A Little Update

So, three-ish weeks later... how are we doing?

Honestly, sometimes I forget it's only been three and a half weeks, and somehow I think I should be running at full capacity again. Or, you know, as close to full capacity as I get these days. 

Like all losses, there are good days and bad days. And really, when the bad days come, I'm generally like, "Oh, come on! What is wrong with me today? Why am I so exhausted and sad and..." It's like somehow I think I didn't just lose a baby - a baby that I spent two months very carefully nurturing, worrying for, loving, hoping for, and trying not to lose.

But, here's the thing. When I lost a beautiful future, my right now - my daily routine - got... well... better. That ten week pregnancy was hard, and there were intense sacrifices in my daily life. Everything - major diet changes, nausea, headaches, nightmares, debilitating exhaustion, painful cramping - disappeared. Having all of that stress and weight lifted definitely helped soften the blow, and as I stuffed my face with every piece of previously-forbidden-chocolate I could find, I found myself saying, "I'm glad I'm not pregnant right now." I was never, never glad I wasn't going to have that baby. But I was glad I wasn't enduring the process of growing one.

It was almost scary how quickly I moved from "processing the emotion" to "planning what comes next."

I researched adoption. It's a $30,000 minimum. I've always liked the idea, but realizing it cost an entire year of our family's income, with no guarantee of success, more or less nixed that possibility. 

So now what? 

Two weeks after the miscarriage, I was ready to move on. Ready to try again.

Two weeks and a day after the miscarriage I definitely needed more time.

When I hit that all-important fertile window last week, I was definitely ready to try again.

Today I need more time.

Ha ha, me.

Ha ha.

If last week's enthusiasm creates results, I'm two weeks and five... oh no wait... it's midnight. Two weeks and six days. My due date would be two days after the twins' sixth birthday, and two weeks before Ember's fourth.

Is it too early for symptoms? Because the last two nights have been filled with vivid dreams... always the first symptom I experience. I've cut down on sugar again, and I'm moving back into caring for the maybe-baby, at least for the next week. 

So, when all is said and done, how am I?

I'm worn down, but I'm okay. I don't ache every day anymore, and my bad days are generally just low energy and inexplicable frustration while I forget I'm actually still moving through the grieving process. I really should have given myself more time, but I know I have a much better chance of holding a pregnancy immediately after a miscarriage, and I'm afraid to waste that. 

I'm trying to be happier and say "yes" to the kids more, and to invest more time into playing with them, and teaching them life skills. Things are hard for them too. Mommy has been a little off her game lately, and they can tell. I'm trying to exercise every day, and cook healthy meals, and keep the house clean. I'm trying to teach the twins how to clean their rooms, and keep screen-time at healthy levels. And somewhere in there I'm trying to read scriptures more, write in my journal, and keep my perspective in check. I'm reading the news because this past year has been so historical, and I'm looking to see if anything else apocalyptic has gone down. 

And I'm playing games on my phone - shutting down for a few minutes to push buttons and watch meaningless achievements stack up... that false feeling of accomplishment. Honestly, how do I get anything done when there's false accomplishment to feel? But somehow I do. Last night I tried out my new scrubby-socks and scrubbed the kitchen floor. Today I folded all the laundry, grocery shopped, organized/filed the tax documents that have been sitting on my desk for two weeks, and did all my usual kid-care, including French toast for breakfast. I've exercised 12 of the last 14 days. The house was completely clean as of this morning (though, admittedly, it has a day's worth of kid-chaos all over it right now). 

So I'm fine. Things are still hard sometimes, but I'm okay.

Maybe Say it Anyway

There's this culture that you're not supposed to announce your pregnancy until after 12 weeks, when the risk of miscarriage goes down. Because that way, if you miscarry, you don't have to tell people about it.

The first time I miscarried, I was actually glad, at least for the first few days. I was just so exhausted. I didn't want to say it out loud or talk about it or hear what anybody had to say. But eventually, I needed some form of validation. I needed the general "out there" of people who know me to just understand that I wasn't okay. They didn't need to say anything or even spend too much time thinking about it. I just didn't want to fake like things were fine, and if I wasn't faking, I didn't want people to think, "Wow, she's awfully mopey today. Cheer up, honey!"

I get it, I suppose. When I hear about someone else's personal tragedy, I never know what to say. Grief is so personal, and rarely ever rational. I have no idea what would be comforting to that individual person for that situation, or what might accidentally trigger more grief. And then, when the condolences come in, how does the bereaved know what to say in reply? That's just as tough. 

Either way, the culture says to reduce that situation as much as humanly possible by just not telling anybody you're pregnant in the first place. Nobody wants to hear about your miscarriage, and you don't want to tell them about it.

But to not say anything just leaves the former mom-to-be feeling hollowed out with nobody to understand why. Nobody knows she's not okay.

So here it is:

I'm not okay.

But it's okay.

I'll be okay.

With time.

It's okay not to say anything. Or if you have something to say, it's okay to say it too. Either way, I just needed to get that out.

Thanks, 2020.

I read through my last post.

It ended so hopeful. Carl's learning a new skill that can get us a higher income! He'll have an apprenticeship! Then a job! The end of this time in my parents' basement is in sight!

I also mentioned I was sick. It started with a high fever, and involved a dry cough that just would not go away. I was sick the whole month of February.

In March... well... 

Yeah. Hi, COVID. Nice to meet you, jerk.

I've always wondered if what I had was COVID, but I never got tested. I guess I'll never know. 

So, COVID changed our lives. Carl's apprenticeship never came because the whole program pretty much evaporated when everyone started working from home and nobody was doing anything extra. Now, we're a year later, and he's still working for Hallmark.

But, at the end of March, Hallmark announced they were shutting down the warehouse for a while. Carl was officially furloughed, and that REALLY changed things... mostly for the better.

First of all, the stimulus unemployment checks were larger than his usual paycheck, by a lot. He went from making about $550 a week to about $850 a week. While I have a rather large set of opinions about the economic intelligence of that move (or lack thereof), the extra $1200 a month made ALL the difference in our ability to save a down payment for a house.

Before we got our first unemployment check (and when I was genuinely wondering if it would ever come), I got an email from someone at church, saying they were looking for people to work in a factory, manufacturing face shields for the pandemic. I was SO excited to volunteer for that. With Carl home, I was officially free to go back to work for the first time since the twins were born. I applied, got the job, and started bringing home an extra $300 a week or so. (Factory work doesn't pay much.)

I'd love to write a whole blog post on that experience, but it's a little much for this one, so I'll just say it was VERY eye opening. The work absolutely sucked, but it was an incredibly educational experience.

By May the supply of face shields had outpaced the demand, so I was out of a job.

I wasn't sad, honestly. The work was so boring, and I missed my kids so much. It was nice to be away from them for 40 hours a week, because it helped me get some space and refocus on my relationships with each of them. By the end of it, though, I missed the quality time, and I'd regained my appreciation for their little things.

I spent most of June at home, until my brother-in-law approached me about another job. He needed a temporary neurofeedback tech for his counseling business, until he could go through the long process of hiring someone permanent (and more qualified). 

That's another experience I'd LOVE to write a very long post about, because it was amazing. I loved that work so much, and I'm not going to deny it's something I'd like to do again, if ever I'm looking for a job.

But, that job turned out to be cursed. As I was in training - not even fully working yet - we got the news. Hallmark was FINALLY opening the warehouse again, and Carl was going back to work. They timed it RIGHT before the stimulus benefits ran out in the first part of July. 

So, Carl worked 7-3:30, and I worked 4-9. I'd get up with the kids, mom all day, meet Carl at the commuter parking lot near his work, switch cars, and he'd drive home with the kids while I drove all the way down to Overland Park for work. I'd meet with my clients, come home at bedtime, get the kids to bed, and collapse into bed myself. I'd sleep for a few hours, then get up with the kids the next day. 

I did that for a month and a half before they got enough people trained on neurofeedback for me to quit. 

It wasn't a terribly long time, but it was kind of devastating for my mental health. My depression was already teetering on edge from the stress and uncertainty of pandemic life, but the physical strain of mom-ing all day and working until bedtime tipped me over the edge and dumped me back into binge eating and all the feelings of guilt and anger that had plagued me during the worst of my depression.

And, of course, because I wasn't stressed enough... we found a house.

With all the extra income we'd saved up a solid down payment, and even though the housing market was in utter insanity, we managed to find a good house.

It was 105 years old, being sold "as is," and had serious drainage problems in the yard, but there was nothing about it we couldn't handle. It was spacious and on a big, corner lot, and it was IN OUR PRICE RANGE!!!

We were the first people to look at it when it became available for viewing, and since we knew how quickly houses were disappearing, we put an offer on it that day. Our offer was accepted, so while I was finishing up training neurofeedback techs, I was also filling out paperwork for a mortgage and walking Carl through the process of filling out his share of the paperwork. 

We closed the first day in September, two weeks after I'd quit my job, and then began the process of fixing up our fixer upper. We got the core basics done enough to move in, and in early October we moved all our stuff over.

Actually, my mom moved all our stuff over. 

I think she was a little eager to have her basement back.

I'm sitting here now, in my office, looking at the dark, purple-gray walls and wondering what color I'll paint them after I've saved a little more for the renovation budget. We're doing things a little at a time. We painted the walls and replaced the nasty carpet in the front room, and repaired some holes in the lathe and plaster. We completely redid the bathroom, since the subfloor was rotting and sinking into the crawl space, the sink only came out in a trickle, the toilet was probably installed in the '60's, and the whole thing was just gross. And then there was the laundry room. We got that one functional, and even looking significantly better, but we still have to stain and install the counters that are sitting up against the wall, do trim, fix that one stair, and put up decor. There have been little things throughout the whole house we've been fixing as we go. 2021 will be the year we regrade the backyard so it quits draining into our dining room, which... yikes. We're basically going to have to rip out most of the wall and the floor from all the water damage in there. The kitchen needs to be a different color. Anna Rose's room needs the walls and ceiling completely ripped out and replaced. Anders and Ember's room pretty much just needs new paint and some form of new floor. (Original hardwood? Maybe?)

Our budget is mostly gone, so these are projects we'll work on as we go.

For now, we're in our new home, even though we didn't permanently raise our income, and we're safe and financially stable. I'm learning how to operate in our new budget where we pay a mortgage and utilities, and I'm looking forward to the coming tax return... and maybe more stimulus money? Who knows.

My depression is in a pretty good place right now. I still feel it a little, but I've got it under control, and I've definitely recovered from the summer. Having more space REALLY helps. 

The twins are five now, and I'm staring kindergarten in the face, unsure of how I can possibly let them be away from me for that long EVERY DAY! How do parents do it? They can't possibly be ready for that! Maybe the pandemic won't be over by then, and I'll be forced to homeschool them for at least the fall semester.

I'm gearing up to potty train Ember this Spring, when the weather is warmer and the house is warmer and I can just let her run around naked while we practice. She's a VERY sharp kid, so I'm hoping she'll pick it up quickly, and then I can have ZERO kids in diapers for the first time in five years.

You know, for a few months.

Until August.

When Baby #4 comes.

Yep. I did that.

See, I had this epiphany. I've been wanting my next baby for over a year now, but I was just waiting until I got my depression under control. Three kids pretty much did me in, so adding in another one was just not a good idea.

But, now that I know what depression feels like, and I've become intimately familiar with it, I realized this is not the first time in my life I've had it.

I had depression during my last year of school, and the year following it. I had it when I met Carl. 

It was funny, when I was dating him, everything was perfect. We fit together SO well. We liked all the same things. We believed the same things. We were absolutely perfect. And the first time he kissed me... well... it was the best kiss I'd ever had. 

I actually felt the tiniest hint of butterflies in my stomach.

Which was, honestly, a total letdown. I couldn't figure out why I wasn't feeling fire and passion, or anything even remotely resembling it. I was definitely happy, some days actually giddy, but only when I was with him. The rest of my life felt frustrated and unsure and... well... depressed. But, he was perfect, so I made the very cerebral decision to marry him. 

Now, in hindsight, I realize the reason the passion was so vacant was because everything I was feeling was muted. My brain wasn't making the happy-sauce like it was supposed to. And it was really trying its hardest, but I'd been overworked and exhausted and uncertain about my future - not to mention disillusioned by some very difficult relationships - for two years, and there wasn't a lot to make chemicals with. Getting married and having EVERYTHING in my life get easier for a few months fixed that problem, and I was fine pretty much until 2014, when traces of it came back. Then I started writing again, and then I got my dream-babies, and everything was fine until 2018, when baby #3 absolutely kicked my butt.

So, there was that realization. Depression had been a part of my life for much longer than when I started having kids.

Then I remembered my oldest brother had struggled with it.

My youngest brother was currently struggling with it.

My middle brother would probably never admit it, but has DEFINITELY shown symptoms of it.

My mom has struggled with it.

This is not a momentary problem. This crap is in my DNA. I'm going to have good years and bad years for, literally, the rest. of. my. life.

So why was I putting off something... someone... I wanted so badly? The twins are old enough to be somewhat helpful. Ember is nearly done with diapers. I'm not in the depths of it anymore, and we now have the house situation taken care of. 

It's time. 

So, Baby #4, I can't wait to meet you. I'm so glad you're growing inside of me, and even though the last few weeks have been LOADED with anxiety (my body still isn't great at maintaining a pregnancy), I was so happy to see your heart beating last week. I can't wait to find out if you're a boy or a girl, so I can narrow down my massive list of possible names. I love you, and I can't wait to hold you!