A Meditation on Sibling Rivalry

My two oldest boys are acting just like brothers from the Bible.  Bless them.

They are like Cain and Abel  Cain.  You know Cain; he killed his brother, Abel out of jealousy.  But not just any old jealousy.  God asked Cain to sacrifice his best.  God wanted Cain to sincerely show his love.  Cain didn't feel like it so he burned some crap on a rock in sacrifice to God.  Not literal crap, but figurative.  Cain gave less than his best.  He wasn't sincere.  If the sacrifice were words, Cain didn't mean them.  And he was so jealous of Abel, who did mean it, that Cain killed him.

"I'm sorry" is thrown around here like "I love you" is thrown around on prom night.  Oh, yes, I did just go there.  It's tired and insincere and manipulative and is said only to serve a single, selfish purpose.  Saying, "I'm sorry" when you're not is a lie.  The error is compounded.  The anger is compounded.  Nothing good can come of it.  Nothing.

Pretend sorry is not allowed.  Pretend sacrifices are not allowed.  No one is allowed to burn crap on a rock in my house and get away with it.  I don't want any pretend sacrifices or shows of "love" that are just for show.  

So there's that.

Then we have Jacob and Esau.  Brothers, twins no less, who disliked each other only slightly less than Cain hated Abel.  I believe they emerged from the womb locked in mortal combat.  Thankfully, neither committed murder.  But Jacob cheated and lied and schemed his way into taking his brother's inheritance.  Esau wasn't blameless - oh no - Esau sold his inheritance for a bowl of soup.  Things that make you go hmmm.

My boys, they cheat each other.  They trick each other.   They fought over a Lunchable this morning and I have no doubt that one of them would have sold their birthright for it had that offer been on the table.  Two days ago one of them changed the pop tarts in the boxes so that the other boy, who truly hates all pop tart flavors except for Brown Sugar Cinnamon, got a surprise Strawberry.  (Some one at Pop Tart - PLEASE - for the love of all that is good and holy - LABEL the individually wrapped foil packages so this insanity stops!)   This caused things to be thrown across the kitchen, including the offensive Pop Tart.  And the boys were ultimately sold to a band of nomads who just happened to be passing through town.  

I didn't actually do that.  I'm using it as a segue to the next band of Biblical brothers.  Let's call them The Twelve Tribes.

If you're not familiar with the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors, perhaps you've heard of Donny Osmond and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat?  It's the same story.  Joseph had horrible brothers who wanted to kill him.  They hated him but they had good reason to, right?  (My boys are nodding in agreement.)  Wrong.  It's never okay to hate someone no matter how unfair life is.  

What's the story, you ask.  In modern parlance, the dad in the story always bought Joseph his favorite Lunchable but made his other sons, The Twelve Tribes, eat goat meat sandwiches.  It was so UNFAIR they just wanted to kill him.  So that's what they decided to do.

Neither of my boys is rewarded the starring role of the virtuous Joseph.  (Who, IRL, is much more sympathetic than Donny Osmond would lead us to believe.)  No, and on some days, they're not even worthy of comparison to Ruben, the brother who didn't want to kill Joseph.  He just wanted to get rid of him... or maybe teach him a lesson.  

Most days my boys are the brothers who happily, gleefully tossed their rival into a dry well to be eaten by wild goats.  (See previous post about goats gone wild.)  And then sold him to a band of nomads so they could purchase an Xbox.

In conclusion, they're both grounded for eternity.

* As a responsible blogger who has some journalistic integrity, I feel it is important to add that once in a while they get along like James and John, the Sons of Thunder, and they work together to bring down someone else who has wronged them. 

  

Life at 21 Weeks.

Life is busy, always, but in the last week I've been trying to slow down.  Thank you crazy weird contractions.  I got them with the twins early too but I thought that the contractions would come later with this singleton.

Nope.  

What's the trigger - who knows.  For the first two weeks I had all kinds of theories.  Now I think they're completely random.

I had contractions on and off Wednesday night and all day Thursday.  When I say contractions, I need to clarify.  Some were run of the mill Braxton Hicks - short, not painful, etc.  But some were not.  Some were Olympic contractions that contracted and STAYED that way for two hours.  I want to be perfectly clear that this was not a case of multiple contractions happening for two hours.  This was one single, solitary, contraction that lasted for two hours.  And the next day I had a few more lasting for between 30 minutes and 1 hour.  What the what?

Gatorade to the rescue.  (Thanks Dr. McButler!)  I'm trying to keep a stock of Gatorade in the house but it's really hard with a sugar addicted DH and a 13 year old son.  Normally I don't buy it.  It's high in sugar and most of it is loaded with artificial color - which I try to avoid especially during pregnancy.  I've been getting the "frost" kinds - the ones that don't have artificial color added.  It helps.  It really does.  Besides, water tastes so gross to me right now.  

So I'm 21+ weeks.  Besides weird, super long contractions, nothing else remarkable is going on.  I'm not showing a great deal.  I still fit into non-maternity jeans - one size larger than my normal size.  I think I'm obviously pregnant but no one else seems to.  I get a lot of:

Are you always this small?

Is the baby healthy?

Even though I'm carrying small, I've gained 12 pounds so far, which is completely normal and healthy.  Everything measures normal.  

John has felt the baby kicking.  The kids haven't had much luck yet.  It's hard for them to be patient.  They say they've felt the baby but I think they just feel me breathing or coughing.  Maybe in a few more weeks....

A Different Kind of Pregnancy

This pregnancy has been so different than my other two.  It's been quieter.  There have been fewer obsessive Internet searches and baby name lists.  DH pointed out that it's likely because every child we've ever brought into our home up until this point was a first born of some sort.  Son #1 was our literal first.  Son #2 was my first pregnancy.  The twins... well, they were our first twins.  This baby, baby number five, is what normal people experience at pregnancy number two or three.

That's his theory.  I think it's decent.

Am I happy?  Yes.  So happy.  But also busy and distracted.  The upside, one that I never experienced with any of my other pregnancies, is that I'm just not that into it.  What I mean is that, I had assumed that I would really savor this pregnancy.  I would dwell on it, drink it in, remember every detail.
But I just don't have the time or the interest to savor, drink or dwell.  Parenting four kids doesn't leave a lot of time for mom extracurriculars.

I also don't have to plan for or decide on much.  I may or may not go "natural."  I've done it both ways and - meh - whatever.  The babies turn out awesome either way.

I've worked through a lot of stuff thanks to kids 1-4.  I'm not worried about Listeria, cloth diapers, what to do about vaccines or breast feeding.  I'm not worried we'll leave the hospital with an unnamed baby.  I'm not even worried that we gave away or sold all of our baby stuff except baby clothes.

We don't have a crib or a car seat or a high chair.  Worst case, DH has to buy a car seat while I'm at the hospital.  Boom.  Done.  In my mind's eye I saw DH alone at Babies R Us buying a car seat and I didn't even furrow my brow.  It's like I'm not even me anymore!  

Had that thought crossed my mind during my last pregnancy I would have cried and then ordered three car seats from Albee Baby right away.

The sum total of my worries are - is the baby going to be born today?  Any contractions?  Nope.  Great.  Then I'm not worried.

I know that it's going to be okay "stuff wise."  I know that our baby will, eventually, be named.

I guess this is what veteran moms experience.  It's pretty cool.  I like being in chill mom mode.

Peace out, yo.

Gold Star Mom Day

I took my kids to noon mass and Confession.  Gold star mom day.  Only there was a little more to it than that.   I know this is going to read like an exaggeration but I promise that it's not.  All the events described herein really did happen to the degree in which they are described.  

This is how it went down. 

Rolled into noon mass a little late.  No biggie.  Jesus totally understood because I was busy trying to get my short story ready to submit and I lost track of time.  Fine.  We can take care of it in Confession.

Mass was normal.  Kids were good.  

After mass, heading toward the front to get in line for Confession, #2 boy child grabbed the front of his pants and started dancing.  Change in plans.  Bathroom break.   #1 boy got in line for Confession.  Boy #2 and #3 went with me ISO a bathroom.  My DD stayed in the church "to pray."  Rookie move.

Sons were warned not to leave the lobby area after finishing in the bathroom.  Of course, one of them did.  After an extensive search of the church bathroom, he was found wandering and whispering loudly praying with his twin in the church. 

I got into line, which was a sitting line or we never would have made it.  There were at least sixteen people in front of us and only one priest.  TWO HOURS later, it was my turn.  

During this time I had to hiss at one of my kids to remove his hand from his pants, break up several arguments, threaten to take away all screens for the rest of eternity and give a number of soul-chilling glares.  The twins nearly burned the church down - twice, were kindly reprimanded by an older woman (for nearly burning the church down), understood "proper church movement" to mean running in flip flops, repeatedly head-butted my stomach tried to fall asleep on me, "read" the Latin passages on the wall in loud whispers, killed my phone battery, and got into a fight with the newly sin-free #2 son while I was in the confessional.  I almost made #2 get back in line and was sorely tempted to do something that would require me to get back in line as well.  

Thankfully my grace held.  It held by a thread.

By this time I was so hungry that I was ready to eat a hymnal.  My #2 son was clutching his stomach and prophesying his own death from starvation.  My #3 boy was eyeing the candles with devious intent.  And my girl was draining the last bit of battery from my phone.  

I said my penance quickly because I knew God didn't want #2 son to die of hunger, grabbed my purse and turned to leave.  

But wait a minute.  I was missing one.

My growling, broody #1 son, the 13 year old, was still in the front pew.  His head was bowed in prayer?  I looked around.  My other three were literally running for the doors like a pack of rabid wolverines.  

But look.  I wanted to shout and point.  One of my kids was being good.  There was grace.  He's praying.  Did anyone else see that?  One of my kids was good!

He finished praying, stood, genuflected and turned.  Was that happiness radiating from his face?  

"Thanks, Mom."  

That's what he said to me as we caught up to each other.  I realized through my haze of frazzled nerves, nausea and hunger that he hadn't uttered a word of complaint during the entire ordeal.   Not only that, he was thanking me.  During the last two hours #2 brother had poked him, made quiet farting noises and whispered that he smelled stinky butt, kicked him, and did numerous inappropriate things that bored little boys do to engage older brothers.   

Plus my oldest was just as hungry as the rest of us, maybe even more so because he's been growing roughly one inch every three hours.

In spite of all this, my #1 was smiling and thanking me.

One of my kids is good.  Hooray!

HPT + - really!?! - Low HCG Success Story

I'm pregnant and it turns out that zombie body parts sometimes work.  My zombie uterus has been supporting life for 14 weeks so far.

It was touch and go for a while after the embryo adoption and transfer in May.

One day before my scheduled HCG blood test, I took an HPT.  It was negative.  I cried.  I knew, I just knew that there was no way I could be this far out from our transfer (11 days post transfer, 14 days past ovulation) and get a negative test.

The following day, I took my last HPT.  There was a ghost of a ghost of a line.  I mean, it was so light I stood in the bathroom for a very long time squinting at the stick.  Then I called my DH in.  He was skeptical and rightly so.  We both wanted this baby to live so much that it hurt.  It was easy to conclude the ghost line was more a product of an active imagination than the chemical presence of a miracle baby.

But I felt better.  A line is a line is a line.

So I went to my blood test feeling somewhat hopeful.  That would be the last hope I felt for about a month.

Later that afternoon my doctor called.  It was the doctor, not the nurse.  That's never a good sign.  He was calling to tell me my HCG result was 29.

I bit my lip and pinched the bridge of my nose to keep the tears at bay.  29 was very low.  It was ridiculously low.  I knew what it meant, even though the doctor was nothing but positive.  He said there we'd wait and see what the next numbers were.  But I knew that a 29 meant that this was probably not a viable pregnancy.

Two days later.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  I was at 62 and in agony.

I shut myself inside my bedroom and wept.  Sixty-freeking-two at 17 days post ovulation.  That's a failing pregnancy.  That's a dying baby.  Still, my doctor, who once again called me, said this baby had a 50-50 shot.

My mom and dad were visiting.  My mom went off for a walk when I told her, tears streaming down my face, that her fifth living grandchild was on its way to becoming her 12th miscarried grandchild.  We didn't tell the kids anything during this time.  We just held on and waited for the numbers to drop.  Or rather, that's what I did.

Every time I did an internet search of "low HCG" or "low HCG success stories" I got tale after sad tale of miscarriages and chemical pregnancies.  I found a total of five stories where the moms gave birth to a healthy baby.  There were tens, probably hundreds, of heartbreaking stories.  Babies lost a 4 weeks, 5 weeks, 6 weeks.  Babies lost after what seemed to be a perfect rise in HCG levels.  There was a depressing medical study quoted over and over by savvy net-moms that gave my baby a thirty percent chance of live birth.

DH, who is an eternal pessimist and is currently obsessed with Ebola, was calm and even peaceful while I was falling apart.  He said, "You're planning a funeral for a child who is alive.  You're acting like this pregnancy is already over.  Stop it.  You need to be happy for the gift we have right now.  You're pregnant."  He hugged me and a huge "proud papa" grin spread across his face.  "You're pregnant right now.  Enjoy it!"

He was so right but what a struggle it was to enjoy something I was convinced I was going to lose.  Every few days for two weeks, I went in for blood work.  The numbers slowly climbed but there was never the huge jump I had seen with my first two pregnancies. This baby, this pregnancy, was slow to rise but the rise was steady and doubling as it should.

Finally after two weeks, the doctor stopped the blood work and told me to schedule an ultrasound.  I thought I was 5 weeks and 6 days when I went in, which was just barely, barely far enough along to sometimes see a heartbeat.

It was the Feast of St. Anthony, finder of lost things.  Since he's so good at finding lost things and since me and St. Tony go way back, (for a while had quite a contentious relationship) I asked him to help us find the baby's heartbeat.

I desperately needed to see the heartbeat.

It was ridiculously early to expect that we'd see one.  And when they got the ultrasound on the baby, we realized that seeing a heartbeat was going to be even more difficult than we thought.  The baby measured 5 weeks 4 days.

Probable late implantation, smaller baby, it didn't look good.

But then it all came into focus.

The sonographer sounded awed when he said, "This is the earliest I've ever seen the heartbeat.  It's right there."  He pointed to a flicker on the screen.

DH counted the beats.  120 beats per minute.

The heart was strong.  The baby, the tiny, bitty, smaller than a sesame seed baby, was miraculously alive. A sesame seed, people!  We saw a heart beat inside a baby who was the size of a sesame seed.  God is completely amazing.  So was the guy who did the ultrasound.

Now, I'm 14 weeks.  The morning sickness is gradually getting better.  I'm still easily tired.  I have an inexplicable case of hives that come and go and get worse when my nausea is especially bad.  I crave cream cheese.  I can't tolerate sugar.  Mexican food, my usual stand-by when pregnant, makes me sick.

So yeah, I'm pregnant.  All bets are that it's a girl but we won't find out for sure for a few more weeks.

  

God's will and adopting again

I have mixed feelings about posting.  I know not many people read this blog.  I don't keep it up.  I like my privacy.  My husband likes his too.  But I want to post because I need an outlet and I think my husband's ears are worn out from the sound of my sighing.

We're adopting again.

We're adopting five years too late but we're doing it.  

Right after Dignitas Personae (DP) came out, a priest friend of ours came over to visit and asked us if we had heard the news.  He told us the way the document read, it seemed clear that the church had decided embryo adoption was not permissible.  Thousands of babies would have to exist in "an absurd state" of being frozen until they thawed and then died, forgotten like so many chicken breasts in my microwave.  

I'll never forget it.  Never, as long as I live.  I was standing in my kitchen with a baby (an adopted embryo) in a sling on my left hip and a black plastic spoon in my right hand, dripping Pasta e Fagoli soup back into the pot.  I fought so hard to hold back the tears because I am strong and I don't cry in front of people if I can help it.  

No more babies, I thought as my heart wrung out.  The baby on my hip had two more siblings we had promised to go back for.  We had intended to do it even though we "had our hands full" - until we read DP.

I was heartbroken at the thought of abandoning those babies.

I was heartbroken at the thought that my husband and I had done something that could give scandal. 

The situation was grave.  How to explain this to our children?  How to explain this to others?  How to erase the media we had done promoting embryo adoption?  (It wasn't much but still....)  Until this point I had been cautiously encouraging other Catholic couples to look into embryo adoption.  How did I undo that?

After DP was released in December 2008, my lips were sealed on the issue of embryo adoption.  I wouldn't give scandal and I was ashamed that perhaps I already had.  Three of our adoptions, three of our children, were ill gotten gain.  I was devastated.  

Months passed and comments trickled out.  Janet Smith said embryo adoption wasn't off the table.  Others began to pick up the drumbeat again.  How can those children be left to die?  How can they be consigned to an "absurd fate"?  The USCCB confirmed that DP did NOT close the debate over embryo adoption.  

So for us, the debate began anew but this time, I followed it less intently. I had decided that we were done.  Even if the debate wasn't over, the writing was on the wall.  It was clear from DP that the Church didn't take a kind view of embryo adoption.  The thought that I might do something that could possibly be a mortal sin, give scandal, put my marriage in jeopardy, no, there would be no more embryo adoptions for us.

Walking up the stairs to church three years later, I counted my children.  Four.  Where was the other one?  I looked around.  Four?  I felt like I had simultaneously slammed into a brick wall and had a lobotomy.  Duh!  I only have four children.  Four living children.  What a stupid mistake.  Who does that?  I've heard of forgetting children but not adding to the count.  

For whatever reason, I couldn't shake the feeling that we should have had more children with us that morning.   I wondered why that thought should strike me right as we walked up the stairs into mass.  Odd or maybe providential.  I don't take much stock in "God feelings" but sometimes He does speak that way to us... to me.  Not often, but sometimes.  

My hands trembled when I got home and gave serious thought to another embryo adoption.  The stress was overwhelming.  How could God possibly be calling us to embryo adoption?  But if He was, I knew I needed to listen.    Slowly, I started to test the water.  My husband and I discussed it.  He was all like, "Let's go for it!  Whoo hoo."  Which was completely uncharacteristic of him.  I was all like, "No, not yet."  

I talked to priests, good Catholics that I knew.  I talked to my mom.  I decided again, no.  The risk was too high.  I didn't want to do anything that wouldn't be in line with Church teaching.  I used to feel all high and mighty and proud that I had a Master's in theology but after DP, I was humbled.  I felt like I had gotten it wrong, that I hadn't discerned properly.  It was a stunning blow - as in, I was stunned - not so much that I made an error, I do that all the time.  But that it was so utterly nebulous and yet grave at the same time.  Maybe I was going to hell, maybe I was a hero.  How does one go about discerning something like that?!

Then, out of the blue, we received a phone call from a moral theologian who teaches at a well respected Catholic seminary.  He wanted to talk to us about embryo adoption.  I was dumbfounded.  We chatted for a while and then he casually asked us if we planned to adopt again.  My husband looked at me hopefully.  I cleared my throat and said, "No.  We don't plan to go back."

There was silence on the other end.

Then the man spoke up, his voice tinged with anger.  "It isn't because of DP is it?  Because let me tell you something...." And then he went on to explain the politics behind the document.  He explained that under no uncertain terms had the church ruled on embryo adoption.  He said that the document, as far as embryo adoption was concerned, had done the opposite of what documents are supposed to do.  Rather than clarifying the issue, it muddied it.

I know it sounds cheesy but I honestly felt like I had just talked on the phone with Jesus.  I hate myself for even writing that because it's so gaahhh, stupid sounding.  But it's true.  I felt like I had just talked to Jesus.  

When I got off the phone I wept.  I still cry to this day thinking about it (but only in private).  My babies.  My two precious babies!  It would be okay to go back for them.  I was convinced.  We would go back.  

But opposition persisted because not everyone gets to talk to experts on this issue, not everyone follows the embryo adoption debate very closely, not everyone gets phone calls from Jesus.  

For my part, I was so excited about this news, about the fact that we could go back, that I wanted to shout from the rooftops.  So, I told a few people I was getting to know in our new town.  They were experienced mothers with large families and had been a source of support since I had met them.  Both had read DP.  Both were horrified by our decision to adopt embryos.  I told my mom.  She was worried for us.  They all assumed that we were making an emotional, rebellious decision.  Nothing I could say would convince my two local friends.  My mom was only convinced after she called a priest at the National Catholic Bioethics Center and spoke to him.  

God bless them for caring.  They meant well.  I truly mean that.  But I can't tell you how much I was hurt.  Judgment, a little scorn, pushing to meet with more priests, not accepting or understanding that we now had put over six years of research into this.  And I was vulnerable to it, extremely vulnerable, because, at the corners of my mind I still doubt my ability to discern God's will.    

Time marched on and still, I dragged my heels.  The embryo adoption process is physically exhausting and the ups and downs of discerning what we should do, defending our decision to misinformed friends, had left me emotionally drained. 

Life just kept barreling forward at full speed.  At that time, I had four children, a little farm, was homeschooling and trying to start a school.  Then the school actually started and I was even busier.  And then, suddenly, at the beginning of this school year, I just collapsed under the weight of it all.  

Broken and confused and feeling every ounce of my own fallenness, I knelt for prayer one night and I gave it all to God.  "If this is your will, make it happen.  If it is not, shut it down.  I want to do what is right and only what it right."  And with that the baby steps began.

Our home study was completed.  During my physical, I had a routine mammogram.  It was abnormal.  I might have breast cancer.  My medication had to be stopped until the biopsy results.  I gave it over to God.  The results were negative for cancer.  I resumed the medication.  

When I went in to see the embryo adoption doctor, he discovered that I was post-menopausal.  Okay, maybe this would be the stopping point.  I gave it over to God.  Within two months, I was back on track.  

The mediations to prepare my body for the embryo transfer caused a severe panic attack (thanks to my friends who were on my SOS text that night - sorry for scaring you), weight loss, nausea, migraines, and general anxiety.  I nearly went off of them and quit.  But I gave it over to God and He helped me through.  (So did my husband - props to him!)  

Five years after we had planned to go back for our babies, we are now in the home stretch.  We have completed the adoption process and the babies are part of our family on paper.  Our transfer is scheduled for mid-May.  I will be pregnant one last time.  It's up to God how long that pregnancy will last, but I will get to hold them at least for a little while.  I love them already and I love them so much.

When I look into the blue eyes of their brother, prayers come quickly, for their safety, for their survival, for my own health and ability to carry them to term.  When I look into the brown eyes of their sister, I wonder if they will look like her.  Then I find myself wishing I could have fifty more of them, laughing, joking, fighting, climbing trees, stomping in puddles.   

But just as quickly, sobering thoughts come.  They have been waiting so long.  Their chances are so poor statistically.  We've already been so very, very blessed with four amazing, miraculous children.  Can I dare hope to heaven that God will save these last two?  

Yes.  I hope with all of my heart and soul and very fiber of my being. 

If you find yourself reading this, pray for my babies and the doctor and his staff.  And for me.

Dear God, your will be done.  Saints Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Mary, Joseph, Scholastica, Benedict, Ambrose, and Athanasius - Pray for us.