Scars

There are people in our lives that come, stay a while, and go. Often this leaves bittersweet memories and scars that take years to heal. I have only experienced this twice in my lifetime so far. Once with a boy, once with a friend. 

I am a firm believer in that everything happens for a reason. No person’s influence, no circumstance, no outcome is an accident. Every life experience is something to learn from, to grow my faith through, and to mold me into the woman I am becoming. I continually hope and pray that these things make me more empathetic toward others and a better wife, mother... person in general. 

Last night I engaged in a self-inflicted opening of old wounds. The boy that came and went happened to be speaking at our youth group. I debated skipping his message and showing up just for small group time with my senior girls, knowing there was a possibility of making myself upset. Turns out all my girls were busy and wouldn’t be there anyway... meaning that if I showed up for anything, it would be solely for his speaking. 

I’ve written about this boy before. Long story short, this is the one I gave a whole lot of my heart to, at a young age, and for a long, pivotal period in time. I now know that the love I had for him does not compare to the love I would eventually have for my husband Jon. But at 17-22 years old, I loved this boy with everything I had. 

After years of ups and downs, being separated by county lines and continents, this boy and I had decided to really hunker down, work things out, and be together. We both felt like it was right (again, “right” feels a whole lot different with Jon... right with a breath of peaceful, fresh air, not a constant battle out of “love”), and it was what God wanted for us. Only a few months into this decision to be together, I had a wakeup call. My love was leaving me again... this time across the country to New York. It was the last straw for me, and it felt like my back was breaking. All it took was a ten minute phone call from California to upstate New York one October night in 2004 for us to tearfully realize we were not right... and we were not going to happen. 

Having never experienced anything worse, and being 22 years old, I actually felt like my life was over. The world as I knew it was ending, and I truly didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself. The boy and I had made plans. Big time, life-changing plans for well into the future. What would I do now?

Days turned into months, which miraculously turned into years. We both went on with our lives, followed paths that led us to our significant others, both of whom are perfectly and wonderfully suited for each of us. We both have children, bringing an even greater joy than I could have possibly imagined for myself. This boy and I are exquisitely happy where we are. 

There’s something that happens to a human when they make a connection with another human. Mentally, physically, spiritually... it doesn’t matter if it’s one or all of these. When this happens, you carry a piece of that person with you for the rest of your life. And in many cases, like this one, the other person carries a little piece of you with them for life as well. This is where the bittersweetness comes in.

Over the years the boy and his family have lived in many places. Sometimes it’s right here in his hometown, sometimes it’s in another state or country. But because of the piece of me that he’s taken with him, every time I hear others talk about him, every time I see him in person, a flood of different emotions wash over me. From amusement to annoyance, relief to uneasiness, and even joy to anger. Some people would argue that I’m still holding this particular person and situation too tightly and I need to just get over it and let it go. I would argue that certain people, especially when they were at one time such a significant part of our life and one of the ones who knew us best, can elicit such a dramatic range of feelings whether we’ve “let it go” or not. 

Last night I sat, uncomfortably at first, in the back of the room with my best friend, who showed up for moral support, waiting anxiously for the boy to start speaking. In all honesty, I was intrigued. He spoke of things I knew about and things I didn’t. He has the same sense of humor and intentional awkwardness he’s always had, but along with that he now has life experience and maturity. The ego and insecurity I knew has morphed into a humbler and peaceful man. I gained more respect for him as I sat and listened to his journey over the last thirteen years. Years I was a part of and years that I wasn’t. 

As pictures came up on the screen, I recognized certain photos of him from a time in my own life when I had poured myself and my heart into caring about, loving, and praying for him. This is when the pangs began.

Along with the range of emotions people and memories can drum up in us, sometimes we have actual physical reactions. Looking at old pictures elicited fluttering pangs of anxiousness in my stomach. At one point in telling his story, I not only felt like he was talking about me, but that he was talking to me. This was the most painful part of the night. I immediately felt all the blood in my body rising up to my face. I started sweating like I was sitting in front of a blazing bonfire, and I felt nauseous. I was nervous that tears of anger would start involuntarily rolling out of my ducts, but as I stared at the floor and listened, uncomfortably burning up, I allowed myself to realize that everything he said was true. Knowing him, he was not intentionally speaking directly about or to me, but simply telling his story, which I happen to be a small part of. 

I knowingly put myself in the position I was in, and I knew exactly what kinds of feelings it would stir in me. While I don’t regret attending his message and intentionally seeing him up close and personal, even as I sit and write this, my stomach is full of the butterfly pangs. The physical reminders of a time in my life that will never leave me, a person I will never stop caring for, and the strength I have obtained by living through it all. 

The reason for writing down what happened last night is mostly therapeutic for me. But it will hopefully someday serve as a mother-to-daughter lesson for my precious girls. I am desperate for them to love without fear, and to embrace the paths set out for them. Every person Kealani Joy and Leila Jane meet, and every situation they encounter can make them stronger, if they let it. 

I also want them to know that when things don’t go the way they think they want, there is always something better on the other side. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the life I am living now, with Jon, Kealani, and Leila, is exactly the life I am supposed to be living, and exactly the life I want to be living. I love every aspect of it and am so thankful for all three of them that some days I actually cry because I am so overwhelmed by my blessings. 

Mr., KK, and Bobo, I love you.

The Insane Asylum

I went to college in Santa Barbara. This didn't stop me from making a fairly regular trip up the 101, since I had a boyfriend back home, along with some of my best and most immature (i.e. "entertaining") friends. Lynnea likes to say that I came home every weekend, but I can assure you that in the three and a half years I spent at Westmont, I did stay and manage to get some work done (or tan myself) while I was there.

My group of hometown friends was a collection of mostly boys, Lynnea, the occasional other girl, and me. When you put a large group of 18- to 22-year-old boys, and girls who act like boys, together, you get mayhem. Every time.

One particular fall, this group had managed to discover that there was an abandoned insane asylum just sitting on a hill in San Luis Obispo. We believed this meant the building was asking for us to break into it. Even if that's not what it meant, it's what we did.

Creepy even in broad daylight

The gang had already done this a couple times before I was able to come up and join in the criminal activity. One Friday night, I tagged along as our caravan drove discreetly up the hill with our headlights off. We proceeded to hike up a hill, around the back of the building, climb a fence that butted up against the wall, and hop onto the roof. This is where it gets very sketchy. And illegal. (I believe we'd already entered the trespassing zone, but being found inside the building could not have been played off very well.)

As the last of our group was pulled up onto the roof, one of the boys pulled out the screwdriver he'd brought for the occasion. There was a board crudely screwed onto a few-feet-square hole, on the flat, plank-like roof on which we all stood. Once the board was removed, someone (a boy) had to descend into the hole, scale a crumbling, inches-wide mantel (apparently our entry point was right above a once-cozy living area with a fireplace), and shimmy down to the floor; then help every other person jump-climb into the room with him.

My first night exploring this deserted, skeleton of a place, once populated with what I could only imagine were people just like Jack Nicholson's character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, was frightening. I don't do scary movies. My imagination just doesn't allow me to forget the scenes burned into my brain when I see horrific things. I can't even really handle scary books, since what my imagination conjures is sometimes worse than movies. Tip-toeing around this place was a real-life scary movie. We were asking to be brutally murdered. (Or at the very least asking to get asbestos poisoning... there were signs all over the place.)

The tiny rooms were beyond creepy, and picturing the people who were locked in them years ago with blank stares and the glowing insanity seeping out of them was almost too much for me. Each cell had a tiny opening that we assumed had been used to push food through. We even "toured" the basement, which required us to bend over and crouch-walk through the dank, musty darkness, struggling to see one step in front of us as the first person in line shone their weak flashlight ahead. Our group mostly stayed together, which made the settling-house creaks even more terrifying, since the only explanation was that the spirits of psychotic mental patients were prowling around the floors above us.

After skulking through the halls of this ancient house-of-crazy for a couple hours, our party made its way back to the Living Room and each person got pushed up through the roof, leaving the last person to climb like a monkey back out of the hole. The board was carefully positioned and screwed back into place.

It took a few more hours and good night's sleep for the spooky to wear off. It honestly felt like I was wearing creepy as a second skin.

*                    *                    *

The next day, three of the "core" boys in our posse of delinquents came up with an epic plan... It was simple: Jon (yes, the man I married), Mitch, and Abel (on again/off again boyfriend -- off at the time) were going to scare the BAJEEZUS out of the rest of us. We had agreed to return to the asylum that night, the second night in a row, and bring a few people who hadn't seen it yet. This included Lynnea's older cousin, Robby, one of his friends, and our friend Cory. 

The boys would go to the asylum earlier in the day, paint one entire room (even the ceiling!) red, then come back with us that night, acting as if they had no clue how the room turned red in the 24 hours since our last visit. An added bonus: Abel would stay in SLO, and be inside the asylum before the rest of us showed up. We were to believe that he was "meeting us there later". His job, when he saw us walking up the path to the building, was to flicker a flashlight in one of the top floor rooms. 

To this day none of us can quite remember how each of us found out, but by the time we arrived at the asylum that night, the only people who didn't know about the plan were Robby and his friend, and Cory. Somehow the boys had let it slip to Nae and me, and word passed around to everyone except the three unknowing boys. All I can say is that it's a good thing I did know about Scare Our Closest Friends Into Insanity 2002, because even though I did know, I almost wet myself on multiple occasions.

*                    *                    *

We arrived at the asylum, and it was a perfect autumn night. Clouds blowing across the sky, alternately covering the moon, then allowing it to illuminate the asylum, casting demonic shadows as we crunched up the gravel path. The air was crisp, and crackling with excitement as we waited to see how the plan would unfold.

Right on cue, as we stood about fifty yards away, a light began flickering in one of the topmost windows. For good measure, one of us "in the know" said, "Uh... there's a light flashing up there." Everyone slowly turned their heads up toward the window. I was thoroughly creeped out, despite knowing exactly who was in there. Robby, obviously full of the heebie jeebies himself, exclaimed, "What the hell?" We all watched, some in mock, some in real horror, as the light continued to flicker, as if a fuse was shorting out. "Is there someone in there???" Robby was in the deliriously terrified phase, half laughing, half wanting to bolt back down the hill before a demon came down to snatch him into the hell house. 

THUD. Rocks started whizzing past us. Not close enough to hit anyone, but close enough to hear, and close enough to recognize that they were coming from the same top window. I thought, nice touch, as Robby let his alpha male take over and yelled, "Dude, if there's someone in there, I'm going to WRECK YOU!" Boys overcome fear by pretending to be tougher than the unknown source of horror. 

We stood in a huddle, trying to "decide" if we were brave enough to enter the place this time. All of a sudden, Abel walked up behind us, having come up the hill by the same gravel road we had. "Hey guys, what's going on?" The flickering and rock tossing had barely just ended... this guy was good. 

"Dude, there's someone in there!" Robby yelled. "Wait... where'd you come from?" 

"I just got here," Abel replied coolly, as the rest of us backed up his story that he'd come from the parking area, just in case. 

We stood in front of the house a bit longer, "waiting" for the haunting to continue, but when nothing else happened, the boys decided it was time to proceed. A few of them went around the back to get ready to climb the fence, and the rest of us slowly started trickling behind them. It was when Nae and I were passing the barred windows to the basement on the way around the house that my blood ran cold and my heart dropped into my stomach. A knocking sound was coming from underneath the house. This wasn't an older-than-dirt-house-settling creak, it was knocking. Nae and I looked at each other with true panic on our faces and raced around the corner to catch up with the boys. As I scanned our crowd, accounting for each person supposed to be with us, I froze. Everyone was here. Right here, in front of us. 

Not wanting to sound like the only girls in the group, that we were, Nae and I joined the males as we all jumped through the hole into the living room once again, trying to forget the sound we'd heard and what it could mean. Mitch, Abel, and Jon began the tour, showing Robby and the other newbies the place, as if they lived there. They took their sweet time, wanting the suspense to build before we finally came to The Red Room. 

"Guys... this room is RED." We enlightened ones looked into each others faces in shock (at this point I was in actual shock because the knocking I'd heard down below would not leave my consciousness). "Dude, we were just here last night... there was no red room." Mitch let the silence fall hard and heavy.

Robby's toughness took over again as he yelled, "IS THERE SOMEONE IN HERE??? COME OUT, I'LL KICK YOUR ASS!!"

As he and his friend began running up and down the halls, yelling and beating their chests like gorillas, I had to choose between stifling my laughter and my screams. The air felt thick to me, like there truly was a presence other than our own in that hallway. Each time one of the boys yelled, I squealed and grabbed Jon's arm, even though I knew the origin of The Red Room. I could not shake the memory of the unaccounted for sound beneath the house, and the feeling that something evil was in the building with us.

One of many rooms we wandered through.

Finally, one of the boys decided it was time to get out. We made our way back to the fireplace quickly, sometimes pushing another person out of the way, not a one of us wanting to be the last in line, as we filed back up through the hole, jumped down the fence, and ran back around the house. Our blood pressure returned to normal, and our adrenaline rushes morphed into hunger, so we did what all hungry college kids do: bolted to Taco Bell. 

Once we had returned to civilization, as we ordered our food and sat around in the awful florescent lighting that defines Taco Bell, I started to feel normal again. The air had thinned back out, and the heavy presence I sensed inside the asylum was gone. Halfway through our meal, something caught Cory's attention on the floor. 

"Abel. What's on your shoe?" 

We all glanced down and the table went silent. There, accusingly caked on the side of Abel's shoe, was a streak of red paint. 

A shadow of recognition darkened over Cory's face. The rest of us glanced around the circle, smirks threatening to fight their way onto our current masks of ignorance. Robby, appreciative of our elaborate prank, started cracking up, but Cory, with a look of death, only had one thing to say to us. 

"I hate you guys." 

Upon scanning the Internet for pictures of the asylum, I discovered that the brick building, built in the 20s,  may have at different times been an asylum, an orphanage ("Sunny Acres"), a juvenile detention center, and/or a TB clinic... different people have different information. One thing stuck out in my reading: most people who have been there believe it's haunted. 

The Art of Making People: Leila Jane ~ December 14, 2011

My pregnancy with Leila was very similar to Kealani's: healthy, smooth, and uneventful. Everything hurt more, from muscles I'd forgotten I had to simple movements like bending to pick up Kealani's toys or rolling over in bed. My doctor told me that it's common to be more sore because everything has already been stretched out, as opposed to a first pregnancy in which your body tries to remain in tact... muscles attempt to stay taught, your parts try to hold the baby in... not so the second time around (it felt like Leila was going to fall out of me from as early as three months, and I constantly felt like I'd been kicked in the junk).

I think every pregnant woman reaches a point in the pregnancy where they start to think "Ok, if he/she comes today, that'll be totally fine." This usually happens around 37 weeks, when the baby is officially full term, and the mother has bowling-ball-between-the-legs syndrome, shooting pain in her back, can't sleep or breathe, and just wants to meet the little scoundrel that has been causing this agony for months. For me that came even earlier this time around because of our December due date. The earlier Leila showed up, the farther away from Christmas her birthday would be.

So when my doctor asked if I wanted her to "speed things al- 'YES PLEASE!!' -ong" at my Monday appointment the week of Leila's due date, I did not hesitate. She stripped my membranes (a disgusting term for an equally disgusting procedure: separating the bag of water from the side of the uterus to induce labor), told me to be ready since labor would probably start within 48 hours, and sent me on my way.

I started having painful contractions a mere four hours later, but they were still up to a half hour apart, which is nothing to get excited about. I went for the longest walk of my third trimester, from our house to the bike shop to visit Jon, stopping along the way to catch my breath during the sporadic contractions. That night I hardly slept, due in part to pain, and part to anxiousness over the possibility of Leila coming any time now.

That night and the next day passed, and I was still experiencing painful contractions that refused to get any closer together. (Sidenote: the way my body felt a few hours after the membrane strippage, along with the pain of the contractions, matched the level of pain I felt when I WENT TO THE HOSPITAL with Kealani... so I was hurting for a good 40 hours before I knew she was really coming.) Tuesday night around dinner time, that slowly started changing and I desperately hoped this meant I would not be pregnant by the next day. We ate dinner, followed Kealani's bedtime routine, watched some TV, and Jon dozed off around ten. I didn't go to bed because the contractions were less than ten minutes apart and I knew I would never be able to sleep. Finally, at 2:00 am Wednesday morning, when the contractions were coming every three to five minutes and I'd spent an hour taking laps around our house, I decided to wake Jon up. We took our time, knowing I could still have hours to go. I took a shower, while Jon put the carseat in the car and got our bags together. We waited until the last possible minute to wake Kealani up. She woke up confused and groggy, but quickly became enthusiastic about play time in the middle of the night.

We made our way over the Grade in some of the densest fog I've ever seen, dropped K off at Nana and Poppa's, and headed to Twin Cities. After checking in, getting arranged in the delivery room, and hoping to God that I was somehow already dilated 7 centimeters, I got checked by a nurse and a nurse in training. I was only 3 cm, and supposedly my contractions weren't "all that close together" yet. (A very dangerous suggestion for this cutesy nurse to be making at the time, as I pictured myself clawing her eyes out and snapping her neck with my bare hands.) I took a stroll around the maternity floor for about an hour, just like I did with Kealani, and came back to find I'd only progressed about a 1/2 centimeter.

This is when the bad news came: our nurse said they were debating keeping me. I was on the fence between possibly being in labor for another day (sweet Jesus, please don't let me feel this pain for another day), and possibly having this baby in a few hours since my first labor was so "fast". (Sister, I know girls who barely made it to the hospital in time for someone to catch their baby... 14 hours isn't fast.)

I didn't want to hang out in the hospital if Leila wasn't coming for another 20 hours, but I also didn't want to leave and hang out at home in as much pain as I was in. After consulting the on-call doctor, it was decided that I would stay until my doctor came on call at 8:00 am. It was 5:00 am. Yay for not going home, NOOOOOOOO for waiting three hours before they finally decided if I could be officially admitted.

During the wait time I got to try out the hot tub, take another stroll, and then just sit in my bed as the pain grew more and more intense.

Finally, at about 7:30 am, my nurses came to tell me that I was being admitted and that I was going to have this baby pretty soon.

Now, I should probably mention that just like last time, I'd decided to go "as long as I could" without medication. This time I had more motivation (and was somewhat required to wait, since they wouldn't administer an epidural if I wasn't actually admitted into the hospital yet). I felt that since I'd been through childbirth before, I knew better what to expect, and was hoping that not taking meds would speed things along. I'll never know if it actually helped, but I do know this: back in Kealani's story when I mentioned thinking that my epidural had worn off by the time I had to push her out? No. It. Hadn't.

Back then, the contractions I started to feel, and pushing Kealani out of me was the worst pain I'd ever experienced, leading me to believe I was doing the end part au naturel. This is no exaggeration: that pain was nothing compared to the pain of the contractions I started feeling once Dr. Stanislaus came in and broke my water. (Remember, they broke my water last time, but I didn't feel a thing... this time I felt the crampy discomfort of the breaking, the rush of water that made me feel like I'd lost control of three different bladders, and the body-breaking-in-half, midsection-wracking pain that contractions truly bring on when you're not taking anything to relieve them.) I should have known when she finished sopping up my "water" (more like blood and guts) and said, "things are going to get intense now," before breezing out of the room. Wench.

At this point I lost track of time. Before my water broke, I'd been texting updates to my family and friends, making conversation with Jon, and laughing it up with my nurses in between contractions. Now they were too close together and too excruciating to do anything but grip the side of the bed (or Jon's arms) and try to survive each one. I consider myself to have a high pain tolerance, and I don't enjoy letting others see the pain I do feel, be it physical or emotional. Even my own husband. Leave it to the end stage of labor to take me from gallantly trying to keep my poker face and laugh through the pain, to whimpering into my pillow while tears involuntarily rolled down my burning face. All as my poor, defenseless husband watched on in distress, knowing there was nothing he could do to take me out of the anguish he was witnessing. (I'll refrain from making the tired joke that he's the one who got me in this crisis to being with!!! Nevermind, I just did.)

Leila decided she wanted to "mosey" down the pipes instead of "drop"... the term "drop", to me, connotes speed, since when I drop valuable things, the speed and force with which they hit the ground is often damaging. Leila seemed to think "drop" meant to stop and smell the uterus lining on her apathetic journey out of my lady parts. This led the nurses to suggest I stand up and rock from one foot to the other to allow gravity to help me drop this kid. Any movement infinitely magnified the pain, so I didn't last long doing this. The only "comfortable" (HA!) position I found was sitting straight up in my bed. After sitting back down, it was only minutes before one of my RNs rushed in and told me I needed to immediately switch positions to my side. According to the monitor, she thought my current position was squeezing the umbilical cord, obviously not an ideal situation. Unfortunately my side had proven to be the least comfortable position for me, and it was here that I was reduced to tears. I'm guessing there aren't very many ways to die that are more painful than labor. There are times you truly feel like you could be dying, and even begin to think, wouldn't death be nice?

Finally, Leila got into position and it was time to push. This was similar to my first time, just more painful, as I could feel each one of her movements, as well as the burning that nurses like to call the "ring of fire". (I'll let you imagine what that could mean.) Much like our first time, I could tell how close I was getting to being done by Jon's face. When he could see Leila's fuzzy little head, his eyes lit up and he encouraged me with, "Push, push, push, she's almost here!" With the last push, that familiar, sweet relief washed over me as the team quickly laid my angelic daughter on my chest and she greeted me with her screams. It was 11:35 am. Jon cut the cord, but this time they allowed me to hold Leila, skin-to-skin, for almost two full hours before cleaning her up and taking her measurements. (I got to hold Kealani on my chest, but they took her back after a few minutes to get her spiffed up.)

I will always remember that time. The time I got to spend bonding with my newly born, second beautiful girl as we took each other in, and Leila eventually dozing off peacefully on my contentedly rising and falling chest. I couldn't believe I'd been allowed to feel this joy again. To experience the emotions that come with seeing something I created with my teammate in life, and my love, Jon, for the first time again.

In the months before she came, I'd spent time pondering how I could possibly love another tiny human even half as much as I loved Kealani. I somehow didn't think there would be any room for another little girl soaking up my attention, energy, teaching, love, and joy.

Now, at only ten weeks old, I can't imagine life without Leila. She completes our family in a way I never could have predicted. Kealani is an unbelievably sweet, sensitive, and helpful big sister, and Leila is just as happy and relaxed a baby as K was. Our family feels full now. My girls are my greatest accomplishment, the things I am most proud of in my life.

The best things I have ever done.

Leila Jane

Leila & Kealani: 10 weeks and 3 years

The Art of Making People: Kealani Joy ~ February 16, 2009

My pregnancy with Kealani was relatively uneventful. Other than a short bout with sciatica at 7 months that left me unable to walk without extreme back pain for two weeks, it wasn't a major deal. (To read my thoughts on pregnancy in general, see Things No One Tells You About Becoming a Mom.) At the end I was anxious to meet this little human, and to go back to not feeling like an alien was inhabiting my uterus.

The evening of Sunday, February 15th, Jon and I were with our good friends Lynnea, Jen, and Brady. Valentine's Day had been my due date, so any miniscule sign that K was coming tended to make me want to rush to the hospital and bribe anyone present to get her out of me. I was having uncomfortable contractions, but they were no where near predictable, and I didn't feel any pain, so I tried not to get excited.

We made the obligatory nothing-better-to-do-on-a-Sunday-night-in-Templeton trip to Target and walked around, finding things to buy that we didn't need. While taking laps, I started having contractions that forced me to actually stop and catch my breath. We indifferently finished our shopping and headed back to our house.

My contractions kept coming, and though I knew they weren't close enough together, I couldn't help but think that Kealani was going to make her appearance sooner than later. Jen and Lynnea decided it would be a good time to learn the Soulja Boy dance and proceeded to Youtube the song and study the choreography. (Fun fact: Auntie Nae was wearing her Edward Cullen shirt because yes... she's just that hip.) I started writing down the time each contraction came, excitement building as I noticed they were finally getting closer together. After watching Black Sheep (or some other ridiculous Chris Farley movie), our friends decided it was time to go. They told us to let them know if anything else happened, and maybe they'd see us at the hospital tomorrow.

It was 9:00 pm when I told Jon I thought we should head to the hospital. The contractions were about five minutes apart, and painful enough that I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. We casually gathered our things and made our way downstairs. (No water breaking, panicking, or speeding to the hospital like in the movies... it's not our style anyway.)

Jon drove the mile and a half to Twin Cities Community Hospital while I cursed the speed bumps on Santa Rita as we seemed to hit one every time I was having a contraction. (Yes, it's one of two roads in Templeton with speed bumps... the route Jon chose.)

When we got there, I wasn't dilated very much so the nurse told me to walk around the floor for about an hour, and they'd check me again to see if I had progressed at all. One of my fears was being sent home, especially feeling the way I did... if I'm in this much pain now and they tell me to come back later, I think I will have Jon run me over in the parking lot.


Thankfully I progressed a couple centimeters by the end of my stroll (which felt like a marathon, pausing every couple minutes to grab Jon or the handrail attached to the wall as my contractions strengthened) and I was officially admitted around 10:30 pm. We got "comfortable" in our room, I climbed into the bed, arranging my sexy backless tent into a more flattering position, and we waited.

I went into this labor wanting to "go as long as I could" (hoping it would end up being the entire time) without asking for any medications. I lasted about an hour before I asked for the first round: intravenous narcotics, which are less invasive (i.e. paralyzing) than an epidural and supposedly "take the edge off". I believe it was close to another hour before I thought to myself, you have nothing to prove! You love to sleep! You WILL NOT sleep unless you take MORE DRUGS! And I asked for an epidural. Asking for an epidural does not mean you will get one in the near future. The anesthesiologist needs to be called, jarred from his REM cycle in the middle of the night, then he needs to show up, then he needs to be able to effectively insert the giant needle into your spine. So another hour later, after two stabbings into my back, amidst ever intensifying contractions, I felt sweet relief (numbness) and was actually able to sleep until 7:00 am!

Jon and I woke up to an incredibly stormy day, rain pounding on the windows of the hospital room. This made me somehow feel better, knowing I would have been trapped inside all day whether I was in labor or not. We watched some terrible morning shows, ate some terrible "breakfast", and continued to wait. Some family and friends were even able to come in and hang out with us for short periods. (Hey, when you can't feel your contractions, you can be jolly and welcoming instead of demonic and filled with rage.)

It was during one of these visits, in the middle of my labor, we learned that on Jesse and Moriah's way to the hospital (in the middle of the night when they heard Kealani was on her way... what dedication!), Moriah had hit a raccoon on the freeway and it had actually done some legitimate damage to her car. Funny at the time? To Moriah, no; to us, kinda. Funny now? Definitely. 

At some point mid-morning, a nurse came to check my progress and it was discovered that I had been stuck at 7 centimeters for quite a while. The on-call doctor, Dr. Thomas, came in to talk to me about my options. He told me that I could wait it out to see if I progressed any further, but also that they wouldn't let me wait forever, and there was a good chance that I'd end up needing a C-section anyway. I was ready to get this kid out of me... I was starting to feel the contractions again, which were plenty painful, and I didn't want to go several more hours just to wind up having the surgery in the end. Jon and I decided to get the ball rolling on the C-section.

Apparently nothing happens quickly in the hospital unless there's a true emergency, or your baby decides to shoot out before anyone is ready to catch it. It took almost an hour for the nurse to come in with the paperwork I was required to fill out and sign before they would cut me open. Shortly after I completed everything, Jon and I were the only ones in the room, and I suddenly started having the most intense contractions yet, along with the feeling that I was pooping the bed. (If you can't live without more details on that, read Things No One Tells You About Becoming a Mom. I dare you.)

When our nurse returned, most likely to wheel me into surgery, I told her what I was feeling, and she said, "Oh, then you might be ready to push!" It seemed our little girl already had a mind of her own, and after hours of taking her sweet time, she wanted out right now. Dr. Thomas came in soon after that, and began making preparations. This is when every contraction really started to hurt. I assumed my epidural had worn off completely. It was the only explanation as to why I would now be in so much pain after being able to labor in my sleep all night long. (In giving birth to Leila without meds, I learned that no... my epidural had absolutely not worn off... more on that in her story.)

I was instructed to grab my own legs, right under the knees, with Jon on one side, a nurse on the other. Every time a contraction came, I pushed (which feels like trying to take a huge, painful dump). Each push was held for ten seconds, and I had to do this three times for each contraction. Kealani was slowly making her way down and out, but eventually Dr. Thomas decided the vacuum was needed. After an hour of pushing, one more contraction, and some suction, at 12:37 p.m., Kealani was born!

Someone immediately placed her on my chest, and she looked up at me, her eyes wide open. I couldn't believe I was finally making eye contact with the tiny human that I had only felt from the inside for so many months. Kealani Joy was 8 lbs 14 oz, and a very tall 23 inches (that height thanks in part to Daddy, and in part to the extra-pronounced cone head due to being vacuumed out of me... at her one week check up she was only 22 inches).

Nothing compares to the experience of giving birth. It's physical, emotional, spiritual, and completely different for each mother. For me it brought relief, joy, thankfulness, a new fear of our cruel world, an understanding of my parents I'd never known before, and a love so huge that it took a couple weeks to recognize it. Most importantly, it brought my first daughter, Kealani... the tiny human that Jon and I made together, and have vowed to be examples of faith and love to for the rest of our lives.

Kealani Joy

The Art of Making People

The next couple stories I plan on writing may take me longer than normal (I know, how is that possible since I consistently take 2-3 months to post a new one?)... I'll probably end up writing bits and pieces of them when both my baby girls are sleeping, or at the very least quiet. So yeah, it may take a while.

I decided that writing down both of the girls' birth stories would be fun for me. Having Leila three weeks ago made Kealani's birth come flying back into my always-hazy/forgetful/straight-up-unaware consciousness. I also figured it could be fun for them to, in the future, read a detailed account of their entrance to the world... rather than asking their 40-something mother what it was like twelve years after I've already completely blocked out the trauma.

I realize birth stories can be boring. I apologize in advance if you read them thinking they might be as entertaining as 16 and Pregnant and I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant (the drama!... the ignorance!). This is to help my Old, Future Self to remember. And for my girls.

Some day, some month, some date, 2025...

Me: Kealani, Leila, do you want to read about the days you were born?

Leila & Kealani:

Things No One Tells You About Becoming a Mom

My second daughter's arrival is right around the corner. This means that labor, childbirth, poop, sleeplessness, and countless other things that go with motherhood (specifically newborns) have been filling my already foggy pregnant brain. Something I realized last time I went through this is that there are things that people just don't tell you.

I think some of these things are straight up gross, so they are rude to discuss over a meal; some pass so quickly that experienced young moms forget to share them with their friends before it's their turn to experience them (leaving the newbies to wonder "WTF? A head's up would have been nice."); and some might just be so embarrassing that no mom would ever share them. Ever. Not even to save a close family member or friend's own embarrassment/feelings of utter inadequacy. No matter who your friends are or what books and websites you read, your experience will not be like any other mother's. But here I intend to list some of the things that caught me a little off guard.

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1. Being pregnant is not fun. 

There are women out there who claim that they enjoy being pregnant so much that they wouldn't mind being with child all the time. I've even heard someone say they'd rather be pregnant than have the actual kid. (Wow.) I say more power to you, girls. But for me personally: constantly feeling like I'm going to retch all my internal organs out with no relief for weeks on end; getting punched and kicked from the inside; being in pain, exhausted, and uncomfortable all the time (especially at the end); feeling like my privates have had a car battery dropped on them when I move too suddenly; and handing over my body, independence, and physical activity to a few-pounds ball of human I'm trying to grow... just isn't my idea of a good time.

I hate to sound like a complainer. The end result of being pregnant is so mind-blowingly worth any and all of the things I've listed. Both of my pregnancies have been normal, uneventful, and as comfortable as can be (which makes me shudder to think about the poor women who have complications or are put on bedrest). But even as "easy" as pregnancy is for me, I don't like it. I'm selfish and I want my body back. Now.

2. You don't get your body back after Baby is born.


This one is pretty common sense, but I think the first time around I was so relieved that I wasn't pregnant anymore, I didn't quite understand that my body wasn't all of a sudden going to be "mine" again. Feeding a newborn around the clock prevents that pretty effectively. Feeling like you've been run over by a truck, wearing a pad the size of a decorative pillow because you'll be bleeding for about six weeks, treating your hemorrhoids, and running on a fraction of your desired sleep makes it hard to pamper yourself and "get back into shape" right away. (And I haven't even done it with an extra toddler running around yet. This will be fun.)

3. Part of labor is feeling like you are pooping yourself.


My doctor was ready to give me a c-section after I remained dilated at 7 cm for too long without progressing. While the nurses were dealing with my finished paperwork and getting ready to wheel me into another room for surgery, I suddenly had to ask Jon one question, "Am I pooping? Right now? It feels like I am pooping." After checking (what a great guy) and letting a nurse know, we learned that my body was telling me that Kealani was coming and it was time to push. This time I'll know it's almost over when I feel like I'm involuntarily taking a dump on the table.

4. You will instantly feel sorry for all the BS you put your mom through. I mean it, like instantly after childbirth.


The way you feel about your kid after she's born is indescribable, so I won't try. What I never realized is that I'd all at once feel dangerously protective of my baby while also feeling guilty about making my mom worry about me as much as I must have. Moms worry. I won't stop worrying now until I'm dead. That feeling is something that can't be explained, but I appreciated my mom (and dad) on a new level, and will most definitely continue to as my girls pass through each stage of life. (God help me through the teenage years.)

5. If breastfeeding was used as a form of torture to obtain information, all governments would know everything they need to know. At all times.


I'd read up on breastfeeding, had friends and my own mom who had experienced it, and always planned to attempt it. I was still rather unprepared for the pain. I think it goes under the category of passing so quickly that no one remembers to relay the tidbit "breastfeeding sucks so bad there will be times you wish you were dead" to their friends. It makes complete and total sense. Take a body part that is uber sensitive, latch a living thing onto it, and let it suck as hard as it can for hours on end. This will cause said body part high levels of pain.

Most reading materials and other moms told me this pain should only last a week or two. For me it lasted eight full weeks. There were times the sound of my daughter stirring, meaning she would be ready for a meal within minutes, made me cry. I truly thought I was mommy-handicapped because if it still hurt, I must be doing it wrong, right?? No, I was doing it right. So was my daughter.

Praise the Lord the pain eventually completely subsided. Like, I could pop her little face onto my boob, carry on a conversation, and/or build a model airplane while she nourished herself, and I hardly remembered she was there. Just a little encouragement for anyone who goes through this in the future: if you really want to breastfeed, and keep breastfeeding, the pain will go away. As long as there are no medical conditions, problems with milk production, or issues with your baby's latching/suckling reflexes, you're good to go.

If you want to prepare yourself ahead of time, follow these simple steps: Rub down your nipples with a square of extra course grit sandpaper, as hard as you can. Take a razor blade and add some cuts here and there, making sure there's plenty of bleeding. Apply rubbing alcohol with a shot of Listerine. Next, try to find a bra, t-shirt, or any other piece of apparel that you can wear without causing friction between said article of clothing and nipples. Do NOT sleep on your stomach. Repeat 6 - 12 times per day. Good luck.


6. Moms can be super judgmental of each other.

Hey, we're women. We judge, gossip, and hate on others for no apparent reason. It's not something to be proud of. But with my first kid I realized how much competition there is between new moms and moms with similar aged kids. Even the ones with kids in the next stage make comments like, "Oh, you think it's hard now, wait until...", and I've heard "well, you're lucky you have a girl..." more times than I have fingers.

Here's the deal. Being a mom is hard. The career of raising a human being does not receive pay, vacations, or breaks. You are ingrained with the "mother instinct" immediately after giving birth. It doesn't matter what your kid's temperament, stage, energy level, age, or gender is. Young moms are all doing it for the first time, and it's hard. There's no right way, and every child, parent, and family are different. There's no need to compete. If we're doing our best and our kids grow into somewhat productive members of society with good values and a sense of responsibility, we all "win".

7. Your kid will probably fall on its head. More than once. Whether you tell other people is entirely up to you.


As if being a new parent isn't hard enough... there are accidents. Plenty of them. Feeling inadequate rises to a new degree when you turn your back for 1/16 of a second and your kid falls on her head. God made babies' bodies very bendable and they heal lightening fast. This is because He also made moms, and knew how out of it we would be sometimes.

8. When you're pregnant the second time (and I imagine every time after that), you pee yourself. 
    Often.


When those muscles have been stretched by childbirth once already, and now there's a new baby resting right on top of them, they don't work very well. I pee when I laugh, sneeze, cough, and exist. After I finish peeing on the toilet, no matter how long I sit there to make sure I am fully drained, within one minute of standing up, a few more drops WILL come out. I lean forward, backward, wiggle a little, but it never fails. I take the necessary precautions, but that doesn't mean it's not gross.

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I'm sure there are many more things that would be nice for future moms to know (I may add them as I think of them)... and really society. There are plenty of "complainers" out there who make the symptoms of pregnancy/motherhood more obvious to outsiders, but they don't represent all of us.

The only times I get peeved are when there's a "what does she do all day" attitude toward my job, or someone makes me feel like I'm lazy for not wanting to move much in this stage of pregnancy. But all I have to do is take a look at my gorgeous little girl and none of that matters. All I do is for her, and her little sister to come, and they deserve it. I love being a mom.

The First Apartment

Due to the exciting upcoming addition to the Richert household in December, I've been out of commission in the writing department... apparently for almost three months. Oops. While I used to use Kealani's nap time to write my stories, lately I've been using it to sit like a blob on the sofa, stare into space, take a nap myself, or, in the early stages of pregnancy, try not to vomit. 

But I'm back! And I'll try to be better this time. We'll see how long I can stick to that when Baby #2 comes along.

Our family will be moving into a new-to-us rental house with room for four in San Luis next month. It will only be the third place Jon and I have lived in together, and second since Kealani was born. This has gotten me all nostalgic... it has also brought up some charming memories of our very first apartment, along with the Moving Out Experience.

  Our first living room... don't worry, we added 
in vogue decor later... and yes, that's a bike rack.

Our first place was a typical young-marrieds' first apartment. Cheap and sketchy. Our actual complex wasn't necessarily sketchy, nor the townhouse-style apartment. But the area, on South El Camino in Atascadero, saw its fair share of nutcases and police cars. We loved it because we lived there together.  We hated it because we shared walls with strangers, paid to do our laundry, and had super classy neighbors.

There was the family across the lawn from us: a bilingual young couple with an out-of-control toddler boy who enjoyed playing handball against our wall (the upside to living on the end of the row). These people managed to own three nice cars and park all of them in our parking lot despite the one-space-per-apartment rule. They probably could have lived in a two story house in north A-town if they'd sold a couple of their automobiles. To each their own.

Next, the old man with his mail-order Filipina bride and their much sweeter and quieter toddler boy. The only time I saw her was in the laundry room, and she was pleasant enough. Just too young. For a sixty-five-year-old man.

My personal favorites moved in about six months after we did. This couple was, for lack of a better term... white trash. Friendly as can be, just... well, you know. I would arrive home after long days of substitute teaching, and eventually full-time teaching that included a wonderful commute from King City, to find both of them standing or sitting on my porch drinking matching cans of Bud Light. Now, when I was substituting locally, I got home around 3:30. Every day. I found them on my porch with their brewskies at 3:30 every day. Because they chose to park themselves in my business, I found myself politely nodding with a "hello", entering my home, and keeping my shades drawn. I hate artificial light. But Joe Dirt and his wifey were hanging out right outside my window, so there was only one logical choice. It got even better as we watched Mrs. Dirt during her two, very consecutive pregnancies not only continue her daily Bud Light tradition, but smoke several cigarettes as well. Thank God their two adorable (how did that happen?) little girls turned out okay. I wonder what ADHD medication they'll be on when they're in my dad's 3rd grade class in a couple years.

Our next door neighbors were the most "normal", and relatively friendly. But the teenage girl liked to sing. Loudly. When my brother Jesse lived with me for a couple months before Jon and I got married, he actually yelled one night, "What, are you trying out for American Idol?!" Luckily her karaoke machine was turned up too high to hear him.

A South El Camino Christmas

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Our landlord lived in San Luis and never made the commute over the hill unless there was something seriously wrong with one of his apartments. We saw him once in the two years we lived there. (It's because we had no water... turns out the rambunctious little boy across the way had turned a rather important red lever while using our hose spigot to fill up water balloons. Good thing Mr. Landlord drove up the Grade for that one.)

In order to keep an "eye" on things, he employed an eighty-eight-year-old man who lived in the mobile home park next to the complex to "manage" the property. His name was Cap. We saw Cap almost every week. He would come by just to say hi and make sure everything was ok. The problem was that he was eighty-eight. He liked to tell stories. And in typical senior citizen fashion, he told the same ones over and over. We were thankful to have him, considering he responded so quickly to calls regarding our apartment (what else did he have to do besides trying not to die?), but I'd be lying if I said we didn't run and hide when we saw his car in the lot... much like a Jehovah's Witness sighting.

The time came for Jon and I to move out. (The circumstances of which I will write about later.) We were entering a phase that was exciting and full of unknowns, yet I felt a sense of sadness over the task of packing up our first home together.

One afternoon, a week or two away from our Move Out Day, Cap decided to stop by to see how things were going.

There was one small problem. We'd brought home a kitten three months before, and we weren't allowed to have pets. (Okay, Jesse and I brought the kitten home one night after a trip to Video Palace while Jon was busy sleeping off some form of the Man Flu. Tits McGee was in a box with two of his skinny, goopy-eyed siblings, and I fell in love. Jon couldn't very well turn him away once we'd brought him home and bought a litter box and food, right? Right.)

Resist this? I don't think so.

So when Cap stopped by, Jon and I were caught off guard. McGee's litter box was in the bathroom, his toys were scattered about the living room, we were moving out in mere days, and hoping to receive ourfull deposit back... not to be fined for having an illegal pet. Here's where it turned to slapstick.

Hearing the knock on the door, and being afraid of... well, sounds... McGee tore up the stairs in order to hide, most likely under our bed. Jon and I stared wide-eyed at each other for what seemed like minutes, the wheels turning in both our heads. Assuming Cap was just there for another senile story hour, Jon opened the front door, just as I was chucking furry cat toys into the bathroom and hastily slamming the door shut. I hope Cap doesn't have to pee. After overhearing Jon and Cap's greetings, and praying that McGee wouldn't choose to bolt down the stairs at any moment, came Cap's question: "Do you mind if I head upstairs and check your curtains? I'm here to see if they'll need replacing."

I wanted to respond, "those curtains look like a Motel 6's and should have been replaced in 1978 when they were first installed" but I had more pressing matters to think about.

Jon turned around and looked at me as if to say, Go upstairs right now and throw the cat out the window. 

Tearing through the both of them and sprinting upstairs would look rather suspicious, so I chose to stand, grinning like an idiot, and watch helplessly as Jon led the old man upstairs. I took the opportunity to bust into the bathroom and shove the litter box and previously chucked cat toys under the sink. You can't trust an almost ninety-year-old bladder. I just hoped Cap's sense of smell had disintegrated with his memory, in case he did end up using the facilities.

As I exited the loo and shut the door again, I could hear Jon's heavy footsteps crashing down the top of the stairs. I ran to the staircase, and before I had the chance to question, Jon was shoving a ball of fuzz through the railing at me. Within a second of receiving the bundle, I felt claws piercing through my skin. McGee had decided this was too much action, was trying to permanently attach himself to me, and started hissing at both of us. Jon scampered back up the stairs, just in time to answer a question Cap was in the middle of asking him, while I calmly, yet with purpose retreated to the back sliding door. I opened it, tossed McGee into the air, and watched as his legs spun in the style of Wile E. Coyote's, before he darted around the corner.

Closing the slider, I turned around and saw Jon and Cap coming back down the stairs. Cap was finishing up the 73rd rendition of his story about taking care of his disabled ninety-year-old sister as Jon threw me a look. I smiled pleasantly like a sixties housewife with everything in her home under control.

Later, hearing Jon's version of what went on upstairs made me once again thankful that our property manager was so ancient. It was only due to the fact that Cap could hardly hear that he missed the scuffling, hissing, and meowing that occurred right before Jon whipped McGee through the railing at me. I suppose we're lucky that high-strung feline ever came back... but a cat's gotta eat.

We got our deposit back.