Why you can't post

Hey sweeties! Here's the skinny on why some of you can post comments and some cannot--- you have to have a gmail blog account. That doesn't mean you have to be a blogger. When the box pops up and asks you to create a name and a password go for it. It lets you select a picture, "name to go by," and you can post comments whenever you like.

I know I promised to keep future updates as upbeat as possible. But the mood that hangs over me looms like winter clouds blanketing a gray landscape. I'm floating above it all, like an airplane steady the course. Steady the course...keep your coordinates. Life gives us some of the most terrible surprises.

I think my mother-in-law is dying. I say I think because we are holding on to a shred of hope that lies in the off-beat chance a drainage tube from her brain can give her a chance at recovery. After a recent breast cancer diagnosis and surgery, she seemed on the right path toward healing. I believed in my heart I had nothing to worry about. The surgery was successful. Yet twenty four hours can stride through life and make such a difference. After surgery, she suffered two strokes, now what we know to be an evolving stroke. Fluid is in her brain, creating massive pressure, and the stroke has ravaged portions of her brain.

So we sit. We wait. I drink coffee, pretend to read, slightly listen to menial conversation. But its not menial-- it's a welcome distraction from reality. Tears burn up my throat. I fight them back, rub little droplets from my eyes, and go for a walk. I've never watched such a vibrant person fade. My grandmother slipped into dementia....we knew her mind and body would crumble. My father left us in a flash--- like a snow storm quickly bubbling up from the west heaving piles of cold snow and retreating quickly to the east. This we never expected.

Its so exhausting to watch someone die. If that's what is really happening here. I am clinging to channel her grace as I traverse this difficult, painstaking path. I am hoping some strange magnificent miracle will help her open her eyes. I feel like Sally Field in "Steele Magnolias" "Open your eyes Shelby, open. open. open." But life isn't a movie, I'm not Sally Field, and all this is really happening.

I will update you all later. I've shared my losses with you in grave detail-- so this I feel comfortable relaying. I feel peaceful typing to invisibility--- who will read this? I have no idea. But we go on living, as tired as we are.

Love you.
Jeb

Losing weight and diet ideas

Thanks Victoria for this awesome link! Eating gluten free naturally prevents people like me from making high carbohydrate food choices. While I don't eat strictly gluten-free, I do purchase items that are and I never shy away from recipes that are gluten free.

Here's a link ladies to follow on blogspot if you are curious to try new ideas!

glutenfreegoddess.blogspot.com

All I want for Christmas is for you to drop off your sperm

So for over two months I've been waiting for my husband to go in to have his sperm tested. He keeps telling me "Oh I will go Friday" or " I can't until next week." I even put it on my Christmas list...All I want for Christmas is for you to drop off your sperm. I kid you not that's what I wrote.

While I completely understand the natural trepidation to literally walk into a doctor's office and have to produce a sample for testing, I can't move forward with my medication prescriptions until he goes in for the tests. I'm sure the very idea of going in for this delicate purpose makes him queasy. I don't quite know how to get it through his thick skull this has to happen. Now don't get me wrong and think this is his way of showing he doesn't want kids yet. We've established our commitment to the cause and feel ready for parenthood. He is totally on board, as long as he doesn't have to make the trip to the dreaded doctor's office. The other day I explained to him all the uncomfortable procedures and appointments that I have to endure as a female, let alone carry the baby if I get pregnant. He can deal with one awkward appointment. Right?

If anyone has any ideas beyond nagging and hysterics I'd love some feedback.

Venting

So today I vented-- I feel much better--I'm not choking. Cartharsis is an important coping technique. I write letters to people that I never send, call a sibling, or call out my problem. What do you do to purge overwhelming emotions?

Encouraging Words from Facebook!

A friend of mine from Colorado has the most wonderful posts regarding female empowerment through various music selections. I always look forward to reading and listening to the amazing tunes she finds and shares. She loves neo-soul, references socially conscious pop, and sometimes she throws in a song just for the wicked beat!

If you are looking for a pick me up or interesting music to add to your playlist click on her link and become a face book friend!

http://www.facebook.com/aldilorenzo

Her posts are so uplifting!

Gasp, gasp, choke. choke

I’m feeling stifled. I have such potential to make good things happen. So why does it feel like just when I use those skills I’m a bad person? I’m a go-getter. It’s just my nature. Yet for the last six months I feel like I can’t utilize that quality in myself. I’m sure its part of being new to the area, but it leaves me feeling exhausted. Exhausted from working so hard to fit in. Maybe I should stop trying so hard….

Customizing your baby

No. I'm really talking about customizing an actual baby like in science fiction movies. The baby I refer to here is my blog. I'm trying to jazz it up and make the page unique. I spent three days trying-- no luck. I downloaded an awesome program, but alas could not pay to actually apply the amazing template I created. Thus, since eyes sting, my brain hurts, and I've ignored my husband for days I have asked a former student who is excellent with computers to help me out. So please bear with me as we work to create a beautiful reflective space for you to peruse.

Regards,
Jessica

Here's the skinny on my not so skinny situation

I am five foot one inches and a tub of lard. Not really, but the height part is true. I know its suicide to admit one's weight, let alone ONLINE. But here it is. Drum roll please..........169! I am a hefty 169 pounds! I started noticing my weight gain in high school after the second time I broke my ankle. After physical therapy and what not I expected the pounds to melt off. I was an active teen, played year round competitive softball, enjoyed hiking, swimming, you name it. But despite all my activity my body expanded. Pants felt tighter, so tight in fact I resorted to sweats and running pants for a year.

In college I ate whatever I felt like. Carbs and coca-cola mostly. I still count one day when my friend and I ditched Bio with Professor Bat-man to eat a dozen donuts and watch "A Baby Story" as one of my all-time best days. Isn't that sick? A day gorging myself on sugar and trans fat felt amazing (the company was great though). In college I became an over-eater--- something foreign to me as my parents never insisted we finish the food on our plates. In fact, my folks never really kept junk food in the house; my mom stashed junk food away for parties and holidays.Doritos had no place in our home. Despite my activity, I gained. I gained some more.

As a student, disgusted by dorm food options, I resorted to what remains as my favorite food groups: cereal and dessert. My weight ballooned and I had no reasonable excuse for all my pounds. Upon one of my first visits home from college my mother told me I looked like a sausage busting out of its casing. My brother told me to stop crying because I was fat and get dressed to go to a holiday parties-- there would be cookies there so that would inevitably cheer me up right? The way I felt about my body only made me eat more.(It's ok if you laugh out here...I do). My best friend and I baked, cooked comfort foods, and relished in the bounties of the junk food aisles. I owe much of my current girth to years spent in college binging.

When I finally started exercising and paying attention to the crap I put into my mouth PCOS had also been working its wonders on my body's (in)ability to shed pounds. I should have known something was wrong when as a healthy active person I struggled to lose weight. I can assure you that after years of trying various diet options I have truly found the nutritional path I am comfortable forging ahead on. I plan almost every single item of food that I eat. I create a menu for the week with every meal, snack, side etc on it. I use this menu to inform our grocery shopping (this has done wonders for our budgeting). I tried food journaling, but I failed miserably at the diligence required to maintain such a document. Thus, my menu works as my diary-- just ahead of time. I leave myself wiggle room on the weekends and try to eat carbs at breakfast. I NEVER eat after eight. I need more protein-- so that's the current project I'm working on. Sneaky ways to get more protein in my diet.

Some people have tried offering me advice on how to eat better. I try and ignore it. I have read and read and re-read books on my nutritional needs as a person with PCOS and potential for diabetes. I have completely changed major aspects of my life to meet these needs. So when someone tells me I'm not doing enough, I shrug them off. This condition plays out as a mystery, I'm the principal actor, I don't need stand-ins ad-libbing.

Did I mention I work out? NO I don't hit the gym like some friends of mine who train for marathons etc. I used to tell people I was meant to be rolled...not to run. I work out at Curves (my only gym option in this rural area) and I walk my dog for a mile and a half each time. I also participate in activities that require my body to move. I hike, I accept invitations to do active things, I do little mini-work outs during Biggest Loser and other shows. And despite all these efforts, I haven't been able to get past the 169 mark for a year. This is where PCOS is taking me hostage-- its telling my body its hormones are off, the insulin resistors are at full speed, and my body says LOSE NOTHING--survival mode I guess.

But, I'm plugging along.

Here's my tasty smoothie recipe that sneaks in protein and vegetables.

Handful of kale (you won't taste it)
1/2 cup frozen strawberries
1/2 cup frozen cranberries
1/4 cup unflavored protein powder
1/4 cup almond milk (unsweetened)
1/4 cup Vanilla, fat-free organic yogurt

ADD if you want: fresh fruit you have in the house (apples, banana, peaches, berries, lime etc).

I drink one of these a day. Sometimes I get crazy and add spinach juice. I love it! The little boy I tutored absolutely LOVED these and had no idea how good they were for him. I crave them!

Hello? Comments please--

Realization people!

I've been sharing the crux of why I felt it was so important to start this blog--- setting a background if you will. I just realized, I've never really invited you to truly speak to share what you know, your perspective on the topic. I know its scary posting something--- my stomach turned upside down the day I first pressed post. But it feels liberating...I swear. So ladies attach a comment here giving your thoughts and ideas.

I welcome anything you have to say. Positive or negative.

I welcome your experiences.

I will work on being concise.

I will smile more often on the page.:)

So here's a question for you: Have you ever experienced infertility? or worried about infertility?

Of Mice and Men and Miscarriage

I’m in a mood tonight. Perhaps it’s the fact that my laundry room has flooded twice and the room smells like mildew has taken permanent residence between floor boards. Or perhaps it’s that my husband spent my first fifteen minutes in his presence screaming at me because the laundry was flooded. Yes, it was I who secretly conspired to flood the laundry room during the Hawkeye’s game. So instead of posting what I had planned to be an upbeat account of how I have tackled menu planning and feel proud of the results I think I’m pondering something more somber. Recipes of ways to bulk of your vegetable and fruit intake to follow some other day.



I mostly feel upset because I never knew I was pregnant when I miscarried. The guilt of feeling something I had done or eaten had destroyed the opportunity to parent still harrows through my brain. Had I known, had I only known. No coffee please, no thank you I don’t care for a glass of soda or wine. But, alas I didn’t know until the bleeding started. Perhaps I should feel thankful I never called the parents and announced the impending birth or decorated a room, or purchased a car seat. I cannot fathom the feeling of absolute anguish of knowing and….losing.

My first and my most recent miscarriages sear my thoughts. I cope better now, I feel no guilt, I know I’m not broken. But at the time, I floated from one reality to another with little ability to feel whole or like less of a woman. Bear in mind my esteem and feelings of self-worth faltered long before I miscarried. Miscarriage only provided another reason why I seemed a “broken” person. When I think of how I managed to move forward after my last miscarriage, I immediately think of my students. They moved me…not just forward, but inspired me through their understanding and support.

In October of my first year teaching I had scheduled an early meeting with a student to discuss makeup work. We sat, each tending to the tasks required, and suddenly as he motioned to me to ask a question I felt a surge of blood. I hadn’t anticipated my period. I knew the blood prevented me from walking to his desk to help, so I encouraged him to set up shop next to me. We would work through the problem until he felt he could move forward alone. I hoped, I prayed this smart boy would catch on quickly and be on his way. Meanwhile, my stomach churned, boiled, and sharp pains dug into my guts. He completed the task. I requested he go and catch up with me later. He stood up to shake my hand. Instinctively I also stood up and took his hand. I winced in pain; he winced as he caught a glimpse of blood oozing down my pants as I dizzily struggled to stand. Kindly, yet awkwardly, he asked if I was okay and if I needed him to get help. I denied assistance, sent him on his way, and begged the other teacher to take care of my classes for the remainder of the day.

At home, I sobbed. Not again! No insurance! The women’s clinic and ER both advised me to “let nature take its course” since I had no means of paying to see a doctor. So, I did. I called in sick for three days and bled. Nature was cruel. Was I being punished for kissing a boy in the fourth grade?

My return to school seemed subdued and I walked the halls in a trance. I couldn’t tell anyone, and I couldn’t engage as my effervescent self. Outside my classroom I heard two teens chatting. “Miller had an abortion.” “No freakin’ way?”

Most people let these discussions fizzle out-- the rumor mill to expire. But I couldn’t stand in front of a group of teens who believed I had purposefully lost this baby.I didn't have the option to exercise my choice. As students took their seats, the nerves warmed my belly, my hands started to stiffen.

“Good Morning guys.”

“Good morning Miller.”

The bulk of my broach of the topic: “I haven’t been out the last three days for the reason some of you may think. I want to stop rumors before they get out of control. Monday, I miscarried. It was tough at first, but I feel better now. Not perfect, but better. So now that you know, please do not tell your friends something different.” My voice quivered, my body language slackened.

They all sat there eyes blinking feeling, what I assume, overwhelmed by this incredibly human moment. Teachers don’t tell you stuff like this. They tell you baseball is cool and kids should read more. But this…no they don’t tell you this.

Tyler raised his hand, “What is a miscarriage?” I explained. He innocently gave his condolences. In fact, he got up from desk and hugged me.

Other hands raised; poignant questions followed by my responses interrupted moments of stillness and quiet. Students shared experiences, “Yeah my mom had that happen once.” Or “I have a brother I never met because he died when he was a baby” or “ What’s the difference between a miscarriage and an abortion?” For ninety minutes (a vital block day of learning) we cast aside Of Mice and Men to talk about the human condition as we had experienced it. I felt liberated by the discussion, saddened by the topic, and responsible for a magical moment as a teacher. We (society) never talk about these types of things. Miscarriage lies somewhere between abortion and sexuality on the continuum of taboos most likely to be avoided in discussion. But here we were talking about it without rules or shame. This lesson proved just as vital as Steinbeck's choice to not name the solitary female character in his book.

I have never felt closer to a group of students. They didn’t pity me or judge me. They just wondered how I was feeling. The very sentiment still brings tears to my eyes. Kids…kids connected with the very raw emotion more than I had wanted to. They also gave me hope—if I could have sons and daughters as wise and kind. They informed my philosophy as an educator--I will always care how a student feels to engage and encourage the process of learning.

Afterward, a few mothers sent me emails thanking me for teaching this “lesson” to their sons, a mother baked me a cake, two girls took care of some filing, and a father left me a voice mail to express his care and concern. If I needed anything…just ask. One student, whenever he saw me, always offered to carry my bag or my box of papers to grade. And the boy who was in the room the day it happened came to my room and quietly confessed, “I didn’t know that was what it was called. I think I told my friend the wrong thing. I’m sorry.”

How could I feel anger at this boy who had no idea what a miscarriage was? Of course I understood. Normally a quiet, shy student his explanation seemed to rocket out of his mouth, his words couldn’t keep time with his thoughts. “ It’s just. Just. I thought you know? Something was wrong. I could tell. I asked. He said that’s what it was. I shouldn’t hav….”

“Its okay.” I put my hand on his arm and promised I was okay. For the first time that day, I was.

The Baby Room

The Baby Room

I work for a daycare/preschool. Most days I spend chasing toddlers, giving copious high fives, and reasoning with four-year olds. Every once in a while—not very often--- someone calls in sick and I get to work in the coveted baby room. I love the baby room. The smell of chubby cherub children coated in lavender lotion and baby powder just melts my heart. When the toddlers drive me to another dimension of crazy (there is NO reasoning with a two-year old) I escape into the baby room, swoop an infant my arms and feel the calm seep through my skin. While rocking the baby her heartbeat sets pace with yours; every little worry or angst is drowned out by the peaceful stillness of a sound asleep baby. Rocking back and forth...a rhythm sets in, life feels less about noise and more about the constant,comforting rocking motion. Sure, the babies inevitably vomit up breakfast on my shirt, or suddenly stink of pee, but I love it nonetheless. Only in the baby room is gas considered cute. Each baby has adapted to sharing the attention of the staff, some mightily complain with wails to be held as others blow bubbles and grunt as they attempt to scoot across the floor.

Toddlers often try and “escape” from the confines of their classroom for the infant room. I used to take their hands and force them to leave the babies. Didn’t they understand they were big kids now? I mean we’re potty training people!One day while a particular persistent fellow kept creeping into the room, I realized his intent. He was escaping that day. Just like me, he wanted to feel the calm of lullabies and rockers. Blankies and binkies. So I stopped making the toddlers scram, but instead taught them to ask (one at a time) for permission to visit the baby room. Sometimes they remember, others they just storm in the room. Children, no matter the age, feel chaos as it collides with their routines and lack the ability to advocate for positive ways to cope with said commotion. Like us when we announce on Facebook, I NEED A NAP or MAKE THE WORLD GO AWAY, young ones need the opportunity to escape from dysfunction or have a moment to relax.

Every so often, when work is slow, I take a toddler by the hand and bring a rocking chair into our room. We take turns resting in the rocker reading books, cuddling while watching friends play, or having a good sit because every now and again we all need a quiet moment to share in the comfort of someone’s arms.

New Year's Resoultions: Whale watching

I’m never really excited about New Year’s. The holiday has always just provided an excuse to seemingly swim in alcohol. I always feel like the anticipation of it all seems to deflate at midnight. I grew up thinking some magical change just might occur when the ball drops, like Cinderella, and I’d feel different. So each year at the stroke of midnight I would wait for that wonderful transformation the new year would bring. I’d wait and wait, but nope. Same ol’ same ol’. This year I realized the delightful change could only happen not just if I willed it to but if I conscientiously elected to create change in my life. Change requires action.

Thus, this year when the clock struck midnight and the firecrackers popped over the beach, instead of sipping champagne or pretending to know the words to Auld Lang Syne, I sat in bed in my husband’s arms and purposefully crafted my means of change in my heart. I determined to find hope and hold on to it, to keep my grasp firm. I decided to write more, more letters, more blog entries, more cards. I will value meaningful relationships and work to keep them that way (even if that means to say sorry). I need to stop taking every little thing so personal. Negativity has no place in my heart; it is not up to others to determine what it negative, its solely my responsibility. I will recognize and give credence to my good-natured personality and I will share it. Communication serves as a key component in life and I will continue to value the process of building my communicative skills, openly and honestly.

Lastly, I as I drifted off composing this change manifesto in my mind, I determined these three things: to go back to school, find fulfillment in all I do, and to go whale watching. I think all of those resolutions have potential for success. The quality of my life isn’t determined by me becoming pregnant or having PCOS, its established by my own will to see the magic I already have.