Work stress

School cancelled again. This morning due to icy rain and super slick road conditions. Okay then. I'll just have to keep the kids entertained with various busywork activities all day while I attempt to get work done so my boss doesn't notice I'm completely distracted by these little people who are constantly nagging me for more snack! More milk! More shows! God help me.

Morning started off well enough. The kids ate a decent breakfast and then settled into the couch to watch a few of their favorite shows. I was able to get a few things done and then the reminder of the conference call popped onto my screen.

Shit.

Ran over to plead with the kids to be quiet while Mommy made a very important work phone call.

Dialed into the conference call and immediately realized that I was supposed to have been logged into the video chat room for the call which I wasn't able to do because I could not remember my password for these particular occasions. I immediately became extremely embarrassed (red cheeks and all, although they couldn't see that through the phone, obviously, because I wasn't logged into the video call).

Still, I was mortified. Especially because the call started at 1pm and I was supposed to be delivering a mini-presentation to the group. At least I had emailed my boss the list of points I was going to cover ahead of time, because I had to hop off the call and call IT Support to have them help me get into the video call. By the time I got back onto the conference call (sans video, because IT wasn't able to get me the password I needed), it was pretty much wrapping up.

This all happened because my boss had accidentally forgotten to extend my contract via paperwork she should have submitted, therefore, I was logged out of some of the company systems. I had also received a very large empty box this morning, complete with packing materials to ship my equipment back to them because my 6-month stint had *expired*. The good news is that she is keeping me on longer than initially planned, which is wonderful. The bad thing is what I had to experience today. Complete and utter embarrassment.

It was easy for me to brush it off and move on though. An old co-worker caught me looking at her LinkedIn profile this morning and she emailed me to say that if I ever needed a job (part-time, full-time, work-from-home) that I was to call her immediately.

The feeling of being wanted and appreciated will always erase any inkling of a rough day in my book.

And the kids were happily playing away in the other room together as I worked on for the rest of the day.

Getting back into the swing of things

Been busy in our house lately. So busy that I've decided we're going back to basics around here these days.

After the craziness of the holidays and our post-holiday holiday celebration mid-month with my family who lives in Florida, we settled back into our normal routine. Well, sortof.

This week Mister Man had off from school on Monday for Martin Luther King, Jr Day and the Inauguration, we had a mini snow event on Wednesday night causing a 2-hour delay on Thursday, and then yesterday the schools is our county closed an hour early due to more snow and therefore afternoon preschool was cancelled. It's been a tough week to get anything done for this work-from-home mama! But I'm not complaining. Even though I cannot stand the frigid winter temperatures, I do love how beautiful everything looks the morning after a snowfall. I made the kids pancakes and oatmeal with strawberries this week to shake off the chilly feeling we woke up with. We stayed in our jammies longer than we usually do and just had fun doing inside stuff like coloring in our new coloring books with markers and crayons and watching Disney movies cuddled under fuzzy blankets on the couch.

We are trying to eat dinner as a family together at the table as often as we can. In the past we've had the kids eating together at the small table in the kitchen while my husband and I eat sitting at the island bar stools or standing which we both know isn't ideal. So whoever is cooking now takes care of preparing the meal while the other sets the table and keeps the kids happy until the meal is served. We're cooking using recipes from our new vegan cookbook, Veganomicon, and have loved almost every one we've tried so far. The kids are being very open to trying new things and have found that they really like eating vegan and vegetarian meals. I'm thinking we may transition them from cow's milk to almond milk in the new few months, but I'm not going to force anything on them if they decide they would rather not make that switch.

When I found myself feeling terribly unmotivated this morning, I made the decision not to dwell on it and just got up and started moving. An hour later I was amazed at how much I got done. Once I dug in and got started it wasn't so hard to forget about those negative thoughts. I was able to unload the dishwasher of clean dishes, reload it with the dirty breakfast dishes, clean up the rest of the kitchen, put away all the kid's clean clothes, tidy up their rooms, and rally the troops to get ready to head to swimming while my husband relaxed with a cup of coffee on the couch. I appreciated the fact that I could get that housework done while he kept the kids occupied, and we all made it out the door on time for swim lessons.

My husband and I booked a 10-year anniversary trip to the Riveria Maya in June with friends of ours who are also celebrating their 10-year anniversary. The guys were each others' best men and we always have such a fun time with them reminiscing on old times and making new memories whenever we have the chance to get together. (They live in Texas now so we only get to visit once every other year or so.) I didn't want diamonds or a new kitchen to celebrate this milestone, just time alone with my better half. It's going to be heavenly and I am counting the days. (139 to be exact.)

I loved every minute of the holidays and spending time with family and friends. Now that January is almost over I'm getting excited for February because it is the month of birthday parties (my best friend's, her son, mine - 34 - eeek!, my Grandma's, my good friend from highschool, my hubby) and then Valentine's Day when I get to spoil my loves.

So yeah, we're getting back to our old routines but with lots of exciting stuff coming up. Therefore, here's to a new year of appreciating all the craziness that life throws our way!

Precious baby moments

"Up! Mama! Uuuppp!!!" came the wail from down by my knees.

I scooped up my squishy, paci-sucking baby girl and swung her around so we both faced the mirror hanging in the hallway.

She clutched her pink and white lovie blankie in her chubby fist, blonde curls now reaching down past her shoulders, and I smiled at our reflection, seeing more wrinkles around my eyes and mouth than I had remembered being there last time I checked. Not a bad thing, I told myself. Means I smile and laugh a lot. I like that.

My precious daughter seemed to notice me studying the lines on my face. She took my cheeks in her pudgy little hands and turned me to look at her. We were nose to nose.

"Boo eyes, Mama. Boo eyes."

"You're right, Sweetie. Mommy does have blue eyes," I whispered with a proud smile.

I gave her a quick dip backwards and swung her back up to kiss her bright red lips. She giggled so sweetly as I took a long breath of her curls to take in her baby scent and remember the moment.

Moments like these are going by so fast lately. When I realize I'm experiencing one of these beautiful little moments, I try my hardest to make it last as long as possible.

But I know in my heart that they'll forever live in my memory.

An experiment in hugs

"We need 4 hugs a day for survival. We need 8 hugs a day for maintenance. We need 12 hugs a day for growth." ~ Virginia Satir

I read an article on the interwebs awhile ago via a pin on Pinterest with that quote as the subtitle. Isn't that pinteresting? I thought, as I clicked the link. It went on to discuss ten ways in which a parent could connect with their child from the moment they woke up, during the day, and right on up until bedtime. I really enjoyed the article, but of all of the suggestions, the one that hit me the hardest was the 12 hugs one.

I am a huge hugger. I love them. It comes as no surprise to the people who know me best: I am a highly affectionate person. Hugs are perfection to me. I love to embrace a friend who I haven’t seen in a long time, my child when he or she is crying from a skinned knee, and my therapist after each monthly appointment. My family is especially big on bear hugs. I remember being hugged frequently growing up, and hugs became even more meaningful to me after I left home for college. My parents were on the verge of tears when they finished moving me into my dorm and we were hugging goodbye. Me, not so much. I could taste freedom, fun, and the excitement of being on my own for the first time in my life. But three months later when I drove home for fall break, I was the one on the teary side of the hug. Comes back around, I guess.

There is just something so wonderful about having someone wrap his or her arms around you. You immediately feel loved. It is the ultimate expression of caring for someone, in my opinion. It feels good.

Hugs are so simple. So why don’t we give them more often?

After reading the article, I made it a point to aim for twelve hugs for each of my kids the next day. I think I ended up with six or so (if even that many) hugs during the day. Wow. That was harder than I thought it was going to be. Maybe it is really important. Whenever something is hard (think eating right or exercising) then it is usually a pretty important habit for us to add to our daily routine. Plus, if hugs make us feel so much better, this is a no-brainer, right? I started thinking about my hug distribution approach.

So, four hugs a day for survival, huh? I know I give the kids each about that number a day, but shame on me, my marriage is barely surviving. I thought about our normal routine - a hug and quick kiss in the morning before he leaves for work, and another one when he comes home. Sometimes a squeeze while one of us cooks dinner, and occasionally a snuggle in bed before falling asleep. Most days we were barely getting by on our usual disbursement of hugs.

This family needs more HUGS, I thought. It was time to plan my strategy.

Mornings I can definitely get a bunch under my belt to start the day off on a good foot. I’ll give the hubby a snuggle hug in bed before we rise and shine to start our busy days. The kids will each get a good squeeze to wake them up with a smile. Once I have their breakfast ready at the table, I’ll hug them each before sitting them down to eat. In order to transition from breakfast to the next step in our morning routine, I’ll send my husband off to work with a hug and kiss and will hug each kiddo before taking them upstairs to get dressed and brush teeth. When I drop them off at Mom’s Morning Out or preschool, I’ll give each another embrace to send them off to play, and when I pick them up I’ll give them each a great big bear hug and kiss to tell them how much I missed them. At home before nap time, I’ll give each kid a cuddle hug to tuck them in, and when they wake up two hours later I’ll hug them again.

(In case you’re keeping track here, we’re up to two husband hugs and seven hugs for each kiddo.)

Whenever someone has a meltdown or in case of a sibling squabble, the fix is easily a hug. This is typically the case for us when we’re late and need to get a trip to the potty, shoes on and coats on, all within a five minute span which can be next to impossible sometimes so it usually calls for a hug to help calm the situation.

By dinnertime, we're usually at eight to nine hugs. After dinner, we tickle-wrestle and hug before heading upstairs for bathtime and bedtime. There are hugs given as we pull the sopping wet children from the tub to wrap them in warm, fluffy towels. While reading stories in bed, we each hold a kid in our arms, wrapping them with love. And a final hug once the books are read and it is time to turn out the light. My husband and I hug again after the kids are asleep, while brushing our teeth before bed, and before closing our eyes for the night. It feels good to give and receive so many hugs in a day. Makes me feel more complete, happier, closer to my family.

This little hug experiment taught me a great deal about the amount of affection I currently share with my family and friends. Starting this year I am making it a habit to hug more, hug often, and hug with all my heart.

Why? Because I'm scared of the day when I won't be able to hug them, when one of us is no longer here. I want to be sure to give and receive as many hugs as I can because hugs are quite possibly, one of God's most amazing gifts that He gave us: the ability to put your arms around someone you care about to show them your love and affection, your support, your thankfulness for just being there.

Hug your spouse more, hug your kids more, hug your friends and family more. I’m pretty sure they’ll return the favor.

Have you had your twelve hugs today?

One sunset memory at a time

I patted her diaper-padded bottom as we ascended up the stairs to the hall bath last night, her brother a few steps ahead of us. She playfully peered through the rungs of the banister and smiled at her reflection in the foyer mirror. I sang a song of marching up the steps to move her along. It only added to the silliness of parading into the bathroom for tub time, her feet happily marching along to the beat of the song.

I am so lucky, I was thinking to myself.

You see, each time I walk the kids up the stairs to tackle bathtime, I can't help but think back to the night I took my son up for his bath at 18 months old, his baby sister a mere poppy seed in my belly, and how I could feel that I was losing my mind. Thoughts were racing through my head, but yet at the same time, there was a calmness about it all. He was completely oblivious to the whole thing, of course. He climbed up the stairs and I paused to look out the window above our front door, the clouds swirled up in the sky a hazy magnificent sunset display, colors so vibrant they looked as if they were burning with the secret of heaven.

We sang songs in the tub filled with bubbles and toys, and as we did this, I began to feel like the world was ending. The planes soaring over our house because of our close proximity to the airport, pushed my anxiety over the edge and I started shaking a bit, the walls were beginning to cave in on me. I quickly and methodically bathed my little man and then wrapped him up and dressed him in warm jammies, smelling his freshly washed skin and hair with deep whiffs as I read him a story, sung him a song and tucked him in his crib for the night. I remember thinking I would probably come get him and bring him into our bed once my husband and I went to sleep for the night. Given it was probably our last night on Earth, I felt it was fitting we should be together as a family in a cozy bed at least.

Hard to believe I made it out of the hospital after a week's stay, and recovered from that episode within a few months under my doctor's close supervision. I thank God every day that we had a healthy baby when our little girl was born 8 months later, and it never ceases to amaze me that I was given the job of being their mom every day. I'm a good mom. It's just that I have a past that is speckled with bits of sickness and recovery, and I often am reminded of those times. For me, they are simple reminders for me to be grateful for my health and my family. These times I remember, these old dusty memories of what happened when I became manic and how I became well again, they make up my story and they inspire me to keep on writing.

One day at a time. Or, one sunset step up the stairs to the bathroom for tub time, at a time.

Cheers to a New Year and fresh polish

There's something strangely gratifying about giving yourself a pedicure. A few nights ago I had a self-declared "spa night at home". After several days of sore achy muscles from re-starting an exercise program I never should have stopped, I took myself upstairs to draw a hot bath in which I would soak, reading, until the water was almost cold. The water in the tub glistened a deep aqua hue from the bath bomb I was gifted for Christmas by my mother-in-law. I could feel my skin drinking up the moisture and my fingers and toes turning into raisins.

When I finished my book, I stepped out of the bath and dried off, wrapping myself in warm, cozy jammies before clipping and filing my toenails in preparation for the polish. I picked out a spunky, bright pink, gathered up my journal, laptop and ipad to retreat to my favorite writing spot: the guest room.

As I swiped the layers of paint onto my nails, indie pop music playing softly from my Pandora station, so many thoughts moved through my head about the coming year and the year that is about to come to a close. I've decided that I no longer want to look back. Not in the sense of not remembering and learning from my past, but rather, I want to live each day to the fullest and I want to be sure to enjoy the simple everyday moments.

These two theories conflict each other, for me at least. To me, living life to the fullest means doing great things, making an impact on the world, being remembered for making a difference in the lives of a large number of people. And my idea of enjoying the simple things, the little moments of life, means to really savor the impromptu tickle-attacks you have with your four and two-year-olds in the family room while their father watches on, smiling in the kitchen while making dinner, as I did this evening.

Many people would probably argue that you can most certainly have both, but I wonder if it's really possible.

Back to the pedicure. I always cut my toenails too short. They look funny for about two weeks until they get back to their natural-looking length, but I do this because they always grow too fast. This buys me a couple of extra weeks between pedicures. Since I've adopted this new "not looking back" attitude (as of tonight, I've decided), I'm starting to think about each day as a mini new beginning. It's like my toenail clipping style - I'm giving myself room to grow each day. If at the end of the day I wish I'd have done something differently, then I'm going to cut myself some slack and realize that tomorrow is a new day to grow, learning from mistakes which are now in the past.

The sticky, clear base coat went onto my toes first. It's so important because it helps protect the nail from dark pigments which could sink into the pores of the nail surface, staining it so unnecessarily. I've skipped this step in the past and have always regretted it later when taking off the old polish. There's nothing pretty about yellowed toenails. The base coat is the investment you make into your life, since we are comparing life to a pedicure. For me, I want to pour more energy into growing my relationship with my faith, my husband and kids, and my family and friends. If we forget to do this important step, we'll regret it later. I don't want to have any regrets in life. Never forget the base coat.

I painted carefully as I brushed on the color. The paint is what lets my personality show through. Whether I choose a soft, romantic ballet pink, a deep currant shade or a shimmery bright red polish, I always know that it's not permanent. I can remove a color and apply a new one whenever my mood shifts. It's how I view the way I evolve as a person - by outgrowing a shell and moving on to a new one, yet sometimes returning to my favorite colors, my inherent personality traits which will always be there. My true colors which make me who I am.

The final step is quite possibly the most important. The dry fast top coat is my favorite step in the process since I get to coat my nails in a shiny, protective layer of lacquer. Protection is the key here. Just as I finish my pedicure with a protective top coat, I'm going to be sure in this coming year to protect what is most important to me: my family, my friends, and my faith. I'm going to make more of an effort to keep in touch with my friends who may not live nearby, because life is so uncertain. Tomorrow isn't a given. I'm going to call more often, write more often, and plan more visits. I'm going to be more protective of the people who mean the most to me so they will shine like my top coat.

We're celebrating New Year's with friends of ours and all of our kids tonight. I can't imagine a better way to ring in the New Year. We'll have all the kiddos tucked in a few hours before the ball drops, then us adults will be enjoying some cocktails, an elegant sit-down meal, and a midnight champagne toast.

I painted my fingernails this morning to get ready to celebrate.

Cheers & Happy New Year!

Praying silently for Sandy Hook

My insecurities & a birthday wish for my daughter

I'm struggling lately folks. And since it's on my mind, I feel the need to write about it here. My place to type things out, to figure things out, to vent things out. I hope you don't mind that it won't be all neat and pretty. Just probably my rambling and not making much sense, but I have a feeling I'll feel a whole lot better once I get it all off my chest. A blogger I follow calls it the root of blogging: uninterrupted narcissistic rambling.

So here goes. Bear with me.

My daughter turned two yesterday. Two whole years old. My precious baby girl who just recently spent eight days in the hospital fighting pneumonia and Kawasaki disease, celebrated her second birthday with a play-date party at our house where six little friends - all boys! - and her brother, spoiled her and showered affection all over her cute little blond pigtail head. (Literally. One of the little guys just couldn't get enough of her - by the end of the morning she was practically in tears when he came near her to give kisses - it was hilarious and I have the pictures for when they're older.)

I had gingerbread sleighs for the kids to decorate with icing and candy, and wooden snowmen ornaments that they colored with crayons and markers. For lunch I made them peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, cut in a triangle to make a reindeer face (my friend's idea - I'm not that creative), complete with pretzel antlers and maraschino cherries for noses. I had hastily cut up fresh veggies that morning, which I served with Ranch dip, and I had leftover fruit salad from a brunch we had been to the day before.

Leftovers. This is where it started.

I had intended to order a pizza for us moms - the four of us could have easily polished off a medium pizza. But with all the craziness of 8 kids running around, I just didn't have the energy to deal with it. And since my husband the amateur chef had baked up to gourmet-like pizzas from scratch the night before when his parents came over to celebrate baby girl's birthday, I offered that as an alternative, not even thinking how terrible it made me look as a hostess. The salad my mother-in-law had brought over to go with the pizza had gone untouched, and so I had that to go with the pizza I served heated up from the toaster oven.

We supervised the kids eating first, then we adults took our turn. After everyone had lunch, we sang Happy Birthday to the birthday princess, and the kids ate strawberry cake that I had actually thrown in the oven an hour before when I realized I had almost forgotten to bake her cake. For us moms, there were the cupcakes my in-laws had brought over the evening before - a dozen in all - so we had six remaining and I had the moms pick one of those as dessert.

The girls all brought gifts for the birthday girl, even though I had said "please no gifts" on our casual email invitation. They are my two old roommates from college and my best friend from college who is like a sister to me. I love how our boys are such good friends and my daughter loves running around with them too. Watching our kids play brings us all such joy, I know this because we always talk about it.

I am sure that all the kids had a fantastic time and I'm sure the moms probably did too. I had a fun too. But after everyone left, and I had dropped my son off at preschool, tucked my daughter in for her nap and cleaned up after the little party, I kept thinking about my crummy hostessing skills and how I wished I had put more effort into the Mommy side of the play-date menu.

I wish I would have done a better job of de-cluttering and cleaning up in general before our guests arrived. I wish I would have made some sort of special sandwich or salad for my friends who drove a half hour or more to get to our house for the party. I wish I would have made little goodie bags for the kids. I wish I wouldn't have forgotten to offer the girls drinks during lunch.

I wish, I wish, I wish. I find myself saying those words a lot lately.

I could barely sleep last night. I know it probably sounds so ridiculous. After tossing and turning for nearly two hours I finally caved in to my sleep meds and took an Ambien so that I could get some shut-eye.

I woke up today still upset about it. Embarrassed, even. I called my mom on the drive home from dropping the kids off at daycare. I was quickly in tears and she was very sympathetic. Apparently, she said, this is something she and I both suffer from. We say or do something, or forget to do something all together that we regret very soon after, and then subsequently beat ourselves up about it for several days.

"It's a hormone thing honey," my mom explained.

Definitely a trait I wish I would not have inherited.

It's not just this incident though. Lately I've been feeling so torn. Reminded me of this post I wrote back in September about balance. I've been wondering how other moms do it all. How do they do ALL THE THINGS? And they do them SO DAMN GOOD TOO.

I just feel so inadequate sometimes.

I should be writing a post about how unreal it feels to have such a smart, beautiful, funny, independent, social, happy little girl who adores her big brother and has a passion for learning and all things art. How her perfect blond curls make me smile at the sight, especially when they're tied into those cute pigtails that fit her personality so well. She has a fierce determination to do things her way most all of the time, and does the back arching thing if you're holding her and she wants to get her way so much so that you have to put her down for fear of dropping her on her head. Her eyes are an perfect blend of blue and the lightest green. They sparkle with mischief pretty much every hour of the day. She loves bedtime the most and will never protest when we say it's time to go upstairs for bath. Strangers find it incredibly adorable that she still signs - Thank You most often, but also Milk and Please a lot - even though she is talking more and more these days. The pacifier is still one of her best buds and the dentist said it is perfectly acceptable for her to continue using it until her remaining four molars come through, since it is such a comfort to her. You hardly ever see her without her pink giraffe lovie blankie held tightly in her fist, corner knots usually being poked into her baby ears as her own soothing mechanism.

I love that I keep this bipolar blog, and also my private family one with photos and videos, as an everlasting journal of my life, my family, and my journey living with mental illness. Because I hope one day my kids will grow up and learn that their mom is trying the best she can. And even though she may compare herself to others, and she may wish she could be the perfect mom who has it all together all the time, all she'll ever be is theirs.

This will never change. Just the same as how my love for them will always be as strong as our hearts beating life through our bodies.

Except unlike hearts which will eventually stop one day, my love for them will go on forever.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Baby Girl. Mommy loves you with all her heart.

And more.

xoxo

Life changing

When your almost-2-yr old daughter is sent to the Emergency Room for suspected pneumonia and dehydration, your entire world stops.

Nothing else matters but figuring out how to make her better. How to make her stop crying from the pain.

More screams. More tears. More kisses from Mommy who was trying to make it better.

The stabs and jabs from the phlebotomist trying to get a vein to start an IV while two nurses held her down didn't help things.

Neither did my conscience telling me I should have pushed fluids more, should have taken her temperature so that I knew exactly how high her fever was. I should have just done more.

Her cries pierced my heart. Poor baby girl didn't have much fight in her since she was so sick. She was admitted to the hospital and I practically let out an audible sigh of relief. She had already been sick for three days. By the time we were wheeled up to her room on the pediatric floor, she had fallen fast asleep and I was equipped with a bag of clothes and toiletries which my husband brought from home so that I could stay with her. There was no way I was leaving her side while she was sick.

When I washed my hands, the mere smell of the medicinal hospital soap brought back memories of the previous hospital stays I had endured.

We were there for two nights and then they decided to send us home, thinking it was viral pneumonia and it would just have to run its course. So even as the fever lingered, she was deemed fully hydrated and that was good enough to send her home.

We got to spend Thanksgiving Eve and Thanksgiving Day together as a family at home. That was the silver lining. The fact that baby girl was so obviously not getting better was the dark cloud that lingered over the yummy holiday meal. She only ate two tiny bites of apple pie. And barely drank anything, as much as I tried to encourage fluids. She was lethargic and still in a great deal of pain. We were worried, to say the least.

A call to the pediatrician was made at 7pm, as awful as I felt about disrupting a holiday evening, I was much more concerned about our daughter to think twice before dialing the number I have memorized for just these situations.

We didn't get a call back for almost 30 minutes, which is twenty-five more minutes than usual for an after-hours call. A sure sign that we most likely did interrupt our pediatrician's Thanksgiving meal.

She was sympathetic and gave us instructions for the evening, asking us to follow up first thing in the morning and get her in for her ER follow-up appointment. And if things became worse overnight, we were to immediately go back to the ER.

Luckily that didn't happen, and we were all able to get a decent night's sleep. However, at her appointment the next morning we were sent back to the Emergency Room, this time for suspected appendicitis since her abdomen seemed to be the source of the pain she was in and the doc was concerned it could have ruptured.

Another day, another ER visit. In the back of my mind I was hoping it actually was the appendix. That way, they'd act fast and remove it and within a day she would feel so much better. Simple x-ray to determine if it was, surgery to get it out. Done and done, right?

Wrong.

Back in the ER she was taken for an x-ray, then ultrasound, then a CT scan to triple check. Turned out it wasn't her appendix at all, but a possible constipation issue. Now, I know my daughter better than anyone in that department given the fact that I am the one who changes 97% of all of her diapers and I must tell you - she has never had a constipation issue. Ever. But having eaten so little over the previous 6 days, I had to trust the doctor and follow her direction.

She was admitted again since her fever was still persisting and because they had not yet been able to solve the issue of her abdominal pain. Again my husband had brought me an overnight bag when he and Little Man came to visit while we were still in the ER triage room. It was kindof an unspoken thing that I would be the one to stay with her. It is blatantly apparent that she favors her Mommy right now at this stage of her life and I am soaking it all up while I can. If her teenage years are anything like mine were, she and I will fight more than we get along, and so I want to enjoy every single second of these baby years when I hear, "Mommy! Mommy!" a hundred times a day coming from my toddler's mouth, head tilted back looking up at me with outstretched arms yearning for me to pick her up.

I always pick her up.

The next morning the doctor came by our room in the early afternoon to speak with us about our daughter's case. She was a different doc from the one who had seen us earlier in the week. She took the time to review our daughter's history, starting from when she became sick up until that point. She then went over her theory on what was going on, what could be the cause of the pain and how she wanted to go about treating her. She was so thorough and detailed, we were confident that our daughter was receiving the absolute best care available.

The nurses were wonderful. They were so gentle with our baby who just cried every time someone came in to check on her. The doctor prescribed a new antibiotic, so on top of the two she was already on, there was now a third sent in via IV to try to kill the infection. We would offer sips of juice, water, or milk, but she rarely drank. The IV was keeping her nourished so we didn't need to push too hard.

The doc watched her fever. They even brought in the Pediatric Infectious Disease Physician. I liked him well enough, but when her fever spiked to 103 on our fourth day and he wanted to "wait one more day" before looking outside the initial diagnosis of pneumonia, I hit my breaking point.

I wanted to scream. I couldn't believe he could possibly say "let's wait and see" while observing my little girl in such heart-wrenching pain. Weren't doctors supposed to act when their patient is sick and even getting worse? Not sit back and wait. My blood was boiling. But I managed a weak smile back at the doctor to cover my anger.

I called my best friend, a nurse for eleven years. I called my cousin, an ER doctor. And then I called my daughter's pediatrician. My question to each of them was something my dad wanted me to ask: should we have her transferred to a better hospital? Even though I knew in the back of my mind that she was at a very good hospital and she was in the hands of extremely skilled doctors and nurses who were doing what they thought was the best course of treatment for her condition.

My pediatrician offered to call the doctor at the hospital. Just knowing that I had advocate on our side was a relief. Maybe they'd put their super duper intelligent doctor brains together and figure out exactly what to do to cure our daughter. I could only hope.

The doctor on our case spoke with our daughter's pediatrician and immediately afterwards came in the room to speak with us. I had gone home to shower and get clean clothes for the next day, so she began talking with my husband about the new plan of action. She, in combination with our daughter's pediatrician, and the pediatric cardiologist on staff, thought they should go ahead and treat her for Kawasaki disease. She had mentioned Kawasaki to us back on the day when she went over our case. It is an autoimmune disorder that sometimes arises when the body has an infection. She was watching for it and now that it had been ten days of fever and baby girl also had several other symptoms of the disease but not all the classic signs. The doc explained that there is no definitive yes or no test for Kawasaki and that as a team they decided it was in her best interest to go through the treatment because if left untreated, it could hurt her heart in the long run.

I was on my way back to the hospital when she called on my cell and began explaining the treatment. It would be a 12-hour IV bag of gamma globulin, a highly purified blood product. They would basically be infusing her with antibodies so that she could effectively fight the infection which was persisting inside of her. It was started very slowly so that if she had any kind of allergic reaction, they could stop the treatment. They would give her a dose of aspirin at the beginning, in the middle, and at the completion of the procedure since it was an inflammatory process which could cause stress on the heart. One potential risk was a coronary aneurism. The whole discussion of what would take place scared the living daylights out of me. With my cell to my ear, deep into the conversation of how things would play out, I walked into the hospital room where our daughter lay sleeping and my husband and the doctor were discussing things in person. Hanging up the phone to continue the discussion face-to-face, we were given plenty of time to ask as many questions as we needed.

Then it was go time.

First they had to put in a new IV for the IVIG treatment. The original IV they had put into her right hand had started leaking a tiny bit. So yeah, after they put a new on in her left had for the new treatment, they had to put another one in her right hand (higher up from the original spot) so they had a tube to run her antibiotics and fluids through. My kid was a ROCK STAR for the phlebotomist. Lots of crying, but that was to be expected. Poor baby isn't even two yet.

The nurse had me give baby girl the first dose of aspirin since she tended to do better taking medicine from me versus one of the nurses. She went right back to sleep and her nurse hooked up the gammaglobulin bag and started the drip. They watched the clock meticulously and were in the room every 15 minutes checking blood pressure and vitals. The process was started at 9:20pm. My husband and I stayed up until 11pm at which time I walked down the hall to the "parent sleep room" so that I could get a solid stretch of sleep since the procedure was going so well. I asked him to wake up at 4am so that he could give the next dose of aspirin.

He slept through it. I woke up at 4:15am to the sound of my daughter screaming down the hall because the nurse had just given her the second dose of aspirin. Baby's got some pipes on her.

We all were able to go back to sleep until 6:30 when I woke up since she was stirring a bit. I couldn't sleep any longer. I couldn't wait to see if the treatment worked. I sat in the rocking chair beside her bed with my computer on my lap, emailing friends and family updates on how she was doing. Luckily for me, I didn't have to wait much longer.

Around 10am our baby girl was sitting up, eating breakfast and there were actually some smiles being flashed around! I was so happy to finally have my daughter back. She started talking and I felt a rush of emotion at hearing her voice again since she had been so quiet during the week she was sick. Hearing her words again was almost like hearing her talk for the very first time.

I gave her kisses. I nuzzled her neck. She let me comb the bed head out of the back of her hair with detangler spray and a soft brush. We put on a clean hospital gown and fresh socks and walked down to the playroom to play. She chose paints, my little artist. Just like her mama.

Two days later, 48 hours after her last fever, we were going home. It was the sweet taste of freedom I tasted as I drove us home to her Daddy and big brother who were eagerly awaiting our arrival. The fresh air smelled so crisp I wanted to breathe in every last whiff of it that blew through my hair. Familiar feelings to me since these were the emotions I felt when I was released from my last two hospitalizations.

Spending a week in the hospital with your toddler really does change your perspective on life. I now can appreciate what a family goes through when their child is battling a disease or even the early stages of cancer. The not knowing what is wrong, the time spent discussing options with the doctor, the tears that fall because you want so badly to be the one who can make it all go away for your child. What we went through wasn't anything close to cancer or a highly complicated childhood disease, but it was enough for me to count our blessings. Over and over again.

Life seems to stop when you or someone you love is in the hospital.

And I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing. At least it wasn't for me.

XOXO

Secret Mommy-hood Confession Saturday: I cannot stand going out in snow

Sure, I love watching the snow gently fall outside from the comfort of my warm, cozy couch while snuggled up with a cup of hot cocoa. Mini-marshmellows getting all gooey and melty on top. But when the kids beg to go out and build a snowman? Sledding? Snow forts? This, my friends, is where I draw the line.

Snowsuits? Hats? Mittens? Scarves? Snow boots? Good LORD! You'd think we were getting dressed for a trek up to the top of Mount McKinley instead of just 10 minutes outside frolicking in the powdery white fluff.

YUCK. No, thank you.

Luckily, my husband LOVES snow. He's like a kid in a candy store when the meteorologist reports that we'll get even just a dusting of white frozen flakes. It cracks me up.

I smile at the ridiculousness of a grown man getting excited about a few inches of snow because it allows me the opportunity to pass on the responsibility of taking the kiddos sledding. SCORE! All I have to do is get them dressed for the elements and he's more than happy to take them on a winter adventure that lasts a max of fifteen minutes.

And you know darn well I take advantage of every last minute the three of them are outside by reading a book on the couch with a cup of a hot beverage of my choice, with the gas fire place blazing to keep me nice and warm. I savor every single moment of the quiet.

Because you know it's absolute chaos when they get back.

"My socks are wet!!"

"I can't feel my fingers!"

"I need to go pee-pee right NOW! HELP!"

In my head, I am counting the hours until they decide to do it all over again.

Because those fifteen minutes of "me" time are so delicious.

Almost as delicious as a bite of freshly fallen snow. (Not the yellow kind.)

Living an inspiring life

Yes, that is a bowl full of pomegranate seeds. I scooped them out myself. And of course, when I finished de-seeding this lovely fruit, I took a picture. Because it took a good 20 minutes and I was proud of myself for getting every last seed out of the darn shell.

Your life is your message to the world. Make sure it's inspiring.

I believe this to be true and I so want to heed this advice.

I registered for my second writer's conference this morning - a memoir writer's retreat - in March of 2013. I want to make my dreams of sharing my story a reality and I'm taking concrete steps towards my goal of publishing my memoir. I want to be an inspiration to other young women living with bipolar disorder who are wondering if they'll ever be able to have kids. I'm living proof that it is possible.

Now, let's be real here. I'm not perfect. I most certainly have my moments. Those times when I'm overtired, stressed out from a work deadline, and the kids are arguing over a toy - those are the times when I need help. And I've learned when to ask for it and how to not feel guilty about needing a little time to myself in order to re-charge my batteries. It helps me tremendously and then when I jump back into the action I am that much more prepared to handle anything.

Just like a pomegranate is a tough fruit to de-seed, I think I'm a pretty complicated individual. And yet, I wear my emotions on my sleeve. I'm the type of person who would share my life story with someone I just met, if they wanted to listen. I love meeting new people and making connections; I feel like that is such a huge part of what life is all about. I believe everyone on this Earth has something to share. Me? I want to share my story of how mental illness crept up on me and emerged out of nowhere, shocking the living daylights out of me, my husband, my parents, our siblings and our friends. How I rode a roller coaster of emotions for a year and a half before finally becoming stable and healthy again, only to be thrown on the same haunting ride of my past, landing in the hospital twice more, yet emerging a stronger, more determined and driven version of myself than I was before.

I've decided that I'm going to start carving time out of my schedule to write. An hour a day is what I'm going to start with. Whether it be a blog post, a journal entry, a chapter of my book, or time spent reading other memoirs, I'm writing down goals so that I can measure my progress. I learned a ton in Sanibel (and met a bunch of really extraordinary people) which I want to apply to my writing in order to improve and grow as a writer. Beginning in January I am going to set new goals, specific to my book project, so that I can truly hold myself accountable and make progress every day.

I can feel my dreams moving closer within my reach. Because if I write words, they turn into sentences; if I write sentences, they turn into paragraphs; if I write paragraphs, they turn into pages; if I write pages they will eventually turn into my book. Just like it took patience and determination to empty the pomegranate of its seeds (have you ever tried to open one of those darn things?? Talk about the fruits of your labor. Sheesh.), I will eventually get all of my thoughts out on paper in a concise, engaging story which will hopefully help to end stigma and educate not only young women living with bipolar disorder, but also their families, friends, doctors, and therapists. Just because someone is living with a mental illness, it doesn't mean they cannot enjoy the good life.

I love my life. I feel incredibly blessed. So glad that Thanksgiving is right around the corner because I have so much to be thankful for.

From this day forward

I've decided, after attending Day 1 of my first writer's conference, that I am finally ready to call myself a writer.

It was a long day of travel, of planning for being away. My 4-yr old son was so excited about sleeping over at Grandma and Grandpa's that he barely even noticed when his sister and I were dropped off at the airport. His Grandma took him home to her house and he was off in his own little world of too many toys from grandparents who love spoiling him.

My little girl was an angel on the 2 hour, 15-minute flight to warmer weather. I thought she might nap on the way but the many distractions on the plane - the mini TV set in the headrest of the seat in front of us, the ipad loaded with several new kiddie apps, and of course the tray table which she was determined not to keep in the upright position during takeoff and landing - not to mention all-you-can-drink apple juice and unlimited animal crackers - made it an adventure of which she did not want to miss a wink. Still, more than one person nodded their approval of her attendance on the flight with a smile and "she's so cute!" or "what a good little traveler!" which of course made me very proud.

My mom and dad picked us up at the airport and we made the two-hour drive to our hotel on the island, stopping halfway to eat dinner and stretch our legs. Baby girl slept on the ride from the airport to the restaurant and from the restaurant to the hotel, so she wanted to play once we checked in. It was after 10:30pm before we all finally got to sleep and it was a broken sleep at that given the fact that she didn't want to sleep in the aerobed Grandma had brought for her and instead wanted to snuggle kick me all night long in her restless sleep brought on by an unfamiliar bed.

By 6:30am this morning when the sun spilled through the crack between the curtains pulled tight in our room, she and I were ready to get up and have some breakfast. I was eager to get a shower and pick out an outfit to wear to the conference, and she was craving some milk so we got up, ready to start our day.

My dad dropped me off this morning at the convention center and I easily checked in and found a seat outside where everyone was gathered enjoying the early sunshine before we had to head inside for the remaining morning hours. I met a young man who was there, seemingly as I was, to drink in as much knowledge as humanly possible in three and a half days. We were there to strengthen what core intelligence of the craft of writing we came with, to be able to tell a better story when we left. Our conversation flowed, and I felt relief in how easy it was to talk with a fellow writer.

The day flew by. I found myself wishing at times I could have recorded what the presenters were sharing, because as hard as I tried, I couldn't always capture the exact words they shared and I knew my notes would never do their intelligence justice. I was out of practice. It's been fifteen years since I've sat in on a collegiate lecture, and this is exactly what it felt like. But luckily, by the last session I saw definite improvement, my pen swiftly dancing across the paper in my notebook, my heart content that I was going to be able to hold onto the nuggets of advice and instruction I was gleaning from these incredible writers.

A writer.

I never really considered myself a writer until this weekend.

Sure, I love to write. But never having studied English or Creative Writing, I'm certainly at a disadvantage, right?

Nevermind that. I'm not going to let that stop me from achieving my dream of sharing my story.

Being here on Sanibel Island, I am surrounded by such remarkable talent. And it's only day 1. My favorite author has yet to speak. I feel so incredibly blessed to have this opportunity to explore and feed my passion by listening and learning from some of the best writers in the country.

I almost feel like a shell, a shell on Sanibel Island. Of the hundreds and thousands, probably billions, of shells that wash up on this sandy shore, each holds a story of their journey. Some are smooth and soft, others jagged and broken. At sunset tonight, we walked the beach and collected shells in my daughter's beach pail. Just as we are bringing home a piece of the island in the form of these gorgeous sand-covered treasures, I will also be bringing home tiny gems of discovery from the writers who are sharing their love of storytelling.

I'm so thankful for this opportunity. I cannot wait to practice what I'm going to learn this weekend and I hope you stick around to see me grow and flourish as a writer. A writer who, like a crab, is just now emerging from her shell.