A Lot of Thoughts on Organized Religion: Part 2 - Money

Let's get into this.

Money: 

This is probably the biggest, most obvious one. Whenever money gets involved, corruption isn't far behind.

A few weeks ago, someone close to me went on a little rant about the widow's mite, and how that parable is used to exploit money out of people. It was funny, because I'd never personally thought of it that way, but when she mentioned that, I thought about how, yeah, I'd seen that happen. I've heard people in Sunday School talk about how the Lord specifically criticized those who gave what looked like a lot, but was actually a small percentage, and then went on to exalt the woman who gave all. Therefore, we need to give all for our offering to be acceptable to the Lord.

Personally, that's not one of my issues. I've always seen that parable, not as an exhortation to give all, but as a lesson on not judging people's contributions (whatever form they take, not just money). It's not about how much impact they have on the world, but on the individual context of the person. And not just in religion - in life. A dandelion out of the yard given by my 2 year old means a lot more to me than a bouquet of lilies by someone trying to kiss my ass. (For the record, I'm not likely the keep the dandelion beyond the, "Aw! Thank you! Let's put it in some water," grace period, but it's still super sweet.)

The money issue I have a much bigger problem with is - of course - the one I believed for a really long time. It's close to prosperity gospel, but not as blatant. 

In prosperity gospel, you're encouraged to "give your last dollar to the Lord," (and by "Lord" we mean the religion/pastor, and his private jet) and the Lord will multiply your offering if you are righteous. It's an act of faith, and from it prosperity will come to you.

In the LDS church, it's presented a lot differently, but the principle is the same. Instead of your "last dollar" it's 10% of your income - a flat fee. But it holds that if you give 10%, even when you are financially destitute, the Lord will bless you, sometimes in ways you don't recognize... like more self control in your spending, or inspiration on how to better position your investments. Sacrament meetings and Sunday School lessons are filled to the brim with anecdotes of people who weren't paying their tithing, faced financial ruin, and then saved themselves by that leap of faith. Suddenly rain fell on their crops, the lost job turned into a wildly successful business venture, or Great Grandpa Stu died, leaving them exactly the inheritance they needed to pay what they owed on their mortgage before foreclosure, down to the very penny.

Tithing is a principle in the Bible, but after a good deal of research, I realized my church does it... at best, wrong. At worst, exploitatively. 

The anecdotes are exploitative. They lock tithe-payers into the fear that if they stop and/or reassess in a way that better fits their current financial situation by lessening payments, their financial situation will get even worse. 

Also, the temple recommend requirement is exploitative. You can't "partake in salvation" unless you've paid your dues. The counter argument to that, of course, is that "tithing is between you and God," and literally no one will audit you, but when left to their own conscience, most Mormons tend to err on the side of doing more, not less. And the anecdotes make you afraid to give less. Either way, money shouldn't touch "essential" worship with a ten foot pole. 

We couldn't pay our bills, and I was staring in the face of running out of money. I had always paid my tithing faithfully, and things weren't letting up. So I started asking, "What does God actually want me to be paying here?" Trust in my church and their financial practices had already been broken, and I'd already switched from paying into the tithing fund to paying into the humanitarian fund. (Honestly, even before the SEC fined them for fraud, I just felt sick inside every time I put money into the tithing fund, but I forced myself to do it anyway because "faith." Redirecting it to the humanitarian fund felt like a step in the right direction... until I saw the fine-print on the donation slip that said while they'd do their best to put funds where they were indicated, ultimately all donations were their property, and they'd spend them as they saw fit.)

When in doubt, find the context.

I turned to the Bible, and found the passage where "tithing" came from. It's Mosaic law, and it's included specifically to feed the hungry. It never says anything about 10%, just "first fruits of the harvest." The word "tithe" means tenth, but was a translation imposed later, and not part of the original law.

And look, I get it. A church needs to cover its operating expenses. That makes sense. Tithing is a good way to do that. But the LDS Church is a billion dollar entity, and has more than enough side hustles to cover its expenses. And it has an entirely separate fund for feeding the hungry that we're asked to make a monthly contribution to.

My husband and I sat down and discussed what to do. We agreed we'd stick with the 10%, but it was going to be 10% of our increase, and not of our income. Food, housing, school supplies, transportation, life. Those things were getting deducted. We were making an annual contribution, based on our increase, not a bi-weekly contribution based on our income. And we're making it to humanitarian causes, not church operating expenses.

Then my husband got a raise.

And a $750 bonus.

I sound like I'm being sarcastic, but seriously. That's literally what happened.

Anyway, the big red flag of money is one to look at closely. If your religion is requiring financial contributions for you to fully worship, or using fear to convince you to pay up, or telling you that by paying them money your finances will improve, it might be time to step back, and take a harder look at your church - and their financial practices - than you were before.

A Lot of Thoughts on Organized Religion, All Neatly Organized: Part 1 - An Introduction

I've been stewing over organized religion lately.

I mean, quite clearly, I've been stewing over religion in general, but the concept of organized religion is today's musing.

So here's the context: This Amish guy showed up in my TikTok feed (and by TikTok, I mean TikTok videos that have been posted to YouTube, or maybe Facebook reels, because I'm old like that), and he came from a fundamentalist sect of the Amish that is SUPER controlling, and doesn't do the rumspringa, and you have to actually escape to leave the religion. He's made it his mission to "rescue" as many of his community members as he can, and also to answer questions about being "Old Order Amish" to the general Internet.

Anyway, today he showed up again, this time answering the question of how he can read the Bible while not believing in religion. He went on a long rant on how the Bible is the actual word of God, while religion exists to control people.

And like... he's not wrong... but he's also not even close to right.

I've seen what he's talking about in my own life, many times. But I've also seen what else religion is, and why it's - in many cases - necessary.

I don't think it's necessary for every believer-in-something-out-there to belong to a religion. But I do think every belief-in-something-out-there that's big enough to have a good sized following needs a structure to it. One of the biggest aspects of religion is community - a place for people with common beliefs to strengthen each other, and use those beliefs to offer support and strength during hard times, easy times, confusing times... you get the picture. And every community needs a set of rules. Even if those rules are just, "Don't criticize each other's theories: we're here to discuss and learn from each other, and all ideas, even the crazy-sounding ones, are welcome here." The community needs guidelines on how they're to behave with each other, and what the expectations are.

And then you add in a lot of the modern aspects of religion, including expenses/donations, charity and aid work, how to respond to social issues, how to interact with other religions, how your region of the world intertwines politics and religion, etc., and the need for structure grows.

And the more followers you have, the more structure you need. And a lot of times the beliefs of the religion play into the need for structure.

But then, on the other hand, the more structure you have, and the larger the religion, the more opportunities for corruption there are.

When you grow up in a religion, or even with the idea that a religion exists that is infallible, it's really hard to apply healthy skepticism to your own church.

And, at this point, I'm holding the opinion that even if your religion has doctrines and practices that are controlling in nature, you can still participate in the community aspects of that religion, as long as you can recognize what's off and take it with a grain of salt (which... yeah. I know. Easier said than done).

One nice thing about America is the fact that religious power is only psychological. Corruption in a church can lead to a lot of crap, but they have no physical power. (That's, of course, not including cults that employ illegal methods like physical force, blackmail, etc. to retain their members. Legally speaking, they have no physical power.)

That said, psychological power is very powerful. So, what are the red flags in a religion to take with a grain of salt? Here's what I've come up with so far:

1.) Money

2.) Being "The One"

3.) I Speak for God

4.) Leave Your Family for God

5.) The Law Doesn't Overrule God

6.) Come Live in Our Super-Spiritual Commune 

7.) Fear 

I think I'm going to go off on each of those. And if I finish and think of more, I'll just edit this post and add to the list. 

Basically, all religions have something, but if there are big red flags, it might be time to reconsider. You can walk away, or you can stay, but if you stay, you need to be able to let some things roll off - because they're wrong. 

Either way, religion can exist to control you, but it doesn't have to.

Existential Feelings Update

Good Morning!

Or whatever it is.

If anyone ever reads my journal - the actual journal, not the Internet blog - they'll be like, "Wow. She only writes every other week." And then they'll be like, "Wow. She's really dramatic. And apparently miserable."

Yeah. I pretty much mostly journal when I need an outlet. I'd hate for my blog to end up that way too, so after reading my last existential musings post, I decided to post today.

Because things are good.

Am I happy? Moderately so. Far cry from euphoria, but I'm feeling pretty good. My brother called for a chat, and that's always pleasant. I ate a donut. I exercised. I feel guilty about nothing at the moment. The violets, lilacs, and other purple flowers of Spring are all in bloom. All in all, it's a good day. 

I love Spring. The sun is warm. The flowers are beautiful. The sun shines long enough that I rarely have to drive by moonlight, clutching my steering wheel with numb knuckles as I watch for the shining glint of deer eyes that are definitely waiting to total my family car.

It's funny how much the moon means to me in the winter. This year I discovered I have a favorite phase of the moon: Waxing gibbous. It's bright enough to have the same general effect as the full moon, and I have a whole week to enjoy that level of light before it starts tapering off.

And then, this past month, I realized I'd stopped caring what the moon phase is anymore.

Because Spring!!!

Who needs a waxing gibbous when you have the sun?

Another thing: I feel like things in my brain might be settling. 

A few months ago I realized I felt like a teenager again. It felt like those confusing, chaotic days as I tried on different identities, and put WAY too much anxiety into what should* have been an exciting exploration of who I could be. Instead I was super caught up in who I should be. With hindsight, I can look back and realize it didn't really matter if I was blonde, peppy, and quick-witted, or if I was snow-white complexioned, broody, and artsy. As long as I was kind, the image was about what I preferred, and not what was best. And really, I could be both. And something else entirely.

Now, as an adult, as I've confronted questions of faith, and finally addressed the dissonance that has hovered in the background since my teenage years, I've been afraid of not believing what I should* believe. What is "the" right belief system for me? That dissonance rises and falls, depending on what's happening in my life, and how badly I need to know I'm on the right path, and lately... wow. Lately, it's been front and center.

One of the things I like most about the religion I was raised in is the doctrine that you can't just take everything at face value - you have to pray and study and find answers for yourself.

The problem with that doctrine is that it's always presented as, "Pray, study, and find out for yourself that X, Y, and Z are the answers."

And when you pray, study and find out that Z is true, but X and Y are a combination of tradition, bias, and unmitigated bullshit, it kinda throws you through a loop. That's not what they told me was going to happen. And I can't just take the path they said those questions would lay out for me.

In my case, I found out Z was true, but nobody said anything about X and Y, because I wasn't ready to deal with that yet. Over the last couple years, I've been slowly dealing, and I'm starting to get answers. I'm starting to find out X came because people need to have something solid they can believe in, without the scary fact that mortal humans will put mistakes in quite literally everything they touch. I'm also starting to find out that Y is about power dynamics, money, and history repeating itself. Safeguards against financial corruption become opportunities for narcissistic power abuse, and not everything works for everybody. 

Life is messy. Religion is messy. Power dynamics are always messy.

The great thing, though, is when you stop believing the people in power have any authority - or that the system they claimed to get their power from was ever legitimate in the first place - they lose that power. You can laugh in their narcissistic faces. 

(Okay, I'm laughing in the memory of a face I haven't seen in over 20 years, but dude. I really hope in the last two decades you got help.)

And when that system is completely illegitimate, nobody can ever have that power again.

Aw... did my blog post just become personal therapy? 

Apparently.

Anyway, the summary of that situation is that there have always been things - major things - that felt just sort of, "off," but that were so heavily pushed that I found ways to explain them, to defend them, to attach a weak asterisk to them, rather than just say, "Nope. That's wrong." I could do that easily enough with the little things, but never the really big ones.

I've considered picking a new religion - one that better meets my needs - but that's more complicated than just looking for something new. I'm unlikely to believe anything in its entirety, or even close to its entirety. And I live deep in the Bible Belt, so I'm very unlikely to find anything that even comes close to matching my belief system. 

I guess I'm mostly agnostic now, except I believe in God, I believe He's my literal parent, I believe He's loving, I believe eternity is perfectly fair, and I believe in prayer. The rest is more along the lines of, "This could be true, but if it's not, I'm not going to sweat it. It doesn't change how I treat the people around me, and the decisions I make about my life." 

And I still read scriptures, and apply them to my life where it makes sense. 

For example: "My yoke is easy and my burden is light."

When your church's yoke and burden are crushing you, and you will literally never be enough, you know that's not what He meant.

Pulling back feels good. I feel like I can finally breathe again.

And the best part... I can still participate in the good things. My kids go to church and learn the fun church songs. They're learning the scriptures that will serve them throughout their lives. I don't have to believe it with all my heart to participate in the religious rites and traditions that I like. I'm excited for my kids and the way this particular religion does baptism - that's a good tradition. And I don't have to participate in the rites that make me uncomfortable.

And maybe in the future I'll get more answers. I have enough for now, and I'm really tired. I'm tired of sweating and wondering and trying to make sure I'm believing what I should*. I'd like to just sit here for a while, finally able to believe I'm okay, and not have all the answers. I have enough to move forward, and to reject the burdens this religion tries to place on me. 

I don't feel like I'm in the sunlight yet, and maybe not even in the light of the full moon. But this moon is definitely waxing, and maybe - before it has a chance to wane again - I'll make it to sunrise.

Why am I Blogging Today?

 I have this goal to write more.

Except it's not a goal, because I'm not very good at goals. When I do a goal, I set the mark WAY too ambitiously, fail to achieve it, and feel like it's yet another piece of evidence that I'm defunct. You know, healthy thoughts like that.

So, this is a loose objective... maybe not even that. It's an understanding. 

Yeah. That's low-pressure enough.

I have an understanding that writing more will be a positive thing, and I'd like to do that. 

Blogs, journal entries, fiction... doesn't really matter. Just writing. I'm trying to get that part of my brain up and running again. It's been a LONG time.

You know... it's funny, though. It's only been 7 years. I finished the rough draft of my "Jade" novel a little after the twins were born, and I even tried to write a new one right around their first birthday. That was where I realized my creative-brain had rocked over into a stone-age wheel that kept turning... in one direction... when grunting humans without sophisticated language yelled for it to turn and shoved it around.

The youngest of those barbarians is about to start kindergarten in a few months, and the oldest two have started asking really interesting questions. I see a little light on the horizon for creative thought. Maybe I'll be able to edit "Jade" into a form I'm not embarrassed to submit for publication. Maybe I can write more than a scene or two of "Sirens in a Modern Economy"... or whatever that story ends up turning into. I only have one and a half scenes written, and a couple notes in my notebook. I have no clue where it'll go.

Or maybe I'll just write kid's books, because they're significantly less ambitious, and I own my very own hype-team for that genre. 

Either way, my brain likes writing. I should do it more.

Oh no robots.

 The more I play around with ChatGPT and image AI stuff, the more I'm convinced that robots are very most definitely not going to take our jobs.

It can't even tell a good joke. 

Me: "Tell me a hilarious joke."

AI: "Why don't scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything!"

Me: "Tell me a joke that uses the elements of surprise and naughtiness."

AI: "I'm sorry. I cannot generate inappropriate or offensive content."

Me: "Tell me a joke a first grader would think is hilarious."

AI: "Why was the math book sad? Because it had too many problems."

Me: "You're not very good at jokes."

AI: "I apologize if my previous attempts... blah blah blah... as an AI language model... blah blah blah... three thousand years of boring explanation... blah blah blah... I'm happy to try my best to make you laugh!"

Me: "Tell me a joke with a surprising punchline."

AI: "Why don't scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything!"

Me: "That's not surprising. Siri has been telling that joke for years. Try again."

AI: "Sure thing! Here's another one: Why did the scarecrow with an award? He was outstanding in his field!"

Me: "Tell me a joke that doesn't use a pun."

AI: "Why did the chicken cross the playground? To get to the other slide!"

Me: "That's a pun. Try again."

AI: "I apologize for the previous response. Here's a joke that doesn't use a pun: Why did the tomato turn red? Because it saw the salad dressing!"

Yeah. Absolutely abysmal sense of humor.

Then there's image generation.

I keep trying to get StarryAI, my image AI app, to design a tattoo. Once I'm 100% convinced I'm done having kids, I'm planning to get a tattoo representing my kids, and I have a rough idea of what I want. I'm going to include an image to represent each child, with some Celtic embellishments. Two of those images are easy to come up with, because one of my girls is named after a flower and the other is named after fire. They're still too young to really have fully developed personalities, but their names are close enough, and very unlikely to change. 

My boy? Meh... his name was chosen because it has a cool sound and it's "uncommon, but not weird." It's a variation of Andrew, which means "manly," which is really tough to put in an image in a way that doesn't look stupid. 

So rather than use his name as the source of inspiration, I'd rather use... I don't know. 

I'll ask my robot and see what it comes up with.

Okay... that wasn't bad.

It recommended a lion, because "lions are often associated with strength and courage," an oak tree, because "in Celtic mythology, oak trees symbolize strength and endurance," (I'm going to fact check that), and a compass, because "a compass represents direction, purpose, and the ability to navigate and find one's way." 

My kid is still too young for me to be like, "Oh yeah, that's totally him," but those were all pretty good suggestions.

For the time being, I've been using a wolf as a stand-in, because they're cool.

So, I went to an AI image generator, put in the prompt, and it spit out an image of a wolf, with no flower or fire. A few tweaks later I got it to include the flower, and it had some flames around the outside, but really. I want a flaming fireball. Not just decorative flames that aren't a main element of the image.

So, I asked ChatGPT for a prompt that an image AI would understand. I gave it a highly detailed description of what I wanted. It gave me a prompt, which I then put into StarryAI.

And it spit out...

Um... 

StarryAI... are you okay?

This is what happens when the robots join forces. 

Apparently.

More tweaks. More attempts. More recommendations from ChatGPT. More combination of letting the robot do it and using my human brain to tweak what the robot suggested.

And we got this:

This is as close as I've been able to get it. The wolf overwhelms everything, but it does include roses... and a kind of rose-shaped fire at the bottom. And hey, in the background there is an actual rose on fire. That's not helpful, but it looks cool.

And let's not even get into, "Here is a long list of stuff my dad likes. Generate 25 gift ideas for his birthday." Whoops. "Using the above interests, generate 25 gift ideas within this specified budget."

For the record, my dad does not need a set of Nordic walking poles for outdoor adventures. I'll have to ask if he wants them, though. Maybe the robot is on to something.

Anyway, when all is said and done, yeah. Robots are definitely the future. 

They're just... 

They need a little help from that human touch, you know?

I Pretty Much Only Bog When I'm Trying to Fix Myself Anymore

 Title says it all, I guess.

I skimmed through the last entry I put on this blog, and I was still trying to have another baby. The whole "trying again" thing was mostly the denial phase of the miscarriage. 

For the record, it worked. Kind of. I got pregnant. I miscarried again. I took some time to properly grieve. I haven't been able to get pregnant since. I'm now looking at the future of being a 3-kid family. I'm not 100% committed to that, but so far it's looking like that's what it's going to be. Maybe in the future I'll adopt from the system, which is free, but VERY emotionally fraught. 

That update is just a follow up to my last post. It's not why I'm here today.

I just wanted to check in. I wanted to be someone who puts my thoughts out on the Internet, for whatever reason. I don't have an audience, but there's always the chance of a serendipitous connection, where some random person finds it, reads it, and says something that helps. It also gives me the opportunity to say a thing that I can then send to someone if I can't find the words later.

It's been a lot of years now that I've struggled with depression. Healing always feels just out of reach. Things will start to get better, and then I'll crash down again. Last time I felt deep happiness was 5 years ago, during the first 6 weeks of Ember's life. That time was euphoria. Since then there have been little moments of mild happiness, but it's all muted. It's like there's a plastic film in between me and the happiness, and I can touch it, but I can't actually connect to it. 

The fact that I can feel some is improvement, though. That's a big jump from where I was a few years ago. And I can feel other things deeply. I can be sad. Sadness is nice, sometimes. As long as it's not achy grief, there's relief in it. 

In short, it's getting better, but it's not good yet. And it's been a long time. 

I'm tired.

I've also been having a lot of existential thoughts lately. I'm in the middle of a faith transition, and I kind of wish I'd been writing things down as I learn them and realize them. 

Here are a few bullet points:

* Switching religions, or quitting religion all together, isn't "losing your faith." If you are honestly looking for truth, you're not being lazy or rebellious. If your religion tells you otherwise, it's trying to retain it's numbers, not acting in your best interest.

* You are the one who defines the standards you live by. Not your church. Not any book. If you're an adult, not your parents. You get to be the one who reasons through and prays about moral questions, and comes to the conclusion that makes the most sense to you. Scriptures, church, parents... all of that can be used to inform your choices, but you can reject any - and I do mean any - piece of that that feels wrong to you.

* Life is about learning. Not achieving. Achievement can be a good teacher, but it's not the point. 

I feel like I have a lot left to go. Life is hard right now, not just from all the feelings, but from circumstances as well. And here I am, blogging like it's going to fix something.

Hey, maybe it'll help. Writing always made me feel good. 

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!

Who Even is Savannah Anymore?

It has been a loooooooooong time since I updated my blog.

Last I wrote - and I mean really wrote - I had newborn twins. They were a month old.

Now I'm sitting on my bed - a mattress and box spring on the floor - with my back against the wall, in the basement of my parents' house. My bedroom door is locked, lest said twins should decide I'm the only one who can save them from the horror of a piece of Lego that's not sticking to another piece of Lego the way they want it to.

Carl is out there trying to manage lunch, because it's my turn to take a nap... which I'm clearly doing.

So, how have the last four years been?

Well, in my humble opinion, I rocked having twins.

I really did. I was super mom. The superest of super moms.

So super, in fact, that when the twins were about 15 months old, I thought, "Hey, I'm pretty good at this! I rocked the socks off of twins. I can handle anything! Let's have another one!!!"

I'm here to tell you that, in fact, I cannot handle anything.

*

So, we'll start with when the twins were about two months old. Carl had officially failed his attempt at studying Biochem, thereby dashing hopes that he would be a pharmacist. As the last hope for Biochemistry was crumbling into rubble and dust that lit on fire, Carl took a class that combined chemistry with computers and discovered he's actually phenomenal at programming.

Too late.

We had two babies.

I had every intention to be a stay at home mom, but before I could formalize a decision on that, the company I worked for laid me off.

With the severance package they provided, Carl and I packed up our lives and moved our babies home to Missouri.

My parents offered their basement apartment to us to help us get on our feet, which we figured would take about two years.

The twins grew so quickly, and it was tough, but I still loved it. There was a point when they were about five months old that I was sure I was failing everything, but then I realized that I was actually just being dramatic and needed a nap.

When the twins were fourteen months old, Carl and I talked about having another baby. It had taken two years just to get pregnant with the twins, so we figured that was a good time to start trying. Hopefully we wouldn't need medical intervention that time, and maybe when they were three or four we would have our third baby. We decided to start trying on my next cycle.

My cycle was late.

No big deal. I've had irregular cycles my whole life.

I waited for my next cycle to start... and waited... the twins turned fifteen months old... and I waited...

I was getting frustrated.

You probably know where this is going.

Yeah. I was already pregnant.

I was due October 9th, and yes, I was a little panicked. Three babies in less than two years????? HOW THE HECK WAS I GOING TO HANDLE THAT??? OMG WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!!!

It took a couple weeks, but as soon as I started making plans, I started to calm down. We were going to get through. We would be okay. In fact, I couldn't wait to meet my baby. I had a whole list of names, and I was excited to find out if it was a boy or girl so I could narrow that list down. This was going to be amazing. I'd done a good job with twins, and this pregnancy was already SO much easier. I was at seven weeks without even a trace of morning sickness. In fact, other than a couple weird dreams, I hadn't had any symptoms at all!

I could handle it.

I could handle anything.

At eight weeks the bleeding started.

Then the cramping.

I hadn't been to the doctor yet, but I'd made my first appointment. Instead of waiting for that appointment, I went early to find out if everything was okay.

No heartbeat.

The shriveled up figure on the ultrasound only measured six weeks.

Two days later my uterus dumped the remains of my baby.

It was bloody and agonizingly painful as my body expunged everything it had spent two months building, and my heart was crushed. Even though the timing had been terrible, I wanted that baby. Yes, it was going to be hard. But I would do anything, even squeeze three babies into two years, to have my baby.

There's a thing about miscarriage, though.

You are fertile after a miscarriage. Your body is flooded with hormones, and for someone like me, who struggles to have the necessary hormones to create or sustain a pregnancy, the timing couldn't be better.

And I knew that.

I didn't even wait for another cycle. I did everything in my power to make sure those extra hormones didn't go to waste.

April 7, 2017, I took a pregnancy test.

Positive.

My heart still ached for the baby I had lost, but that ache died down some knowing the future had so much waiting for me.

That pregnancy was far easier than the twin pregnancy, but it was still difficult to manage with two babies running around. There were plenty of times Carl came home from work to find me passed out on the couch with the kids running amok.

Still, I was determined to be the same level of super-mom I always was, and I kept the chaos more or less under control. Yes, there were moments of disaster, but I always came back from it.

As my due date neared, I started having dreams. The twins kept falling into water. Over and over I would have a dream where the kids would fall into water. A lake. A pool. A river. The water was frequently placid, but murky. Once it was even a sea green hue. And then I would have dreams where I returned to Utah for a vacation, but I always forgot to do the things I had loved. I forgot to see Gena. I forgot to eat at Café Rio. I would get to the end of the trip and realize I hadn't done any of the things I had been longing to do.

Ember came a little early. She was born December 1, 2017, a mere three weeks after the twins turned two. She was 6 1/2 pounds, and a teeny, tiny ball of ferocious happiness.

The twins loved her! She was their baby, and they adored everything about her. They were eager to help me change diapers, to give her kisses, and to hold her. She settled into the family immediately, and none of us knew how we ever lived without her.

I was in a state of bliss. I've heard about postpartum depression, but I had something completely opposite. I existed in a fog of euphoria, with my little baby on my chest, and my little toddlers running around. There is something about Ember's soul that makes her irresistible. Her touch is calming, and my adoration for her bordered on absolute obsession. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I felt sad about how I'd never had that with the twins, and I wondered if it was because there were two of them, and I was just too exhausted, or if there was something unique about Ember that drew people into her.

Six weeks later, the obsession faded.

My soul emptied out.

Everything I had and everything I was swelled into my chest, converted to breast milk, and then got sucked out of me.

I vaguely remembered something like that from the twins, and I held tight. Twelve weeks and I'll feel like myself again.

Twelve weeks came, and I felt the pressure start to ease.

But I never fully came back.

I had moments. Sometimes the twins would nap - actually nap - and I would get moments alone with Ember. Annalaé Rose more or less stopped napping before Ember was born, so quiet nap times were rare. I think I can count on one hand the moments when all three children were sleeping at the same time. But in those very rare moments when the twins were both quiet in their cribs, I would take Ember outside, take pictures of her, and enjoy one on one time with my baby.

And I did my absolute best to be the best mom I could for each of my twins as well. Annalaé Rose stopped sleeping through the night when Ember was about a month old, so there were some late nights with her... mostly spent with me and/or Carl crying and begging her to sleep. Carl and I arranged one on one time to take them out to the store or out to dinner. Anders was pretty chill, as long as he got his snuggles in.

I did a pretty good job. I kept supering my superest. I made every breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, and bedtime bottle. I taught the twins to count. I quizzed them on their letters until they knew the sounds for all 26 letters of the alphabet. I played games with them. I got on my knees and talked them through their tantrums. I enforced the rules consistently and put them in timeouts when they misbehaved. I did loads and loads of laundry. I reduced the clutter and kept the house at an acceptable level of cleanliness (far from perfect, but acceptable). I changed diaper after diaper after diaper after diaper after diaper. Three butts needed diapering, and I diapered all the butts, all of every day.

I took care of my husband's needs, just as he was taking care of mine. We teamed the teamiest of teams. He would come home from work an hour before bedtime and help change diapers, cook dinner, and whatever else needed to be done. Then we'd bathe the kids, clean the whole house, read scriptures, read stories, sing songs, say prayers, and tuck our two little munchkins into their beds. After that I would disappear into my bedroom with Ember and nurse her for half an hour - an hour - whatever it took, until she fell asleep. While I was doing that, Carl made sure the twins stayed in their beds, while working on his writing. He wasn't sure how he was going to change our financial situation, since we couldn't afford to send him back to school - in time or money - but he knew he was a good writer. So he started a blog and focused on getting one short story up every week. I supported him as well as I could, and even offered to take over his most time-consuming chore for him, because I'm not just Super Mom... I'm Super Wife too. I'm supportive like that.

I made sure that I didn't just keep my focus on my kids' needs - I remembered my husband and his needs too.

And I took care of me too! Twice a week I'd go grocery shopping all by myself. That's right. I was supering my super mom, and multitasking me-time with the grocery shopping, thereby saving more time to stay on top of my to-do list, so I wouldn't get overwhelmed.

Oh, and cloth diapers. They're better for the environment, better for your budget, and SO freaking adorable. I had some friends that were really into them, always talking about how much money they weren't spending on disposable diapers. Since we were now nearly three years into our stay in my parents' basement, and our first attempt to buy a house had ended with the reality that we just didn't have the money for that, a chance to reduce the diaper budget was essential. I moved from disposable to cloth.

Then the funniest thing happened. Super Mom started to grow laser eyes. Ice breath. Fire.

I noticed I had good days and bad days. Around October it was a good day if I made it through the day without yelling at anyone.

By December, a good day was if I made it through breakfast.

I was angry all the time, and I didn't want to touch, hear, or even look at my kids. Every snuggle felt like an act of martyrdom. I gritted my teeth and spoke the words, "I love you," with as much tenderness as I could infuse into my voice, because I knew that beneath it all, it was true. I did love my kids, and I would die if I lost them. But I couldn't force myself to feel that emotion, no matter how hard I tried to make it come back.

Timeouts became longer, more frequent, more inconsistent. They happened for pettier and pettier offences, while some major offences went undisciplined because I just didn't have the strength to stand up and put the toddler in the timeout chair.

I knew I was falling apart, but I didn't know what else I could do.

Somewhere around then we got the news - the company Carl worked for was closing, and he was out of a job.

I should have been upset and stressed, but I was intensely relieved. He was going to be home, and I was going to have more help with the every day. And yes, he would need to job hunt and find a new job, and it was going to eat into the money we had scrimped up to go into a house fund, but he would be home.

During his last couple weeks of work, an article tore through social media, talking about the effects of burnout - how Millennials are frequently labeled as lazy and weak because they get "anxiety" for such simple tasks like mailing bills or returning phone calls, but Millennials are a generation that runs beyond full capacity. They try to do it all, all at once, and frequently fall apart and become immobilized by the simplest of things, because they have nothing left to give. And then people tell them they're just being lazy.

That article hit me through my soul, because I was utterly immobilized by some of the simplest of things - picking up a toddler for hitting and putting them in a timeout. It's not hard. But it requires standing up. And I just... I can't right now. I'll just pretend I didn't see it. Biting back my temper, taking a deep breath. I've done it a million and a half times. Why can't I now? Why am I turning on my two year old and yelling at them like they're somehow supposed to understand that holding my leg when I'm trying to cook inconveniences me? And how is that flood of rage even a little bit proportionate to the offense of standing in my way when I've asked them to move three times already? They're three. They're toddlers.

The article talked about the importance of self care, and gave some suggestions for how to do it. Not just "have time for yourself," but to pay attention to what activities leave you feeling filled up, and not drained. Taking a yoga class isn't self care if the teacher bothers you and you leave feeling anxious and judged. And for me, grocery shopping leaves me tired. Yes, I'm by myself, but I'm tired.

As soon as the company closed and Carl was home more, I launched into a phase of self care. I went for a walk outside every day. No exceptions. If it was too cold, I got in the car, drove somewhere, and ate yummy food. I did things that left me feeling better. I gave myself a minimum of an hour every single day, where I just did things that made me feel good.

It didn't take long. After a few short weeks, I wanted to hold my kids again. I enjoyed the sounds of their giggles, their mispronounced words, the funny things they did. I stopped yelling at everything. With Carl around to handle the discipline when necessary, I really stopped yelling at all. I could just turn around and say, "Anders, go get Daddy." Or, "Carl, Anna Rose is driving me crazy." He shouldered so much of that burden, and I felt myself starting to come back.

During that time, when I had the energy to process what I was going through, I started to learn some lessons about life itself. I started to see perfection in a new light, and to get a healthier understanding of what was required of me. I found new ways to approach life, and learned what things I could simply let go, and let fail.

Six weeks into unemployment, the financial strain was starting to eat at me. Our house fund was shrinking, and I was back to functioning capacity, which meant I needed Carl to work more than I needed him home. He was offered a job, but they didn't start until mid-March, so he kept looking.

Eventually, mid-March rolled around with no other jobs in sight, so after two and half months of financial strain but lots of self-care for me, we started a new routine. I was back to solo stay-at-home-parenting.

I was careful this time. I let the clutter in my house build up, because that was one area I didn't mind failing. I kept things basically clean, but not in any way orderly. I made sure my me-time was spent doing things I liked, not multi-tasking with what needed to be done.

Even though I was careful, the demands returned. Meal after meal, laundry after laundry, timeout after timeout, snuggle after snuggle, lesson after lesson, mess after mess, diaper after diaper, potty treat after potty treat, cleaning up pee over and over as Anna Rose learned to potty train and Anders flunked potty training for the second year running.

I refused to let the anger come back. Somehow, I don't even know how, I managed to turn it off. Even though I had sunk into exhaustion again, I kept my temper under control.

Honestly, I was so afraid I would get that far down again. I hated how angry I had become at the end of 2018. As 2019 progressed, and I felt myself sinking into that exhaustion, I was terrified I would lose myself to that anger again. I held it back, and while there really were days I felt anger, I refused to let it become a part of me, or the way I responded to my kids.

And you know what? I didn't really feel much else either. Just tired. And guilty. And pretty hopeless too. And tired. Did I mention tired? Always so, so, so tired.

As I watched my progress reverse, I wondered about depression. It had been so long since anything other than food had brought me positive emotion, but I had no history of mental health disorders. It was just burnout, right? Burnout can look an awful lot like depression, but it's not the same thing. But even when I was getting enough sleep at night, I was still physically tired.

My mom has thyroid problems. Same with my maternal grandma. And women are more prone to them. Must be my thyroid.

I finally went to the doctor, hoping for a pill that would fix it. All I need is a thyroid pill or something.

I walked out of that appointment with perfectly normal blood work and a mental health diagnosis.

Depression.

The real thing. Not burnout. Not my thyroid. Nothing I can fix with a nap or maybe a simple, easy to prescribe pill. My brain isn't doing what my brain is supposed to do.

My attempts to find a counselor fell through - my insurance wouldn't cover squat, and the one I could afford who treated depression wasn't taking any new patients. But, I took my doctor's suggestions, starting with one night a week devoted to me. My "me-time" had grown more inconsistent as the demands crept up, and it was usually only an hour or so. She ordered a three-hour minimum, at least once a week, and talked to me a little about what depression looks like.

In a way, it was helpful just having the diagnosis. I could take all the guilt I felt and combat it with, "This is just a symptom. It's not real." And I felt guilt over the silliest of things. I fed the kids corn dogs? Guilt. I said something that wasn't rude or anything, but might have been more impactful if I'd phrased it differently? Guilt. I ignored a phone call from an unknown number? What if someone needed to talk to me, and they were on their last hope, and now they're going to commit suicide. Guilt. Everything was guilt, guilt, guilt. And there was guilt over big things too. I told Anna Rose to just stop crying already when she was clearly upset and needed compassion. Guilt. Ember fell off the couch and got hurt. Guilt. The kids are fighting. Guilt. But with my diagnosis, I was able to take that guilt, and tell it where it could stick it, because it was just my brain malfunctioning, like depressed brains do.

Having the diagnosis also helped me say no to people. My mom asked me to help with taking care of her horses, and help with the farm work that was overwhelming her. And yeah, any other time, I would have looked at the fact that I'm living in her house for free, and that is 100% a fair request. But I had absolutely nothing left to give, and for the first time I was able to look at her, and with a clear conscience tell her that she was trying to drink from a dry well. Church callings? Ha. No. I don't have any responsibilities at church, other than taking care of my kid with separation anxiety who won't let me out of her sight long enough to go to nursery.

There was one point, maybe a month or so after the fateful visit to the doctor, where I was standing outside, pushing Anders in the swing. I don't know where the girls were. Maybe they were playing in the dirt. Maybe they were inside with Carl. Either way, it was just me and Anders, playing outside. Summer was dying down, and the sun was warm, but the faintest hint of a breeze was gentle and cool. The air smelled like grass and leaves, and birds were chirping. In the swing, Anders was laughing and kicking and being generally euphoric every time I pushed him. I looked around at everything - flowers, summer breeze, giggling toddler, a perfect day - and all I could think was, "Huh. I don't feel anything. Just... sort of empty. Not happy. Not sad. Just empty. This sort of thing used to make me high."

I had good days and bad days. On the good days, I would simply live my life. I didn't mind life at all. I'd just do what needed to be done, maybe do something enjoyable too. Eating was always pleasant, and even brought me genuine happiness, but the doctor told me not to let my "me-days" center around food.

The bad days were a fog of swirling thoughts, guilt, and anger. I never went back to my temper, but I was frustrated and angry with myself and hopeless that we would ever get out of the rut we were in. Another year was going by and we still couldn't afford a house, and all my attempts to save money were being upset by cars breaking and teeth hurting and thousands of dollars of unexpected expenses. I'd lived with a toothache for a solid year because I didn't want to pay for a root canal, but by October I couldn't take the pain anymore. I sucked it up and forked out the $665 to fix my tooth.

Somewhere around the end of the year, I realized the bad days weren't coming so often anymore. They still happened, but instead of being 80-90% of my days, they were only 30-40% or so. They still hurt when they came, but they weren't coming so much.

Not long after that, Ember did something small, something cute, and I felt a little rush of happiness. Something other than food had brought that emotion on.

And in December I found the energy to exercise again. It wasn't much - just pacing around the house and getting a higher step count - but it's the main exercise I've had a history of doing consistently. I managed to walk an average of 4,689 steps in the month of December, which brought my yearly average up to a whole 3,003. (For reference, the W.H.O. recommends a minimum of 10,000 steps a day to maintain a healthy body.)

Now it's February, 2020. Mine and Carl's seventh anniversary, in fact. There are still good days and bad days, but the bad days are sitting around 10-20% of the time. My monthly step count for January was 6,452, and February... well... I'm not going to lie, it's off to a terrible start. I got sick on February 1st, and now, 8 days later, I still have acute laryngitis and a bad cough. My step count so far is only 5,264, but I still have 2/3 of the month left to bring it back up as soon as I get this sickness under control.

Ember is napping, the twins are talking happily, and I just spent two hours catching my blog up on the last four years.

Of course, it's four years, and a LOT has happened in that time. One post can't even come close to covering it. But right now I'm hyper-focused on my health, both mental and physical, so detailing my experience with depression seemed like a good place to focus this life-update.

And honestly, I'm coming out of it. I'm getting things under control, and my head is above water again.

We're still in my parents' basement, but Carl got accepted to a non-profit that teaches programming and web development. He's been taking classes for that for a while now, and only has a month of class left. After that he'll get an apprenticeship, and then hopefully a job. Maybe, just maybe, this will be the year we make it out on our own.

Either way, I'm getting better. Yesterday Carl and I had a very long day out for our anniversary, walking around Crown Center and checking out the sights in Kansas City. It was a lot like the things we used to do, before we had kids. It reminded me of our trips to Seattle, Nehalem Bay, Garden of the Gods, Laguna Beach... that's who we used to be. Taking pictures. Having fun. Talking about what ifs and stories and the future we're building together. It was nice to be out and remember what used to be... and even find some new things we can do as a family. (Legoland is so happening for the twins' fifth birthday, and Kaleidoscope is a free art center we can do at any point before that.)

I don't know if I'll ever feel the way I used to feel, or if that Savannah doesn't even exist anymore, but I like my life. Whatever the heck it is right now, I like it. I like my three little maniacs, I like my life-partner and story-builder husband, and I like seeing my upward progress. No, I'm not where I want to be. Yet. And I can't even see it on the horizon. Yet. But I can see how the road I'm on now will take me there. And I like that.

Maybe I'll Blog Again

The last year and a half has been a hell of a ride.

I'm looking for ways to write, and ways to do things that make me feel a little more human, and a little less slave-zombie, so maybe it's time to start blogging again.

That said, I'm also refusing to commit to anything, so maybe it's time to blog once or twice and then not blog again for another two years.

You know... like last time.

I still haven't figured out what to do about how transient blogs are, and how difficult it is to create a physical copy, but at least if I update once or twice it'll keep the account active. Worst case scenario, I'll copy my favorite posts to a Word document and print them out.

Ha ha.

No I won't.

Let's be honest. I've had "Make a Cousins Notebook" on my to-do list for the last 3 years and I haven't even gotten started. (If you're wondering, that's a notebook with pictures of all my kids' extended family so they can have a comprehensive list of who they're related to. They're up to 31 first cousins now. Eat that, My Big Fat Greek Wedding!)

Anyway, this is basically just an intro post to the possibility of blogging regularly again... if I do that... which I'm not committing to.

Next up, where I've been for the last 4 years, and what I've been doing.

Wow... hiatus much?

Wow, people of the Internet.

I haven't blogged in SOOOOO long!!!

Why?

Well, I'm freaking tired, pretty much.

Also, I haven't found a cost effective way to print my blog, so I kinda feel like everything I write on here is doomed to disappear into oblivion at some point in the future, and will never be shelved with my voluminous collection of journals. Seriously. I'm working on my 14th journal this year. I didn't even start journaling regularly until I was in my late teens. And this? This is a cool place to write words that other people may read, but I feel like I'm going to lose them, and they will never be preserved for my progeny.

Same with Facebook. Could someone please invent a cost effective way to print out your Facebook? That is SUCH an interesting peek into the lives and interests of the early 21st Century that historians of the future would be ecstatic to get their hands on.

You know, because 300 years from now, all things on the Internet will probably be lost. I really doubt anybody keeps physical archives of everybody's social media accounts, and all that data is going to get overwritten at some point.

Or lost in a techpocalypse.

A techpocalypse that occurs after all physical books have been converted to digital format, and there has been a movement to "save the trees" by outlawing the printing of new physical books, and bunches of paper books have been burned to make a statement against the destruction of trees for paper, and then World War III breaks out and the physical archives are all burned on both sides, and THEN there's the techpocalypse.

Of course, following that scenario, 1500 years later, historians would try to piece together the pantheon of the ancient world. This pantheon would included gods like Tweeton, who could change from human to bird, flying the globe in a matter of seconds, delivering firy justice, typically for fairly petty offenses.

There would also be the goddess Instagrametha, the goddess of beauty and vanity, who strangely carried an intense distain for female nudity, and would banish all humans who dared to show women in the "tasteless" form of nude, even if it was merely nude from the waist up.

The historians would be unsure of the role of the god Tumbliter, but they would assume from what little they could find of his worshippers that he generally rewarded sarcasm and held the fair skinned in great disdain.

Then they would keep finding references to some Tome of Heads that they couldn't quite figure out. From all those references it would seem that this book was fairly ubiquitous in the society, and nearly everyone made it a goal to write in it. Or on it. They would never be quite sure. Perhaps it was not a book. Perhaps it was a wall, as so many references would seem to suggest. This Tome of Heads would certainly be the greatest mystery the ancients had left behind.

Basically, writing in a blog seems so transient... such a fragile record. Why would I keep writing in it?

Maybe because I miss actually speaking to an audience when I write down my thoughts.

Yeah. There's also that.

And maybe, sometime in the future, someone will offer a "print your blog" service where you can print 7 years of blogging without it costing upwards of $200. Then I can make a huge volume and stick it on my journal shelf.

Perspective

I should make a list of all the idiotic things I thought before the twins were born.

For example: "I'll have so much more time when I'm not working 40 hours a week! Yes, motherhood is a lot of work, but I'll be at home, so I can multitask."

Heh.

I'm multitasking right now. I'm blogging with one hand while I hold my son's pacifier in his mouth with the other. I'm also holding my daughter's pacifier. Yes, two pacifiers with one hand. My pacifier hand is also being used to massage my son's tummy, because he's in process of having his first poop in 3 days, and he's not happy about how his intestines feel.

And now they're both fussing and I can no longer blog with one hand.

...

...later...

You want to know what else is multitasking? Rocking a car seat in the bathroom because you only have one baby swing and it's occupied by the other baby, who is also watching you do your business on the toilet, because you had to put them somewhere while you go to the bathroom, and since all 3 of you are pooping right now, you might as well make it a party.

...later...

Okay, my husband is home, holding one baby, while the other one has finally managed to get to sleep without dropping his pacifier. These moments are sacred. I got the laundry folded and now I can (hopefully) finish this blog post.

Anyway, what I'd like to do is go back about 5 weeks, & give my younger self a quick reality check.

I'd tell her that feeding a baby is not a quick, 15 minute deal, especially when there are 2 of them. Feeding times take a minimum of an hour every time (frequently longer), and there are 6-8 of them each day. Add to that an hour or two worth of time spent changing diapers each day, and you end up spending more time than your full time job just on their digestive systems. Also, you're doing this at 3:00 AM. And on weekends.

Add to that bonding time, comforting sore tummies, replacing dropped pacifiers, washing endless amounts of spit up covered clothes, blankets, and burp rags, washing bottles, bathing babies every few days, and babies that just plain don't want to be put down, and you're lucky to get some toast made here and there.

Another feeding time is coming soon... but not yet! I'm going to take a quick shower!

Oh wait... baby girl is threatening to go hysterical, & if she's hungry, there's not much Daddy can do about that. Looks like the shower will need to wait.

(Note: I'd also tell my 5 weeks ago self that she'll love this crazy job WAY more than the day-in, day-out of 40 hours a week at a desk. Little to no breaks is worth the payoff.)

Baby Haikus

Caring for newborn twins is fun. Never before have I requested divine intervention for defecation and flatulence.

Last night, around 5:00 AM, whilst lost to the throes of exhaustion, my brain suddenly turned on creative mode, & I found myself composing haikus, of all things. 

Now, infant haikus to my children are my new thing. Here is a sampling of my work. (The 2nd one to my son, Anders, is the result of my 5:00 AM creative session.)

For Anders: 

A storm is coming. 

You haven't pooped in five days. 

I will make you poop!

For Annalaé Rose:

It's just a diaper. 

You are not being murdered. 

Did you just turn blue?

For Anders:

Sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep. 

Don't drop your pacifier. 

Omg please sleep. 

For Annalaé Rose, 3 haikus in succession:

That wasn't a burp. 

Your grunts don't fool me. 

Burp, or no more food. 

Oh, now you're fussing. 

Meh, that could have been a burp. 

K, but you owe me. 

Now you are sleeping. 

I never got a good burp. 

Please don't puke on me. 

Edit: I've been doing a lot of these and posting them on Facebook. I'd like them all in the same spot, so I'm adding them here until I can make a file.

For Annalaé Rose:

There's this thing I do.

I sleep during burping time.

Mommy just loves it!

A conversation with my daughter (in haikus, of course):

O hysteria!

"Life after birth is so hard!

How will I survive?"

"Why the tears, my love?"

"I farted myself awake!"

Oh. Of course you did.

Now a haiku about myself:

I need healthy food. 

Oh look. Babies are awake. 

Pop Tarts it is, then.

Anders's haikus to his pacifier:

O pacifier!

You were made to be spit out.

Now I cry for you. 

Daddy puts you back,

So I spit you out again.

Now I cry for you.

Daddy puts you back,

Roughly seven hundred times,

Since I cry for you.

O pacifier!

None of us will ever sleep,

When I cry for you.

Meanwhile, with Annalaé Rose...

Oh, I'm so hungry!

Latch onto Daddy's bicep. 

That's not a nipple. 

Oh, I'm so hungry!

Latch onto Mommy's armpit.

SO not a nipple. 

Oh, I'm so hungry!

Yummy! Mommy's collar bone!

Nope, not a nipple. 

Oh, I'm so hungry!

Daddy's nose looks so tasty!

Was that a nipple?

Finaly, I burp. 

Hey look, the bottle is back!

At last, a nipple.

How to Pronounce Annalaé Rose

Annalaé is pronounced Anna-lay. Not Anna-lee. And, as Carl said, that's Anna like banana, and not like the little sister on Frozen.

People have a hard time with the Annalaé part of my child's name, even when I say it out loud. I can't tell you how many times people have asked, "Oh, what are you naming your babies?" and when I say, "The boy is Anders, and the girl is Annalaé Rose," they respond with, "Annalee Rose! That's so pretty!"

**facepalm**

I. Just. Said. It. Out. Loud.

Now, if you're reading it, and not hearing it said out loud, I can see the confusion. Like, you can see that it includes the word "Anna," but what the heck is that laé business? Accent over the e? How do you even pronounce that? Are you absolutely sure you want to name your child that? Because school teachers are never going to figure out how to say it and your daughter will be correcting roll call pretty much her entire life.

Yeah, I've heard it all, and I'm still naming my daughter Annalaé Rose. And yes, 2 first names to boot. (Her middle name is Ilana, in case you were wondering.) Originally, when I came up with the name at the age of 16, I had it spelled Annalé Rose, which I still think looks much cleaner and prettier, but it also looks like A-nail, which is a terrible way to have your name mispronounced. So, I threw in an "a" to confuse everyone.

Now, I'm well aware Annalaé Rose is a really big mouthful, and no, I don't expect people to use it every time they address or talk about her. Here are some acceptable nicknames:

Anna Rose: 1 less syllable, and the title of a Vienna Teng lullaby to boot.

Aria: It's her initials. Carl didn't want to name our child Aria, even though I loved the name, so we compromised and made it Annalaé Rose's initials, and agreed it can be used as a nickname. (Spoiler, it probably won't actually be used, but it is available if anyone wants to.)

Rosie: Short, simple, cute.

And I'm sure more nicknames will present themselves as time goes on.

So, yes. I'm giving my child a name that has withstood the test of time. Of all the names I've come up with over the years, Annalaé Rose is the one that has lasted. Elizabeth stayed a couple years. Chloe came and went. But this one? I've loved it for nearly 14 years, and I'm sticking with it.

This pronunciation lesson brought to you by someone who has been called "Samantha" her whole life, but is not actually named Samantha, and therefore doesn't care what people think.

4 days old

My twins, Anders and Annalaé Rose, are now 4 days old. I've learned a lot about motherhood in the last 4 days.

Chief among the lessons I have learned is that no matter how much warning you've been given, there is nothing that truly prepares you for it. 

I mean seriously. My understanding of what motherhood entails seems very clinical compared to what I've experienced in a piddly half week. 

When most people talk about motherhood, they'll tell you about the irrational and unconditional love, but until I went 4 hours without holding either of them, I didn't realize that translated to a desperate need, & a total craving to feel them against my chest and look at their little faces. I imagine it will wear off to a degree, but I love peeking in on them as they sleep to fill that need. 

I was also told about the exhaustion, but again, while I understood what it felt like to be exhausted, I didn't understand being awake at 4:30 AM, having not slept the entire night after averaging 2-4 hours of sleep all week (also after a major abdominal surgery), comfort nursing my son while my husband - who also hasn't slept more than 2-4 hours a night and has to get up for work and school in 2 hours - paces with our daughter, neither of us having any clue what's making our babies cry. I went through the list. Hungry? No, they just ate. Poopy? No, we just changed them. Too hot? Maybe, but taking off one of the blankets wrapped around them like a burrito didn't help a thing. Too cold? Impossible. Our bedroom is at least 5 degrees warmer than the hospital room. Sick, then? Possible. Neither of them were able to muster very effective burps after their last meal, & my girl has a rocket case of the hiccups. Maybe their tummies have too many bubbles. 

As our daughter settled into a fitful sleep and our son began to fuss because my still-developing milk supply ran out, my husband looked at me with heavy bags under his eyes, and a slight smile quirked at the corner of his mouth, which then quickly fell back into the neutral expression that takes so many fewer muscles to pull off. 

"This is what we signed up for," he whispered, stroking our little girl's head. 

And I nodded, because it's exactly what we signed up for, & we knew very well that babies meant sleep deprivation, even if we had no clue what that actually felt like. 

And even then, pacing around and burping my son while the incision in my stomach ached and begged me to just lay down, as I was coming to understand what "sleep deprivation" really felt like, that craving was still there. I needed Anders and Annalaé Rose so badly, and I needed to know what was bothering them so I could make it stop. 

Then there are hormones and emotion that everyone warns you about. The emotion started on Day 2, when the lactation consultant came to help me breastfeed. I had very little milk/colostrum at all and had to supplement with formula while using otherwise pointless breastfeeding to stimulate production. It's a fairly normal scenario, & I knew it was irrational to feel like a failure, but between the breastfeeding class where they tell you not to give your child a pacifier for 3 weeks to avoid nipple confusion, & that breastfed babies are smarter than formula fed babies, I definitely felt like a second rate mom for not only using formula, but giving in to the pacifier in the very first night. 

Yeah, for the record, my head knows better than that, & I'm a first rate mom for sacrificing my exclusive breastfeeding goal to insure my babies got the nutrition they needed. 

Even though the intense emotion started 2 days ago, this morning there were more tears. Not for any reason. Just because I'm so tired, and my babies slept too long after we finally got them down and woke up hungry, and I just love them so much, and my mom made me French toast and rubbed my legs, and my pain pills wore off while I slept, and basically feelings. 

They're napping now, and Annalaé Rose is squeaking in her sleep. I'm lying in bed, trying to nap while I process all these thoughts and emotions. There's so much to get done - I'm still recording the birth in my journal, and am only to the part where they whisked Annalaé Rose away without letting me see her, because she wasn't breathing. I wanted to do a birth announcement too, with a creative theme, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to just scratch that. "Hey, I had twins and here are some pics from my phone" on Facebook is really effective enough. It's survival mode now. 

So, to sum things up, motherhood is wonderful, but there's nothing to really prepare you for it besides jumping in. And if any of my non-parent friends are wondering, the joy of motherhood doesn't look anything like this:

It looks much more like this:

And it's worth it.

It's a sign!

It's funny how, apart from mommy forums, people don't really talk about the signs of impending labor. I suppose that's probably because most of them have to do with body parts that are taboo to talk openly about and/or things that look like they were drooled by Jabba the Hutt. 

Of course, once you get pregnant and start reading those mommy forums, people are all like, "Yeah, here's a picture of a glob of bloody mucous I found in my underwear this morning. I think I'm about to go into labor," and you're sitting there just going, "Um.... Ew?"

We talk about contractions, though. The problem with contractions is that they start MONTHS before you give birth, & not a week or two like the other symptoms. I first noticed contractions on September 12, when my mom pointed them out to me after my baby shower. I'd apparently been having them for a while, but since I didn't know what to look for, I didn't know they were happening. 

That was almost 2 months ago. Obviously not proof I'd be birthing babies anytime in the immediate future. And yet, it's the only symptom I knew to expect up front. I'm only just learning about some of the other, more pain-centered symptoms, and I'm learning as I experience them. 

Now, at 37 weeks (1 week after the doctors told me to expect to go into labor on my own... those jerks), I'm getting the unmentionable signs. I've had them for a week now, so we know it's soon. Very soon. Within the next 7 days, for sure. 

Know what the biggest sign is? The absolute proof that I'll go into labor within a week? 

I have a C-section scheduled in a week. 

Yeah. 

Both my twins are breech, meaning C-section, and I'm not going a day past 38 weeks. 

That makes for a pretty good sign of labor, don't you think? 

Priorities

Last Sunday I posted a very historic photo. It was the Super Blood Moon, a phenomenon that is really only once in a generation. Not only is it rare, but it is loaded with significance. Even today, in our modern and secular society, there are people who believe it's an omen of impending destruction.

I spent close to 2 hours fighting a tripod that was in a slight breeze, waiting for just the right moment, & I finally got a perfect picture of the event.

It was a tad grainy, but overall it captured the phenomenon better than anyone else in my news feed, apart from NASA. 

It did pretty well, as far as Facebook recognition goes. 19 likes, which is a good sized number for the crowd my posts usually draw. 

Then, three days later, I posted another picture. It garnered twice the number of likes, showing that it was clearly more important to people than this historic astronomical event. 

What could people possibly love so much more than a once in a generation event that is loaded with historical and religious significance? 

Cake. 

Obviously. 

Eureka!

Whilst organizing my "random junk" drawer in my desk at work, I just discovered I've had Altoids for the last 3 years.

Cinnamon Altoids.

'Tis a beautiful day.

Saturated Markets are Lame.

YA Paranormal Romance is my guilty pleasure genre. Twilight was my introduction to it, and like Eragon is many kids' introduction to the Hero's Journey formula, I was so taken with the elements of the formula that I was more or less blind to its faults for quite a while. Twilight hit the YA Paranormal Romance formula so well that it's no wonder it made such an incredible butt load of money. And it served as an entry to the genre for thousands of teenagers.

Of course, the more I read of the genre, the more I could pick apart where Twilight wasn't that good of a book, just as a lot of former Eragon fans like to complain that it is horribly cliche, and Star Wars/Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings/Everybody else did it better. And then came the Twilight sequels, and by the time I got to the fourth book, I just couldn't force myself to like it anymore.

But, it did introduce me to the genre, and since then I've read a good amount of YA Paranormal Romance.

Most of the books were somewhere between pretty good and great, and it was always fun to see how they pulled off different magic systems. I read one with Native American magic (the spirit animals were especially cool), one with Fae magic, and one with unexplained time travel, just to name a few.

The weird magic systems, however, were the ones based on Christian mythology. My first experience with that was Cassandra Clare's Mortal Instruments trilogy. Now, she made the magic system distinct enough that it was more or less easy to separate it from Christian doctrine, and to recognize it as a mythology. She played with angels and demons, and more or less left God out of it. The first experience was a little weird, but by the time I got to the third book I didn't even notice it anymore. Also, the addition of rune magic helped add a foreign element that made the use of Christian mythology easier to separate from doctrine.

Still, I wondered if I should really own the books. As much as I liked them, I was reading them in my 20's, and I knew that someday I'd have a 12 or 13 year old girl in the house, sorting through the books in my library, looking for something new to read. And a young teen may not have the experience necessary to separate doctrine from mythology.

Then I encountered Fallen, by Lauren Kate.

Now, I'll admit, I bought the book for the cover. Actually, I bought the first book in the series for the cover of the fourth book. I saw the add for it in the store, gasped at how beautiful it was, then looked it up and found out it was a long way into a series. So, I bought the first book (which also had a stunning cover), and read it in a single day.

Again, the magic system was based in Christian mythology. Except instead of angels and demons, it primarily dealt with fallen angels. And, again, it more or less left God out of the equation, except in backstory. The first book was good, so I bought the second.

The second one... not so much. First, it just didn't draw me in as well. Since I only read it once, I never bothered to pick apart why, but it really just didn't do the trick the same way the first one did. But more importantly than that, it did bring God into the equation, and it presented Him as a tyrant who punished anyone who dared question Him, and made Him out to be the exact opposite of everything I believe God to be.

And that one... I just couldn't separate. I couldn't dismiss that as, "Oh, this is just mythology." It was dealing with the nature of God, and it didn't deal with it well.

And so,I decided I wasn't going to own that series when I had kids. I don't need a book giving them such a negative view of God. They need to see Him as a source of comfort and guidance and love, not a tyrannical ruler who demands submission or else pain and your own perfectly crafted hell will follow.

So, I tried to hock it at a garage sale. That didn't work. Garage sale books go for like 50 cents a piece, and I wanted to recoup some of the money I'd spent on the beautifully designed hardcovers.

Flash forward to today. Lately we've been going through our books and movies and weeding out anything we really don't feel should be in the house with our kids (bye bye, Vampire Diaries season 2! I won't miss you). Incidentally, morally objectionable isn't the only criteria. I got rid of a painfully stupid movie adaptation of a book I loved because I don't want to watch it over and over and over when the kids are too young to realize just how retarded it is. Yeah. "Puerile" and "Stupid" are definitely valid criteria for clearing movies out of your collection.

Anyway, so far we've sold 3 of the books we listed on Amazon, and tonight I realized I still haven't listed the Lauren Kate books. So, I pulled out those gorgeous hardcovers with their stunning dust jackets, and I scanned them into my Amazon app.

Remember how Twilight was the introduction to the YA Paranormal Romance genre for thousands - if not millions - of girls? And anyone who walked through the YA section of a bookstore - or even passed the YA section of a bookstore - in the years following Twilight could undoubtedly see its influence. Vampires, dark magic, gothic covers, teen girls angsting everywhere.

Well, these books are post-Twilight angsty-gothic teen girl novels. And I'm pretty sure the craze is not just over, but so over, because when I looked them up, I found they're selling used for a penny each. That's the hardcover that's selling for such a pittance. No mass market paperbacks - gorgeous hardcovers. And new isn't much better. $3 a piece. When shipping costs and Amazon commissions are added into that, I'd be paying Amazon to get rid of them.

It's a pity I'm not out to buy any post-Twilight angsty-gothic teen novels right now. I'm more into stuff like Guess How Much I Love You, Dinosaurs on the Go, and Milo's Hat Trick. (Incidentally - that hat trick book is the most adorable story of a magician trying to salvage his magic act and getting a bear to jump out of his hat. Totally cute and recommended for any and all picture-book aged kids.)

Anyway, it's starting to look like I won't be recouping any of the money I spent on those books. I mean, I did spend the money like 5 or 6 years ago, but still. I hate the idea of just handing over something that should be worth like 10 bucks.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when paranormal romance comes into fashion, the market gets saturated, and then everybody wants dystopia. Hunger Games, look what you did.