Stages

This week I witnessed the three stages of life.

This week I celebrated a birth, a life, and a death.

It started with the birth of a baby girl. Six weeks early and oh, so small. So fragile entering this world, but loved by everyone.

Then came a marriage. Young, happy, beautiful people who stood before their God and their family and swore themselves to one another. We danced, sang, drank and ate. Celebrated the birth of a new stage of life. Congratulated a couple on 56 years of marriage. (56!)

And sadly, last, came a death. The death of a good man. A father, husband, son, grandfather, and friend. I did not know him long, but I could tell he was well loved. He left behind so many amazing people who stand in the brilliance of his memory.


Now, I say 'celebrated', but some may think, 'death is not a celebration'.

That is where you are wrong.

From birth, to whatever life you choose to lead, to death is all a celebration. Each stage should be celebrated.

A funeral is not just the mourning. It is the celebration of a life. It says 'look at the life this person lived, how grand! How fulfilled'. You share memories and music, the good times and the bad. Yes, there are tears and sorrow, a clenching ache that reminds you they are never coming back. However, there is a joy in remembering their life.

From their birth, from every moment in their life, to death, there is a joy in that remembrance.

I read a book when I was younger and an old Irish man said to his daughter:

'It is the job of the living, to remember those who are not.'

So remember and celebrate.

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*Contains Christmas Spoilers*

'Tis the season everyone.

It is officially the first day of December and with it comes music, shopping, and decorating. There is a certain wonder to the holidays, no denying that, even if you don't celebrate. There are many religions all over the world and more so right here in our own country. However, despite the difference in our beliefs, some of us still try to make it a joyous time for all.

I don't care if you tell me 'Merry Christmas' or 'Happy Holidays'. Both mean something to a person. I grow very tired of everyone saying it should only be one or the other. If you don't want to say Happy Holiday, say Merry Christmas. The person you're saying it to can either sneer and be a Grinch about it or say her version of it and you both said the same exact thing, but from different perspectives.

You can not expect someone who does not have your beliefs to cater to your beliefs. That is now how this works. It makes YOU the Grinch. Not them.

This season is for giving back, not selfish debates over cup colors and how you spread your holiday cheer.

Next up: How you treat your children during the holiday season.

I remember my parents using Santa as incentive to get me to behave when Christmas grew near. You bet your bottom I turned on the charm and did what I was told. Even when I didn't, I still got something under the tree.

It is a personal choice to let Santa into your home. I've had many couples tell me that they refuse to lie to their child about anything their parents lied to them about. How dare they give a child this magical being to believe in for the first few years of their lives? Now, it's hip to raise your kids with just gifts. That is your choice. Don't sneer at those of us who think the jolly man in the red coat should be welcome in the house.

I'll be honest, I still get excited when I see a Santa at the mall. One today at our mall was walking around with a candy cane. An actual cane shaped like a candy cane. My six month old loved it. I look forward to getting him all dressed up in his suspenders and bow tie to sit on Santa's lap for pictures this year. I can not wait to do Elf on a Shelf with him.

We don't all do that though. That is a personal choice, however, we tend to look down on those who choose to and those who choose not to.

The season is all about wishing someone happiness.

Never forget there are those out there less fortunate than us. Who are spending their holiday on the streets, in filth, in famine, in war, and in refugee camps. We see the glittering of our own decorations and the pretty gifts and the lavish tables full of food and we forget.

Give the homeless a warm meal, hell, a bottle of water. Say the phrase you want to say. Celebrate your holiday the way you want to.

It is not in the holiday sprit for you to take a persons personal joy away. What they believe in does not affect you. Follow your own tradition and let others follow their own.

Merry Christmas everyone.

 

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Motherhood Today

Being a mom in my generation is hard. Now, I imagine it's hard for any generation of mothers, but here and now it what I'm talking about.

When I found out I was pregnant, I knew right away that I wanted this as natural as possible. From everything I ate during pregnancy all the way to all-natural and organic products I would give my son after his birth.

Do you know how many mothers told me not to? That it was silly. They did it 'this way' and it always worked for them, they never needed that natural stuff.

I won't bore you with the history of childrearing because we didn't have all the fancy, chemical ridden things in the past that we do today. So it confuses me that it gets mentioned so often
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I believe in vaccinations. I stand by Essential oils. I use organic veggies to blend up for my son to eat every day. He eats organic oatmeal and carrots and sweet potatoes. Why?

Because I'm his mother.

Not you. Not my family and not my husbands family. We plan to raise our son the opposite of the way we were raised. It won't be perfect, no one is, but it'll be our way. No matter how hard we struggle for it.

Now, let's start with the topic of clothing.

I entertained the idea of a gender neutral child. I didn't want silly sports clothes or fishing or 'best bud'. I got them anyway and I have to admit he wears them from time to time. So many of my relatives respected my choices. All natural soap products to bath him with, peach colored clothes and silly outfits that matched my ideas of dressing my kid.

I firmly believe that my child will choose what he wears when the time comes. If that should be pink frills, dresses or tuxes and camo pants, that will be up to him.

Happiness in a child is happiness in a parent.

I also get a lot of clothes given to me. I cringe at the DC comic clothes, but I dress him in them because hell, he may not share my love of Cap and Bucky and Black Widow.

 I also buy him clothes. Because I CAN.

I gave birth to that kid and if I want to buy him cute Christmas outfits and mittens and a Russian ear hat to match his fathers then I damn well will.

I loath having to remind people that this is my son and your number of children doesn't mean jack to me.

I won't judge another mother with her child unless that child has bruises that didn't come from accidents.

Bottle feed? Go for it. Breast feed? Go for it. It's been a wonderful experience for me.
Over the counter meds? Whatever makes you feel comfortable. Natural remedies? Do your research first, but go for it.

Want to take your relatives advice? That's okay. I personally refuse to unless it's dire and I can not find an alternative.

We are all mothers. In this day and age we are shamed for breast feeding and we are shamed for bottle feeding. We are shamed by so many things and most of them by other new mothers.
Think of how hard you have to work every day. Working and being a mother. Staying at home and being a mother. Raising one kid. Raising four. You know it's hard. So why not help that struggling mother out, instead of sneering at her?

Because on the outside, we all look like we have no idea what we are doing.

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Do Me

I hear a lot of people using the phrase 'I gotta do me'. I heard it for a third time yesterday, in one day I might add. In one day, I heard that said to me three times. Not in the same context every time. Thank goodness for that, because it probably would have thrown me into an emotional hurricane. Which I am not far from, believe it or not.

It irritates me when I see or hear that phrase. First of all, what does it even mean? My first thoughts are 'It's not even proper English. Who the hell came up with this mess?'. My second thought is to actually listen to what is being said before and after. Why do they 'gotta do them'?

I've never used that term. Wanna know why? Because it's selfish. It's greedy. It's against everything I stand for.

I have a family. A husband. A son. Three cats. A mom. A dad. Two sisters. A brother. Mother in Laws. Stepmothers. Stepfathers. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Best friends.

I don't have time to 'do me'.

I make sure every single one of them is happy. Safe. Comfortable. Where they want to be in life, even if it doesn't include me.

What a slap in the face when friends and family say that to me.

I live in a room the size of a postage stamp. With my husband and my four month old who can't sleep with other people in his room. I don't sleep. My husband doesn't sleep. My cats hate the house we are in and have made it a point to escape whenever the opportunity strikes. An escape that resulted in a 300 dollar vet bill that put us in a financial hole and now my cat hates me.

I've shouted. Cussed. Vented. Cried. But I haven't been selfish.

I've listened to people threaten me. I've weighed the option of living in a cardboard box over where I am in life right now. But I have quite literally smiled and moved on. Ignored the dark rain cloud over my head and focused on my son and my husband. The only two lights at the end of my tunnel.

I have plenty of support. Not everyone can drop what they are doing and help me. Hell, I don't even ask for help. I just struggle on my own. I know we all fight battles not everyone can see.

Just don't stare at me while I'm drowning and keep putting life preservers around your own body when you are standing on the shore.

Now, if I had listened to a conversation and it was the first time in months that I'd heard someone say that, I wouldn't have batted an eye. I would have went on with my day.

But I heard it three times..

All I could think of past the anger and the resentment was:

Why is my family not important enough?

Why do we have to be stuffed into a closet?

When do we get to 'do us'?

I got angrier with every passing second. Why are humans so goddamn selfish? Why do they see someone who could be their own flesh and blood and just watch them sink?

I've been playing it in my mind all day. The anger just keeps piling up higher and higher and I can't see over the top of it anymore.

When my husband goes to work, I curl up somewhere with my son and promise him it won't be like this forever. I'm going to fix this. I'm going to give you a life better than this.

All I can hear while I say it is:

Find somewhere else to live.

Kicked out.

Homeless.

So think real hard who you're saying 'I gotta do me' to. Because you could be tearing their entire world down with those words.

It doesn't mean you can't 'do you'. It means you need to step out of that persons life and stop boasting about 'doing you'. Their life is hard enough without it being thrown into their face that they are at rock bottom and you have better things to do than to throw out one of the twenty life preservers around yourself.

Be kind. Be sensitive. Be careful.

Honesty is good, but there is a line where that goes into a cruelty. People don't need to be reminded that their life sucks.

So don't rub it in.

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My Birth Story

So I figured while my son is taking his last evening nap before I bathe and put him in bed, I'd share my birth experience.

I know what you're thinking, 'Oh no. Another one. Here we go', but I'm not even asking you to read it if you don't want to. This is for me. I've wanted to put it in writing for a while and I feel that I should share it for any willing to lend an ear.

I wasn't expecting to get pregnant. Goodness, it was the last thing on my mind when I picked my husband up from the airport in my home town. Five years together, two years married. He was just returning from those two years in Japan. I had a home ready for him, a job to keep us afloat while he adjusted into civilian life.

Two months after he returned, I started feeling weird. I didn't even think of it. I had PCOS, I was almost certain I couldn't have kids. Two doctors told me it would be very. VERY hard. However, when my mom gave me this curious look and said 'you should probably take a test', I laughed it off.

No. No. I'm not ready for that.

So I stopped at the CVS on the way home and stared at the bag resting between my feet the entire way. John kept glancing at me, asking if I wanted to go to the bbq my mom invited us to. Hell, I didn't know. I was running the past five weeks of symptoms through my brain and trying not to slap myself for not seeing.

We got home, John sat on the couch and I bee lined for the bathroom and shut the door. Merlin meowed from outside it, rubbing the wood to get in. (He'd been acting as strange as my body. Animals know.) I took the test out and heard my husband shout, "If you're not, we are staying home. I'm too tired to go, but if you're pregnant, we will go to your moms."

I took a deep breath, laughing shakily and getting down to business. I set the test on the sink and closed my eyes and tried not to hyperventilate.

When I saw those two lines, I tried not to cry.

A lot of women tell me it was the best day of their lives, but it was an ending to mine. Damn that sounds so dramatic and shallow now, but at 23, I was kinda young. Very young. Not ready.

I opened the door and the couch was visible down the hallway, John fiddling with his video games.

"So?"

Guess we are going to my moms. He shot around so fast it startled me, "Wait really?" He vaulted over the back of our couch. Yes. I said vaulted. And pulled me into a bone crushing hug. He looked so happy, so excited. He repeated the question probably a dozen times, but I felt very....conflicted? Is that the word?

I was happy. It was not an immediate effect, I'll be perfectly honest. My entire family was happy, my husband was giddy, I was content. No turning back now. No take backsies. No returns. I don't believe in abortion(I do however support a woman's choice). It wasn't even an option.

But I won't bore you with nine months of zero cravings, swollen feet and general irritation at going from 130 to 170.

Instead I'll tell you that I hated being pregnant. I loved the kicks and the ultrasounds, but I hated the weight. The heat. The never sleeping or getting comfortable. Everyone told me I'd miss it. Was offended when I told them I didn't, but it's the truth.

Now, fast forward to the last four weeks of my pregnancy. I went into early labor with my first bout of contractions. Whoo. Exciting right? Nope. Just got a smile, told me to ride the waves, and put out some antibiotics for my bladder infection. Yay.

So that's what I did. Rode the waves of mini contractions. Went about my days. Passed the plug. A week later, my husband was up and I couldn't sleep. He was not motivated to get out of bed for work and I wanted to cuddle, but oops. Nope. Gotta pee. Again.

So I waddle to the bathroom and while I'm peeing. I know. I know.

I wait a few seconds, stand up, waddle back to the bedroom and peek around the corner.

"Call in. Water broke."

He looks up from his phone. He didn't believe me at first, it took a few seconds and then he was up. I was wandering around, making sure I had everything while he called in and I called my mother.

Twenty minutes later, I was at the hospital, ready to go.

I stepped out of my car and woosh. Water finished breaking right there in the parking lot. It was warm, wet and disgusting and all over my brand new leather flip flops. (WHY DID I WEAR THEM) My skirt soaked up what it could but John had to half carry me to the hospital door.

Now, I knew that my OB was out of town. I was dreading giving birth while she was away and low and behold, it happened.

I'm flexible, but I was firm with my choices. No meds. No epidural. No episiotomy.

Then I found out I was strep b positive and needed a bag of antibiotics. I was still in early labor while a room was prepared and the contractions skyrocketed. I did my breathing. I talked through them. It was agony. I was ready for it to be over and it had only been about forty five minutes.

Not an hour after the antibiotics were given, I got sick. Like, throwing up stomach acid sick. It was terrible. Disgusting. The contractions made me throw up more. So with a heavy heart, I took the Demerol. It relaxed me, but it wasn't enough.

I gave in. I asked for an epidural. I could take the pain, I couldn't take the pain and throw up through every contraction. Lets go with no on that one.

I finally got into a room just as the epidural man strolled in, let John stay and the nurse kept me still through it. I was a big girl. It was a strange feeling. My husbands recollection of the story is funny, but that's for another day.

Finally, I was relaxed, numb from the waist down and the sick feeling was gone. Whoo-hoo. Go me. I had someone set up my essential oil diffuser and tried to relax.

Hours later, after doctors and nurses poked at me, I was given ice chips, and people were running out of things to talk about, I got bad news.

The doctor who was filling in while mine was away left the goddamn hospital. Just walked out. Made sure they slowed down my labor to fit his needs.

Um. Exsqueeze me? Since when is my delivery on his time.

My mother and MIL were livid. Demanding answers while I notified someone that my right side was regaining feeling.

I started running a fever. The vomiting came back. My son started overheating inside me because my temp would not go down. I stayed calm while I let my mother and party be angry for me. I don't have time to be angry, I want this baby out of me. Yesterday.

Time is irrelevant while you're delivering, it only becomes apparent when they tell you what time the baby is born. Then your world turns right side up again.

I'll be honest, I don't remember very much of the pain or what I said, besides complaining that the doctor wasn't even in the hospital. The nurses did a great job. They were supportive and attentive, ready for me to vomit or push at the drop of a hat. John, my wonderful, amazing, glorious husband, stayed silent through most of it. He's like that. Holding my hand and just being there while I whine.

I just know that the doctor cussed at a nurse for being on a phone during the crowning, and that I got my natural delivery. The epidural had worn off by then and I felt it all.

Then the doc called for someone from NICU. My moms face fell, I sucked in a breath and gave one last push. Damn that hurt. A lot.

He didn't cry.

Let me tell you how terrifying that is when your son comes out and he isn't crying. The doc set him on me and he was blue, I was half out of it, a nurse took him from me. The doc started poking and prodding at me. My husband stood firm at my side, my mother and MIL hung over my son like hawks.

I know I kept asking if he was okay. He wasn't crying. Why wasn't he crying?

The nurse, the one I really likde smiled and said he's fine. Breathe. Let's get you finished up.

ME? I'm not worried about ME.

But not a second later, my sons cries started up and I fell back into the pillows. The doc shoved at my stomach and I watched them clean up my son and take all his measurements. I finally started coming back to myself, noticing the doc was now stitching me up, my mother joined me while my MIL stayed with my son.

He's beautiful. Kept being chanted at me. I know. Of course he is. Now let me hold him.

Soon, my screaming child was set on my chest and everything was right again. My body felt lighter, he looked beautiful. I wanted to SLEEP.

Three o'clock in the morning. The day after my youngest sisters birthday, born on my nephews birthday. Another June baby in the family.

The hospital stay was long, because once I got the story of what happened down south for the doc to get so worried about it made sense.

My sons shoulder got stuck. Yeouch. No wonder it hurt. Sorry hon, guess my pelvis is shaped funny. It's actually very scary, because now it has to go on my chart so they know for my next birth. I stayed for a lot longer than vaginal birth mothers are supposed to. They wanted to keep an eye on us for an extra day or so to make sure I healed and he didn't have any shoulder issues.

It was a lovely stay, despite the room being a little on the unclean side. That wasn't fun. Let me tell you.

My experience wasn't too traumatic or very exciting, but it was mine. John was with me the entire time, supportive and holding me through tears and constant crying. He's been amazing since day one. I never expected less of him, not once.

Now, Liam James is four months old and loves to put his foot in his mouth the second I'm done washing it in the bath. He likes cooky cartoons, classic rock and for some weird reason The WKDs music. Everything makes him smile. He loves people and swinging.

I wasn't ready for a kid. Some days I still feel that way, I'm young. Too young in my opinion for a family. It's hard. It's expensive. It's time consuming. It closes so many doors temporarily.

But it is so, so worth it.

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Home

We often ask ourselves what home is. Don't deny it, you all sit and wonder about it sooner or later. It is in our natural to wonder about the ways of the world.

So what is home?

Is it four walls and a door?

Not necessarily, you see, home isn't the place where you land. It's the people you land there with. Each face you see around you, today, tomorrow, a week from now, they are your family. It could be that broken group on a TV show you watch religiously or the people you work with. Every day you see familiar faces and new ones, so why not make them part of your family too.

We are all lonely creatures, who see only 1% of the world in all the years we live. Some of us have never stepped out of our hometowns. That is not a bad thing, of course, but there is so much of the world out there. Billions of people, strange places, animals and countries. There are odd foods to eat and crazy songs to sing. So why not peek around the corner of your everyday life and try them out?

The entire world is our home, so lets treat it and our families that inhabit it, with some respect.


m.l.carista

Also, check in for Misha Collins amazing Scavenger Hunt! Registration is closed and the hunt has already begun, but there's always next year. In the mean time, enjoy all the wonder world changers!

GISHWHES

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Strut it like you mean it

Has it really been almost a month since I've written?

It feels like a few days, but perhaps that is because I have delved back into my writing thanks to the talents of J.R. Ward and Nora Roberts. Their books inspire me to pop open my laptop and write the night away. However, between Vampires and romance so thick and beautiful it makes you weep in bed, I have been very busy.

The last few weeks have been dedicated to SOFA practice and preparing for my husbands first visit in about a year. SOFA being the wonderful show my Pole Fitness class does twice a year to show off our skills in a three hour long performance. My husband being that sexy man I married last May.

I have been running myself ragged, and it is absolutely lovely. It has been a long time since I've immersed myself into something so completely that I can block out everything else around me. It has been both challenging and fun. My bones and muscles ache, but I have a feeling of accomplishment you just can't get at the gym.

And everyone's first reaction to my being a pole dancer is: Ew. You're a stripper or a slut or whatever other derogatory names you can come with with. No one stops to think how much EFFORT it takes. How much strength and agility, practice and time. They are so busy judging, that they don't see past the half naked women who probably can't even lift themselves to the top of that pole in a strip club.

We can.

We do it so well, it may not seem sexy anymore. Instead, it gives us our strength and our confidence, it feeds our soul with a special kind of love. Our bodies become this memory bank of tricks, spins and dance. We make new friends, we become this big dysfunctional family of women of all ages, races and religions. You walk through those doors and the entire outside world is gone. All you think of is mastering that next trick, and of looking sexy and fluid as you do it.

So I tend to ignore the naysayers and judgmental people. Because while they have arms like noodles and I can open that hard-to-open jar of garlic for a friend when she cooks me dinner. I can help lug a giant couch out of someones house and rearrange my furniture without breaking a sweat. I can dance in heels so high they reach the clouds.

And I look damn good while I do it.

m.l.carista

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