick up a pen and paper so that they can vent their feelings of grief in that form.

I have grandparents in their 80's. My husband's maternal grandparents are in pretty poor health, and my own parents are facing a tough road, as well. My mother has congestive heart failure and atrial fibrillation. My father had a heart attack in his early 40's, and just last year had a fairly serious stroke. Taking that into consideration, chances are I'll be losing my parents earlier rather than later.

So, how does a person like myself start to come to terms with loved ones' mortality? Or even my own? I've never really had to say goodbye to someone especially close to me.

I think I'm fairly realistic and accepting of my own mortality. I know someday I'll die. I don't know what I'd prefer at my own funeral. I'd just like it to be about comforting my family and friends, giving them whatever will be most helpful in moving past my death. The only aspect that I think I have issues with is the idea that I won't be around to do or see all the things I had hoped. I'd like to be around for my children's first day of kindergarten, junior high, graduation, wedding, birth of their own children, etc. To miss out on those things would be unimaginable.

I feel as though I should end this post with some sort of resolution -- something like "I guess we just live our regular lives and deal with death as it comes..." But that doesn't help me! It doesn't give me any sort of new light to shine on the topic. Other than the obvious: telling those you love how you feel about them, and appreciating each and every day you're given, I have nothing to bring forward with me. Is there anyone out there with the sort of wisdom this topic requires? Or do we all just wonder how we'll cope until the moment arrives?

In My Next Life...

In my next life, I think I'll be a lesbian.

Ok...now before you gasp in shock, I'm not meaning this literally. Rather, I have recently realized how much self-awareness and confidence it takes to live this lifestyle. Last night, when my sisters and I went out for my birthday, we ended up at Mr. G's - it was Lady's Night. My eyes have never been more open.

Out of the 75 or so people who were in attendance last night, I'd guess at least 60% of these individuals were homosexual (I'm guessing not only because I don't know for sure exactly how many people, and because how do I truly know of their sexual preference??? I'm just going by their actions and the vibes those actions gave off.). I don't frequent bars, and I can probably count the number of times on one hand that I've witnessed homosexual PDA's (public displays of affection, for those of you who aren't up on the lingo! haha).

In all honesty, the lack of testesterone in the bar last night was refreshing! I didn't have to worry about if my butt looked big in my jeans, whether I was going to get hit on and have to engage in an awkward conversation, or witness some macho guys fighting over "their woman." In addition, men have a tendency to go on the offensive when some other guy dances with "his woman," and this either results in confrontation, or an argument for the couple later on. Last night, there were couples, of course. But if one girl wanted to go dance with some other strange girl, there were no hostile words; there were no fights. Now, it's true that I don't know whether or not there were arguments between them once they left the bar, but facial expressions say a lot - and nowhere did I see a miffed girlfriend.

So, if ever I see a "How to Live Your Life Like a Lesbian" inspirational speaker, you can be sure I'll be signing up!