3/6/12

I don't fancy myself a "mommy blogger". You know the type. Women who stay at home with their children, so naturally they have time to bake gourmet desserts, potty train their 18-month-olds, teach their three-year-olds how to read, and build their own television sets and bicycles out of pallets, mason jars, and Borax... but only after they've finished writing, editing, and posting their daily anecdote on their blog, accompanied by thousand-dollar-an-hour-photographer quality photos of their creations.

I'm not that.

To be honest, surrounded and bombarded by the social media that we are, I've always been intrigued by the people who post non-stop updates and blog about the daily lives that everyone else is just living. It begs the question: "Who gives a rat's ass?"

Let's be real. Unless you have the ability to hilariously describe a typical and mundane version of the exact same stay-at-home-mom situation I have going on here in my own house (I'm talking making me spit a mouthful of my 25% Wild Cherry Pepsi, 75% Diet Pepsi cocktail all over my keyboard)... when, where, or why would I spend naptime reading about your day instead of living mine?

That's why I won't only write stories about my kids. They are a huge part of my life, obviously. But they are not the only part, nor the only aspect of life I want to look back on and remember.

That being said, there are things that happen to us all, particularly mothers of young children, that are just too terrifying not to share. And after that blatant snobbery written up there, feel free to skip reading about my typical, mundane day as a mother of a three-year-old and three-month-old baby... I won't mind.

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The date was March 6, 2012. I only know this because when I told the story to my group of high school seniors, they dubbed it "3/6/12" as if comparing it to the Apocalypse or the end of the Mayan Calendar. On the day it happened, I was praying for the end of the world, so I liked the comparison.

Kealani had turned three a few weeks before. She'd been officially potty-trained for a couple months. (I consider "officially" to be going 99% of the time on the toilet before it's too late and not wearing diapers at night... and she was there.) Leila was a week shy of three months old and we were still in the process of learning how to take care of this new human. (Who am I kidding, does that ever end?) Jon and I were in a constant state of physical exhaustion from waking up in the middle of the night.

Because my brain has blocked the minute details in order to protect me, I can't even remember each factor... but whatever they were, together they created a perfect storm.

First, around mid morning, Kealani decided the best place to empty her bladder would be on the carpet. In three different rooms. Contrary to popular belief, which affirms that the best way to pee is to stop moving, KK thought it would be more philanthropic to share her wealth. And everyone knows how much people love the smell of urine. As I said before, KK was potty-trained. She hadn't acted out for extra attention in the 2 months and 3 weeks of her new sister's life, so I had no idea what the reason for this was. All I knew was the color red. For rage.

I huffily stripped KK out of her clothes, threw them violently into a plastic bag and onto our porch, deposited my daughter into the bathtub and proceeded to rinse her off. All the while, I lectured her, questioned her motives, and said what I could to ensure this would never ever happen again. Ever. Also, Leila was in the hallway lying on her back, screaming.

I had things back under control relatively quickly, fed both girls and got them both down for naps as soon as possible. It was only lunchtime and my mental, physical, and emotional levels of energy were already depleted. I was ready to sit on the couch and do nothing.

Kealani's naps have always lasted anywhere from two to three hours. She's an amazing sleeper.

But not on 3/6/12. She called for me about an hour and fifteen minutes after falling asleep. I had just begun to doze off on the couch, and being jolted out of my much needed slumber at least 45 minutes early did nothing to improve the mood I was in.

I stomped back to her bedroom, shoved her door open and said, "You did not sleep long enough. You need to lie back down and rest. I'll be back when you can get up. Do you have to go potty?"

"No."

"You may only come out if you have to pee or poop. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Having been rousted out of my dream-state, I knew I couldn't and shouldn't try again for a nap. I just didn't want to be bothered by the incessant conversation Kealani would bring out to the living room with her. Hence the lockdown. Another half hour or so went by before I heard a much quieter, more timid voice wafting from the back of the house. "Mom? I have to poop."

I quickly returned to her room, knowing that "I have to poop" doesn't mean I could use a toilet in the next fifteen minutes or so. It means some of the poop might already be peeking out and she needs a toilet urgently.

I opened the door to find Kealani standing next to her bed looking guilty. The smell hit me a fraction of a second after the realization that I had a large-scale situation on my hands. I crossed the bedroom in a stride and a half and found a tiny nugget on the floor, just before pulling back KK's waistband to find a patty worthy of a Hearst Ranch grass fed heifer. Instantly I entered Angry Mommy Mode. Not even a miniscule strand of patience was left for me to grasp as I began my tirade. Twice in ONE DAY???

"I TOLD you if you needed to pee or poop you could COME OUT OF YOUR ROOM!! WHY would you sit in here and poop IN YOUR PANTS?!?!"

"I don't know! I'm sorry Mommy!"

"Get into the bathroom NOW."

As I peeled the completely soiled undies off Kealani's butt, I realized I was in too far over my head. At this exact moment, Leila started to cry from her crib, no doubt ready to eat. A series of expletives ran in and out of my head, as I simultaneously yelled at KK to stay put and swooped into Leila's room, grabbed her, set a diaper-changing world record, gently set her in the hall (incidentally the precise spot she lay helplessly while I bathed KK a mere hours before) and lunged back into the bathroom, never breaking stride.

As Leila began screaming again (since no hungry newborn in the history of mankind has enjoyed being left in the middle of an empty hallway), I grabbed KK, plunked her back into the tub, and yanked the faucet on. Without warning, I turned the shower head on full blast.

Directly into my beloved first born's face.

It was cold. It was her first shower. It was traumatizing.

Soon KK's screams surpassed Leila's as their chorus from hell drifted out of every open window in our home. It's a true marvel that CPS was not called on me that day.


At this point I called Jon. I believe the conversation went something like this:

"Hello Babe."

"I... gasp, gasp... need... sob... HELP."

"What's happening?"

"KK... pooped... it's everywhere... I don't know *gasp* what to do... Leila's screaming... please come home!"

"Ok, I'll be there as soon as possible."


I returned to the tub and scrubbed Kealani's tiny butt, making no effort to be gentle. Poo chunks fell off and swirled in circles until finally being sucked down the drain as I suppressed the gag reflex induced by imagining myself taking a shower in this giant petri dish of bacteria. Once KK was "clean", for good measure I sprayed her face and guided the shower head back over her entire body as she crouched, shivering and crying in the corner of the tub. (Heartbreaking, isn't it?) It was like watching a captive spider trying to climb up the side of a glass jar to freedom. And it gave me the tiniest bit of sick, twisted satisfaction.

As I let Kealani stand in the shower, I began work on the next predicament. What do I do with a pair of three-year-old sized skivvies with a dinner plate sized crap oozing out of them? At that moment they were sitting in our one and only bathroom sink. This made me want to hurl, much like watching the poo chunks float down the tub drain. Oh, the disinfecting I was going to have to do. And remember Leila? Yeah, she was still screaming... probably assuming she was going to starve to death.

Tears streaming down my face, I knew I'd verifiably lost it. When Jon got there (in pretty amazing time, I must add), he seamlessly took over the bathroom scene and allowed me to take screaming baby #2 into another room to nourish her.  He finished the bathing/water torture (in a much gentler and more patient manner than I), found KK's crap-filled Nemo undies and simply dropped them in a plastic bag and took them straight outside to the trash can. (Hmmmm. Brilliant.) He then spot cleaned the carpet in KK's room where her first nugget had landed, and wiped up any trace of feces on the bathroom floor. KK joined her sister and me in the front room.

The same way one drives from point A to point B and can't remember how they got there, I had fed Leila and settled us all down to watch Sesame Street in a complete daze. When Jon returned to the living room, I could tell he was frightened. Gazing at my under-eye circles and tear-streaked face, I'm sure he was thinking "Could it have really been that bad?" 

I tell you what, it was a had-to-be-there scenario. With no comedy involved.

The derangement passed, Jon returned to work, I made dinner, and eventually bleached the bathroom sink, floor, and bathtub. Business as usual.

3/6/12 is, to date, the worst day I've ever had as a mom of two. The combination of exhaustion, Kealani's apparent memory lapse of how a toilet works, my newborn's hungry screams, and my reaction to each factor made for a heinous day. Looking back on it, I'm actually thankful this has been the worst to happen so far. As literally crappy as it was, it wasn't that bad.

And then there's Kealani. Leave it to her to lighten up any bad mood I'm in, regardless of whether or not she's the one who put me in it. Hopefully her phobia of showers will end before she is forced to share 2' x 2' stalls with thirty-seven other girls in a dorm hall.

That night as I kissed her goodnight and tucked her into bed, our discourse went like this:

"KK, I'm sorry we had a rough day today. We'll have a better one tomorrow, ok? I love you."

"I love you, too, Mom. I'm sorry I got in trouble when I pooped the floor."



 ***Epilogue ~ Kealani has not pooped the floor or her pants since 3/6/12.***

Class of 2000 - The 10 Year Reunion

Two summers ago all the teen movies I enjoyed in the 90s collided with all the returning-to-your-hometown-to-find-nothing's-changed movies I've enjoyed as an adult -- into one tragically entertaining though slightly unbelievable event:

 my Ten Year High School Reunion.

     

It all started the year before the reunion would take place. One of my best friends, Lauren, was our senior class president back in 2000, and she had come to the realization that SHE was supposed to be in charge of coordinating this bittersweet event (bitter because WTH, we'd already been out of high school for ten freaking years? and sweet because we couldn't wait to see everyone we'd graduated with so we could ridicule them). She asked if I'd be willing to help out when the time came.

Lauren wasn't enthralled with the idea of planning this once-in-a-lifetime event, having a toddler at home and being due to give birth to her second son a mere months before the party. I agreed, despite my lack of party planning skills, simply because I wanted to help my friend, and because I did want there to be a reunion (no party = no classmate ridiculing).

The start of 2010 rolled around and the passing decade must have flipped a switch in some of the 2000 grads, because I ended up getting Facebook messages from not one, but two, of the girls I graduated with. Let's call them Humpty and Dumpty. Both of them knew Lauren was the officiant, but Lauren, genius that she is, does not have a Facebook account. These girls began assaulting Lauren through me. Both of them requested Lauren's email address (which I only gave them once I'd asked Lauren's permission) and proceeded to tell me that if there was anything we needed while planning this no doubt amazing party, to PLEASE let them know.

What happened over the next couple months went like this:

1. Humpty and Dumpty, along with a handful of their Class of 2000 friends, completely took over the reunion planning. Just ripped it right out from Lauren's and my grasp. (Ok... we weren't holding on very tightly.)
2. Via Facebook (of course) I was bombarded, as was the rest of our class, with messages, posts, and embarrassing pictures from senior year, as the morbid countdown began. 
3. We were charged a ludicrous amount of money to attend our small town high school reunion.

I'll pick up a couple weeks before the event:

Lauren, Jasmine, Erin, and I had decided that we simply had to attend this party celebrating our aging process in a group. It was the only way we'd all survive. Every time we saw each other during this pivotal countdown stage, we'd make comments of disdain toward the event itself, as well as the self-inflicted "party planners". (I know, we were jerks... we didn't want the responsibility or to put in the work, but made fun of the people who did... it was fun.)

There's a piece of information I should include here. Humpty and Dumpty were part of the Class of 2000 "cool crowd". Meaning they were the "popular" girls who'd always thought they were better than everyone else despite all other categories of students staunchly disagreeing. The irony lies in the fact that Humpty didn't join our class until middle school (being a fresh-faced new 6th grade girl, she obtained an 8th grade boyfriend almost immediately and could be observed making out with him any given break); Dumpty came along in high school and finagled her way into the cool crowd much to most of our amazement (some people have a gift for convincing the Mean Girls that they're cool enough hang... either that or said Mean Girls must always have dorkier girls flitting around in order to make themselves look better... hence the permission to join). There were 73 other girls who actually attended Templeton Schools from kindergarten or first grade on (including myself and my entire group of friends). But that's cool... let the newbies plan our reunion. (No really, let them... remember, we didn't want to.)

Within a week before the main event, our class received a mass email informing us that when we showed up at the site, we would be required to pay an extra ten dollars per couple because the party planning geniuses had not brought in enough money for their legendary party. Real classy. Jon was beyond annoyed because he already thought the admission price was ludicrous for a party he'd rather be strung up by his toenails and tickled with razorblades than attend. But we got to pay ten MORE dollars!

Let the fun begin!

2010 Re-creation of a truly amazing Freshman Homecoming photo from 1996

The day of the reunion finally arrived, and our group had made plans to meet at Jasmine's house for a cocktail party before zero hour. I showed up even earlier to get ready. You know, like Prom? Our entourage of eight caravanned to River Oaks Hot Springs Spa in Paso Robles. This place has several buildings, and is actually quite a beautiful place to hold a wedding or other important lifetime event... like a class reunion. The problem was, the Party Planning Committee had booked the building that has no walls. It's a shelter. It has a bar. But it has no walls. It's on a hill. In Paso Robles. In August. At 7:00 pm, it was freezing. All the girls had done what all 28-year-old women do when they want to impress their former classmates -- worn sassy dresses and heels without sweaters.

We irritably handed our extra money over to Humpty and Dumpty at the entrance as we took in the scene. A cluster of tables, a buffet style food area cutting the room in half, and another cluster of tables. The wind blew through this place like a hurricane was coming as we hastily sat down at a table together. Jasmine, Kim, Erin, Steve, Lauren, Nick, Jon, and I stuck together, not too interested in mingling with the other 2000ers. We were having so much fun already, why would we break up our party to join the real party thrown by the Mean Girls? Besides, we were shivering too much to move. Except to retrieve some wine from the bar, of course. (Which was, by the way, being served by individuals -- younger siblings or underclassmen with residual fear of the Mean Girls, perhaps? -- who either had no practical experience pouring wine, or knew how badly we'd need it permeating our bloodstreams in order to endure the night... when Jasmine and Kim returned with their first round, their glasses were benevolently filled to the rims. No complaints.)

From this point on, it seemed as though no one was in charge. Eventually people awkwardly started to filter through the food line. Chicken, vegetables, bread. Nothing offered was gag-inducing, but it certainly felt like we were pilfering through boring wedding reception food... that we'd paid $65 for. After the meal we decided to get up and mingle. We had seen people we legitimately wanted to talk to, and figured we could do some laps around the room, maybe even some jumping jacks, in order to increase our body temps.

I was able to catch up with at least three (I know, SCORE!) people I'd graduated with that I truly hadn't seen, talked to, or stalked on Facebook since 2000. Pleasant conversation was had. I just made sure to stay away from the other side of the room, in which Humpty, Dumpty, Shauna (yes, that Shauna), and other assorted Mean Girls meandered about together. I glanced around the room and noticed that, not only were there hardly any people there, but most of the attendees were grouped in the same exact circles one would have found them ten years ago in the upperclass quad. No encouragement to mix these circles together and get people talking... the Mean Girls were too busy talking to each other, as usual.

At some point a Mean Girl, who interestingly enough helped Humpty and Dumpty plan the reunion, and is an actual party planner (like, that's her CAREER), yelled at everyone to make their way over to a sketchily-rigged up screen that kept blowing over in the wind. It was time to watch the slideshow! Months back, one of Dumpty's thousands of e-mails had requested we send her pictures from high school, or current pictures of us with fellow grads we still spent time with. I'd sent her six pictures, including one of Lauren, Jasmine, and me in fourth grade. I had tried to choose pictures I had with different people, knowing Dumpty couldn't include ALL the pictures people would send and it'd be good to have as many grads represented as possible.

Cue the music from She's All That, because now it becomes a real life nineties movie.

The slideshow began. Humpty with her friends; Dumpty with her friends; Mean Girls; Dumpty; group of dorks; Dumpty; Mean Girls; Mean Girls; one of my pictures; Humpty and Dumpty together... on the pattern went until the 15 people left at the party started to look around at each other, flabbergasted. Are they serious? we all inquired of each other silently. The slideshow ended and a few of us in the back just started busting up. This was the lamest and coldest party we'd ever been to, and we'd just been shown a personal history, in photos, of the party planners.

There was a total of 35 people at this party (I believe we had about 150 people in our graduating class), which obviously included people's DATES, such as my own husband, who did not attend THS. It felt like it was about time to go, when one of us checked the time. "It's only 8:30!!" This epic party, taken over by Humpty, Dumpty, and a legitimate party planner, had been morbidly attended, and was only going to last an hour and a half!

Our group made the decision to continue our party at the Crooked Kilt in downtown Paso, because we were all dressed up with nothing to do. Turns out everyone else from the reunion had the same idea. Almost every single person we'd seen at the party showed up at the Kilt... except the Mean Girls. Conversation commenced, drinks were poured, dancing ensued. I like to call it the Actual Class of 2000 Ten Year Reunion. It lasted until 2:00 am.

In 2020, I think we should just tell everyone to meet at a bar.

These poor girls don't know what awaits them in 14 years...

Truly amazing Freshman Homecoming photo from 1996

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: