Motherhood: It's a real.......

How you finish reading the title of this post in your head will vary, depending on the day, I'm sure. At least, it will if you're a mom like me.

My entire life, all I've ever wanted is to be a wife and mother. That's it. Maybe not the biggest goals in some peoples eyes, but to me, it was the ultimate achievement. I'm not even really sure why. Maybe because my mom did everything so well I just wanted to be like her. I don't know. What I do know is that was my heart's desire.

The marriage happened in 2008, after I met the love of my life 4 years before. We have a good marriage. In my opinion, we have the best. After being married for 4 (almost 5) years, when I finally talked Dan into having a baby, I may have bitten off a bit more than I had thought about.

I basically grew up as an only child, what with Russ being so much older than me, so I hadn't really been around babies. Oh, sure, I'd seen my younger cousins when they were born, and my most recent baby experience was taking care of my great-niece Mady. I'd changed diapers for her, fed her, gave her baths, and everything. What else was there? So, I felt pretty prepared.

I absolutely loved being pregnant. It constantly amazes me how God has created us, and allows us to carry these tiny little humans while He makes them grow and form inside our bellies. I don't think I'll ever get over that. The first couple months were rough because I was sick every morning, but my husband was a complete sweetheart about it all and brought me orange juice in bed before leaving for work. He never missed a single day until I was over the morning sickness. Once I entered the second trimester, I was on cloud nine. I wasn't nearly as tired, I wasn't sick, and I had this cute little baby belly. It was awesome. The third trimester was even better. I had always heard how terrible it was and how your feet swelled so large that you couldn't walk, back pain was horrendous, and you were constantly in the bathroom. I think I was just blessed. My feet never swelled until after my son was born, I had no back pain, and I really didn't go to the bathroom much more than I usually did. And I loved my big belly! Feeling my son move was the greatest feeling in the world. I had the best birth experience, too. No, I disn't have him at home or in a birthing center. Although I admire women who choose ro do that, unmedicated, I did not want that. I was always afraid something would go wrong in the middle of the birth and I wouldn't have time to get somewhere. So, I chose to have him in a hospital. And yes, I had an epidural. I wanted to be happy through the birth. I didn't want to be cranky and exhausted the first time I saw my son. Thankfully, I wasn't.  And after he was born, I felt as though I was in a dream. When the doctor laid him on my chest for the first time, I looked in his eyes......and that was it. I was completely hooked. In love. And filled with this immediate thoughts of worry. Worry. About. Everything! But mostly in love with this little person.

His first few days were so scary for me. He would cry, and I wouldn't know why. I was scared to death that he was starving because I couldn't feel that I had any milk. It was my intention from the get go to nurse him. So much so, that I never even had a bottle. I had just decided I was nursing and that was that. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't have enough milk for him, so I'm sure you can understand my devastation when not only do I have to feed him formula, but after he takes it, he throws up. Within the first 2 weeks of his life, he saw his pediatrician twice, an urgent care doctor and a chiropractor. He wasn't gaining weight and was crying all the time. I was a nervous wreck. I think the main reason I was so nervous is because it had never occurred to me that I wouldn't have the most perfect baby ever.

See, I had this naive vision about this "perfect baby". And not only a perfect baby, but the perfect life. The baby would only cry when he was hungry, he would sleep peacefully in his bassinet while I would cook hot meals to have for my husband when he came home, and people would talk about what a perfect baby he was. Yeah. That didn't happen.........as I'm sure it doesn't happen with most new mothers.

I wasn't able to do anything. I could barely even leave the couch. The baby needed to be held all the time, because if I laid him down, he'd cry. I felt like the biggest failure as a mother. I mean, I was comforting my child, but it wasn't long term. I couldn't carry on a conversation with my husband.....or really anyone......because I couldn't focus. I couldn't leave the house because my son would cry and scream so intensely that I was sure people would think I was hurting him. I was slowly sinking into a depression worse than postpartum. Poor Dan would look at me and say "Are you sure THIS is making you happy?!" What could I do? I knew something was wrong. I knew that he couldn't just be that miserable.

I finally started listening to the mother voice in me and not everyone else. After watching him while he ate, in between times, and talking to the pediatrician, it was discovered that he had acid reflux. Acid reflux! In a baby!! I couldn't believe it, but after just one dose of the medicine, he made a drastic change and I knew he was better. It didn't completely change the crankiness, though. Don't get me wrong, he was 100% better. I wasn't wanting to run up and down the street screaming after that. I was able to talk to people again, but something else was still wrong. 

I then changed the formula that he was on. I had been told by the chiropractor that he was probably allergic to the cows milk formula, so we had switched him to soy....which seemed to constipate him. So before we discovered the acid reflux, the doctor changed him back to a milk based formula. I felt like it was still wrong, so I moved him to a hypoallergenic formula. This really helped! After being on it for a couple weeks, he was really changing. 
It was about that time when it was pointed out to me by an aunt (and probably the 4th or 5th person in general) about how he leaned his head to the left. All the time. I finally got ahold of my motherly fears and got a grip on my senses and took him for his first chiropractor adjustment. It's a scary thing taking your 3 month old to be "cracked", as my dad would say. Thankfully we have a wonderful pediatric chiropractor who explained to me that he's not really cracking anything, just using a very small amount of pressure to move things back where they need to go. With babies, mostly they just have cartiledge, so there's not really any moving of bones involved. This has done the trick. Talk about changing a baby! He's completely different. His moods are so much better that I'm starting to feel more like I thought I would. Excited to spend my days with this happy little boy that smiles all the time. 

Now, he still cries. He's very opinionated. He knows what he wants and when he wants it, but it doesn't drive me to distraction. And he comes by it honest. 

So, to complete my original thought, motherhood can be a real....pain, hardship, blessing, joy, scary thing, and amazing experience that any mother will tell you is the greatest thing she's ever done. Because when I wake up and see his little face smiling back at me (yes, we co-sleep, no I don't think it's the worst decision ever), I thank God for this sweet baby. I could have a lot more money and time to myslef, but I wouldn't have him. He's worth it. And even at my worst moment, I know that I'm doing the best thing that I will ever do. 

I try not to, but I know sometimes I take him for granted. Just a couple weeks ago, a cousin of mine gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, and at the same time she was in labor, I learned of a friends miscarriage. It could have been me. I'm so thankful that God saw fit to bless our lives with this amazing little person and I can't wait to get to know him. 

               Love you, Declan Jude. 

Being a bachelorette stinks!

The original title of this post was going to be "28 days......a glimpse into the life of a Walmart widow"
But I got to thinking it might be a little too dramatic, and since my writing skills are on the 0-3 range, I opted for the current title. That way it saves disappointment.

Dan has received a promotion at work, and is now an Assistant Manager at one of the larger Walmart stores in the area. I'm so very proud of him. He definitely deserved it. However, I'm not so sure about this whole training business because it is the reason that I've been having to live alone.

My past living history is a simple one. I lived in my parents home until I was 21 and then I got married.  From that point, I have lived with my husband and have never been alone. Except for a time or two when he would have to work overnight or the time that he went to Nashville for 4 days to play music. During those 4 days I think I cried almost constantly until mom would look at me and tell me to "straighten up and calm down". (I'm still confused as to how I go both up and down at the same time, but mom knew best.) I remember being miserable the whole time and only going home to sleep. I was offered my old room at my parents house, but declined saying that I needed to learn to be alone. I've always been glad that I did that, and I think mom and dad were too.......even though they never said anything.
So now, it's not just 4 days.......it's 5 days and 5 nights per week for 4 weeks. Talk about culture shock!

I have to say that the first week wasn't that bad. Essentially the days went by pretty fast and I would spend the evening time with my dad. I was always home by 8:30 to 9 and could relax in my own home (in Dan's recliner) and watch whatever I wanted on TV while snacking on things that maybe I can't eat when Dan's home........like bananas. (I didn't eat bananas in his chair. I'm not cruel!) I didn't really worry if I kept the dishes done, or if I did laundry, because it was just me. I knew I'd get around to it sometime before he came home. (Not saying that my house is always spotless when Dan's home, but I like to have it cleaned as much as possible) I only use half the bed, so it's really easy to make up the next morning. Plus if I was asked to stay late at the store, or if something came up where I couldn't be home at a reasonable hour, I didn't worry because supper would be late. I'd just catch a bite on the run, or have a bowl of cereal when I got home. All of these things were pretty cool the first week, and I really didn't mind those first 5 days. JUST....the first 5 days.

When Friday of that week rolled around, I got up extra early, cleaned everything up, made a lemon pie and put some soup fixings in the crock pot. I have to say everything looked and smelled great. Like a home. I left the store early just to come home and do final preparations and enjoy my singleness in a clean house. The only problem was, I couldn't enjoy being alone. I was looking too forward to that yellow Nissan turning in the driveway. Once it did, everything was complete. I felt like me again. We had a good couple of days together.....then Sunday came.

Now, my brain didn't really want to start processing week 2, because, as I've said, 4 days is all we've ever been apart up to that time. After we'd made it that first week, my brain kept saying that was all there was to it, and he was home to stay.  So after church that night when I came home to an empty house again, I think my brain was thinking Dan was hiding in the closet or something. I kept going through some of the same situations I have about mom right now. Looking around for them........starting to say something and realizing they're not there.......saying "I'll need to ask them about it tonight".......etc.
I'm very fortunate, because I can still talk to Dan. All I have to do is text him and he'll answer me. I can't do that with mom. So, I think that thought helped me through that 2nd week. If I would ever get down and start feeling sorry for myself, I would try and remind myself of that very fact.

In spite of all the trouble I had those first couple days, week 2 still wasn't really bad. By this time, I started feeling really lonely when I went to sleep. So, I piled all the pillows on Dan's side of the bed, just so there would be a person sized lump there. And I turned on my TV every night to sleep by, so there would be noise in the room. Both of these things helped me SO much. I was actually able to sleep at night instead of "cat napping" all night, and I desperately needed sleep. I had a terrible cold and felt just plain awful. For the first time in my life, I wasn't living with someone to take care of me. Growing up was pretty much the only option. I mean, dad was there, but he's never had the caring touch that mom or even Dan has had when I was sick.
I lived in a fog for a couple days and really took advantage of not cooking or cleaning. I just plain didn't feel like it, so I didn't do it. I think it was Thursday of that week before I started getting over my cold enough to feel human again, which was great. I talked to myself like crazy trying to not get too excited about Dan coming home that weekend. I didn't want my brain going through what it went through before, so I kept telling myself that we were only half way done with this whole training process. Even as I was saying it, I knew my brain wasn't buying it, so I got just as excited as ever. The only trouble with that was neither one of us had a very good week; Can we say grumpy?

2 weeks of motel life with a stranger is not something that Dan can accept very easy. I can't blame him, I wouldn't be able to handle that at all. I feel like I'm too personal of a person to just move in and live with someone I've never met before. I think he'd only managed to get about 10 hours sleep for that whole week he was gone, so he did NOT feel like talking about his experiences from that week. I think Friday night I fell asleep about 8:30, had an auction on Saturday that I had to leave at 5 AM for, didn't get home until after 6 that night, fell asleep again sometime before 9, and then it was Sunday again. Plus Dan's "sidekick" wasn't riding with him this week so Dan wanted to leave at noon. We really didn't see each other that weekend, and I think that's what made week 3 so hard.

Week 3 was the one where I nearly broke down. Everything seemed twice as hard as it normally did. I felt myself drifting into a fog and I really didn't want to see anyone or do anything. I think if I had been able, I would have stayed at home every day......in bed.....with a big bowl of pudding or something. I would have sunk into a super bad depression and probably spent most every day in tears. Monday and Tuesday drug by.....and Wednesday wasn't so great either. It was one of those weird moments when you do lots of stuff, thinking that you're killing all this time but in reality it only took you ten minutes. I hate that. Where is that super speed when you need it?
When I reached the down hill slope (Wednesday night), I could finally start perking up again. Then, I would start rationalizing; "I've only got two days and two nights left! Well, really, it's only one day because he'll be coming home Friday.....and really it's only one more night because it's already night now........so one day and one night....." This would go on for a while. I'd try to think of how I could arrange my schedule so I could be home when he got there, etc. I'm pretty sure that week 3 was the hardest for both of us.
I would try to remember what it was like when we were dating and would only see each other every one to two months.....and only for a few hours. At times that would help, but otherwise I was pretty much left to my self pity.
That weekend went much better, although I was working again on Saturday, but it wasn't as late and I didn't fall asleep so early.

Now comes the final push. Week 4. I actually thought this would be my toughest week. I pictured myself sitting at home, bawling my eyes out, pining for my husband who couldn't be there. (OK, so I can be dramatic. lol) Truth is, it wasn't like that at all. It was more like the first week. I was home a lot more because dad was spending more time with Russ, but it was still nice. I would pop in a movie, or watch an episode or two of a series I'm currently interested in on Netflix, eat snacks, sit in the recliner........things weren't all bad......but it wasn't all snacks and tv either. I was empty inside.

Finally, we reach the end of our journey. Today is Friday.....at the end of week 4. I feel as though I'm a better person for going through this experience with as little discomfort as possible, and I'm proud of both Dan and myself for handling it as well as we have. But truth be known, I wouldn't trade him for anything, and I'm so very thankful that my "bachelorette" days are over. They really do stink.

Why, yes. I am one of "those home-schoolers".

Alright. So maybe that's not a big secret.
Pretty much every single person that lives in this small little town that I was born and raised in knows that. Not mention countless others that I have met in my lifetime, and now even those that I haven't met.
It's not something that I am ashamed of. I'm pretty proud of it, really.
"So what's to be proud of?" You might ask.
Allow me to tell you my story.

I was enrolled in a public school for the very first year of school, commonly known as kindergarten. My mom dropped me off every morning and picked me up after lunch every afternoon. The occasional odd job or late errand caused one of my grandmothers to pick me up.
In the true spirit of "cause and effect", the sight of one of them picking me up instead of my mom caused the contents of my stomach to affect me in ways that I didn't care for. Neither did the janitor on duty. But I couldn't help it. I was terrified.
As a young child, I was somehow convinced that my mom would walk out of the school one morning and decide she didn't want me anymore, so she just wouldn't come back. Or what's worse, she would be rushing back to pick me up, have an accident and die. Thus would be the reason my grandma was there to get me.
(I never seemed to take in to account that my grandma looked so happy to see me. I guess you don't think about things like that when you're 5.) 


Thankfully, none of the above ever happened outside the deep corners of my mind, where these thoughts ran wild from the ages of about 4 to 12. Just for the record, no. That isn't why I was pulled out of school.
(I'm getting there. Don't get your panties in a wad.)


To this day I can still remember some things about that class; My teachers name, some of my friends faces, field trips, a Valentine's Day party, and the very first boy I had a crush on holding my hand in the hall. I remember losing my first baby tooth there, but I don't remember actually "learning" anything there. We played games, looked at books, colored and took naps. Basically, it was daycare.
Even at the young age of 5, I was more of an outcast than a social butterfly. Shy, backwards, didn't express myself well.......all the ingredients of a nerd. I had one girl that I felt close enough to talk to, so I deemed her the honor of being my best friend. (She was so lucky.) For this next part of my story, she'll need a name. So, we'll refer to her as "Little Miss S".

STRIKE 1:
Little Miss S, being my best friend as she was, entitled her to my full attention. I sat next to her at lunch, we played together at recess.....you know. The full package. Another part of the package, is my full protection. In other words, if you picked on her, you picked on me. Plain and simple. I just felt it was my sworn duty to defend her honor to the death......or the principals office, which was worse. I really can't tell you what made me feel that way, because I was really, really shy. I guess I've always been one to love deeply, and I don't like people hurting those I love.
One day at recess, the richest girl in my class (or possibly the school) decided to start picking on Little Miss S by forcing her to turn over her candy. The rich girl threatened Little Miss S by saying there would be no more friendship between them if the candy wasn't handed over immediately. So, Little Miss S handed the mean rich girl her candy and then proceeded to sit down on the sidewalk and cry like a baby. As I stood there watching, I grew madder and madder. The next thing I knew, I was walking towards that rich bully with the intent of smashing her nose in! In the end, though, my nerves won out, so instead of actually hitting her, I just stood there threatening her, just as I had seen her threaten Little Miss S not 5 minutes before. To this day I don't know where the teacher was when the rich girl was threatening my friend, but I know where she was when I was threatening the rich girl. Right behind me.
My little adventure cost me a time out with the teacher for the rest of recess, a trip to the office, and a call to my mother for "fighting on the playground". I think this was one of the first times my parents realized how school was changing me. Don't get me wrong, my parents didn't have a problem with me finishing a fight, but trying to start one was another story. After that episode, I returned to my normal personality of shyness, and basically tried to stay out of everybody's way

STRIKE 2:
I don't know how they do things now, but at that time they grouped 5 to 6 kids all together at one little table so we could socialize and keep each other company. I never seemed to be able to get along with the kids at my table. Just when I would start to get used to some of them, the teacher would move me around. When we would go to another classroom for music, to the library, or at lunch was the only time I would see Little Miss S, and so I hardly thought that was fair. But I dealt with it. The thing that I never understood was why I was always seated at a table with 2 or 3 boys who would all take turns sitting under the table for half of class. Maybe I should take this opportunity to explain that, my mother, wanting a daughter for the many years that she had, always wanted me to look girlish, so I wore a dress to school every day. I was told some years later why the boys were always sitting under the table, and why I was constantly being moved. So much for being shy.

STRIKE 3:
While I was being shuffled from table to table, as told in the story above, I learned some interesting things.
I learned about a little girl who could cry and get whatever she wanted, a little boy who "fibbed" to his mom about breaking a glass, and I learned a lot of new words that I had never heard before. But I thought "Hey, if these other kids are doing this, I can too." 
So I was at home one day, playing, and I asked my mom to play a board game with me. She said she would in "just a minute". After about 5 of these minutes, I was getting impatient. Here she was, doing laundry of all things, when she should be sitting on the floor playing with me! After she walked passed me for what seemed like the hundredth time, I was just plain angry. And then it happened. I said something my classmates had told me to say in a situation like this;

 "Where the he** do you think you're going?"


One phrase. One.....teeny.....tiny question. That laundry basket dropped out of my mom's hand like it was on fire. She spun around and gave me "the mom look". (If you've never received this look, I don't know whether to feel sorry for you or tell you how lucky you are.)
Once I saw that expression on her face, I was sure I'd get one dickens of a spanking. Instead, she came toward me, got down on her knees, and asked me where I had heard that phrase. When I told her I had heard it at school, she kind of relaxed. Then she explained to me some of the things that were NOT OK to say, and why. I'm pretty sure that's the day that it happened. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

I'm sure there were other incidents that made my parents decide to pull me out of public school, but these are the main 3 that have stuck out in my mind. But let's face it, they're reason enough.
Homeschooling isn't the weird, cult-like situation that you may think it is. In fact, I would just about guarantee that you've met several people that were/are home-schooled, and if they didn't tell you, you would never know. Grant it, there are other kinds of people that can give homeschooling a bad name, and those are the "stereotypes". Don't judge all home-schoolers by these people. We are not all created equal.
Every year after I was pulled out, my parents would sit down with me before they paid my tuition and ask me if I wanted to return to public school. The very young years that I mentioned earlier, I probably stayed home for the wrong reasons. I was scared of being left, so I decided to stay home. Once I got in to my early teens, I'll admit, it was hard to let go of all those old fears that I had clung to for so long, but I did it eventually. I don't think it helped me to have people constantly nagging me to be someone I wasn't, either. But it happened on almost a daily basis. There weren't too many people homeschooling in my area when I was doing it, so I was really one of the outcasts. To a certain degree, I'm still there. But there's one difference between now and 15 years ago;
Now I like being an outcast.

I hope you all enjoyed hearing my story, because I certainly loved telling it. If you feel like it, leave me a comment. I would love to know what you think.

Until next time,
Nikki