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41 Weeks Later

 I waited 41 years to achieve a full-term pregnancy. (Well, obviously, I wasn't trying that whole time.)

I stayed pregnant for 41 weeks, until we had to finally evict him, as my doctor put it.

It has now been 41 weeks since I gave birth. 

Here are 41 facts about my pregnancy.

1. It took us 13 years to get pregnant, after 6 IUIs and 4 rounds of IVF (for those who understand infertility terminology).
2. My very first attempt at IVF was successful...for 13 weeks, at which time we suffered a devastating miscarriage in late September, 2015.
3. I needed something to do with that grief, somewhere to put it. I ended up putting it in a children's book, which will be released in July of 2019, after my rainbow baby turns 2.
4. We then suffered a second miscarriage, very early, in April of 2016.
5. Our third round of IVF resulted in a negative pregnancy test. Another wave of grief piled on top of the previous two and it was almost more than I could bear.
   
   
6. (I've felt several times throughout this ordeal that I was being asked to handle more than I could bear, and those were the times I found the strength I didn't know I had.)
7. On the 4th attempt, scheduled for October 10, 2016, I knew in my heart that this was the last time I could go through this, win or lose.
8. One thing that gave me the courage to press forward was this address from LDS apostle Dieter F. Uchtdorf. It felt like a personal message to me. This was my own personal "fourth floor, last door," and I kept on knocking.
9. This last round of IVF was the only round in which we transferred two embryos. All of the others were singletons.
10. We were concerned about the possibility and complications that could come with twins, so we debated back and forth up until the very last minute (literally the VERY LAST minute) about whether to transfer one or two embryos this time. At the very last minute, after a heartfelt prayer, we opted for two in complete unity. 
11. Right after we made that prayerful decision, I looked at my phone and realized I had missed multiple phone calls from my doctor. One of our embryos hadn't survived the thaw, so they needed to know ASAP whether to thaw another one. I didn't hesitate and said, "Yes, we need one more. We're transferring two." It was a rare moment of complete certainty on a path fraught with indecision.
12. (I kinda suspect that the embryo who sneaked in at the last minute was probably our little Wyatt.)
13. After each round of IVF, you get three doctor-ordered "Princess Days," where you basically relax on the couch, reading books, thinking "sticky thoughts," hoping for a successful implantation. That part, I never minded.
14. After the "transfer," it takes 10 agonizing days before you get your blood test results. You go in the morning for the blood draw, and then you get a phone call sometime before 6 p.m., depending on how busy the office is that day. It can be the longest 10 hours of your life.
    
    
15. Keep in mind, I've been through many of these blood draws. I usually leave feeling jittery, anxious, hopeful, terrified. All the feelings. But on this particular day, which was a beautiful sunny morning, it was different. I can't explain it, but as I drove away from the clinic and rounded that curve to get on the freeway, I was flooded with an intense feeling of peace, happiness, and wellbeing. I felt overwhelmed, surrounded, by a love so all-encompassing and strong that I wouldn't have been surprised if my entire car was visibly glowing. I knew in that moment that God could see me, and whatever happened, all would be well. 
16. Did that feeling last throughout the day? Not at all. I kept returning to it, though, trying to hold onto it. Anytime I let my mind take over, anxiety would reign, but when I centered myself in prayer and that higher, truer version of myself that's not driven by racing thoughts, I captured it again. I tried to breathe it in and let it permeate my entire being.
17. The call from the doctor came during dinner at Jim's Diner, where I had met my parents for a quick bite before going to a community play (Aladdin) that my niece was in. I excused myself from the table to take the call in the waiting area, where I may have jumped up and down just a little bit. I remember the nurse telling me this was a "good, strong start." My levels looked great. My heart soared. I walked back to the table with a giant grin on my face and didn't have to say a word.
18. p.s. Pregnancies tend to take FOREVER when everyone close to you knows you're pregnant 10 days in. 
19. We went in for our ultrasound in November, when I was 7 weeks along. This was the day we would find out if we were having a single birth or twins. It was a single, and Travis almost fell off his chair in relief. I too was relieved that I wouldn't have to worry about the extra complications twins would bring at my age.
20. That night, after seeing that strong, steady, single heartbeat, I went home feeling happy and relieved. Within a couple of hours, I started bleeding.
    
    
21. I called out to Travis that I was having another miscarriage, even though this isn't how the first one occurred, and the panic overwhelmed me. I called the doctor, who walked me through what else to watch for and encouraged me to try to relax (yeah, right!) and wait out the night. As long as the bleeding isn't a certain color and doesn't continue to increase, chances are good that things are totally fine. They'll do another ultrasound in the morning. Deep breaths. Prayers. Utter stillness. I listened to a guided meditation for hours, so I could listen to a calm voice telling me what to think about, to keep me from being overtaken by my worries.
22. The next morning, I was back in those stirrups for another ultrasound. I almost couldn't look. But I gathered my courage and looked. There, on the screen, I could see that little heartbeat fluttering away. The baby was okay. What I had was called a subchorionic hemorrhage, which are common, but scary, and usually turn out fine.
23. For the next 5 weeks, I got weekly ultrasounds to make sure the hemorrhage was healing and the baby was fine. This was great for my peace of mind in general, but I still managed to work myself into a dither before each appointment. Our first miscarriage was discovered by ultrasound, you see. I knew what it felt like to look at that black-and-white screen and feel the world fall out from under my feet. It was agony each and every time to look at the screen and pray desperately to see a heartbeat winking back at me. This time around, my courage was rewarded at every visit.
24. I also took advantage of the doctor-ordered "light activity" while the hemorrhage healed. I may have overdone it, opting for almost full-on bed rest. I walked gingerly, sat carefully, and thought very gentle thoughts. I watched a full season of Dancing with the Stars on Hulu during this period of rest and healing. If this baby turns out to be a dancer, I won't be too surprised.
25. I worried incessantly about accidentally lifting more than 20 pounds, which is the arbitrary number the doctor tells you not to lift. I was only a few steps away from carrying a baby scale everywhere I went just to make sure. And once, after accidentally lifting Keira into the truck, who weighed more than 20 pounds at the time, I spent the afternoon in a mild state of panic.
    
    
26. I worried incessantly about the vitamins I had taken in the first trimester. During all of the infertility cycles, I had been taking larger doses of certain vitamins, recommended by somebody at some point (probably the Chinese-medicine doctor I had seen a few years previously). But, while they can be helpful leading up to pregnancy, you're not supposed to take mega doses of vitamins during pregnancy. In fact, as the Internet will tell you, all kinds of terrible misfortunes await those whose mothers take too much Vitamin C or Vitamin D or Myoinositol or what have you. I emailed my doctor for reassurance. I bugged my brother, who was in Nurse Practitioner school. I spent days and weeks fixated on it. Then I worried that my worrying would harm my baby. 
27. I worried incessantly after I mindlessly accepted a single slice of deli ham while grocery shopping. Right after I swallowed, my brain screamed listeria! Pregnant women aren't supposed to eat deli ham, you see, and I panicked that this one slip-up had doomed my pregnancy, despite the fact that most people don't even know they're pregnant as early as I did. Some people don't find out for months, and they happily munch away on deli meat, none the wiser, and still manage to birth healthy children. But logic wasn't getting through. 
28. I worried incessantly after using some eye drops for a nasty bout of pink eye that happened to be on the wrong "schedule" of drugs. I was pretty sure I had just given my baby a birth defect by using prescription eye drops that hadn't been tested on pregnant women. (Newsflash: no drug is ever tested on pregnant women.) I called my N.P. brother. I called my eye doctor after hours...TWICE...so he could reassure me that yes, he knew I was pregnant when he prescribed them. And yes, he's prescribed them to many pregnant women with no negative outcomes.
29. As you can see, it didn't take much to throw me into a panic. Intellectually, I knew that the first miscarriage wasn't my fault. I didn't do anything to cause it...not by lifting 25 pounds or by ingesting a slice of delicious peppered turkey or getting a flu shot. But I still struggled to let that thought sink in all the way. 
    
    
30. With help from my therapist, I frequently repeated the following mantras to myself:
    "You've already given enough time to your worries."
    "You're living your life as though you're about to have a miscarriage. Live your life as though you're pregnant, which you've dreamed of for over a decade. Enjoy it."
    "Keeping yourself from getting excited now WON'T protect you from the pain of another loss. All it does is rob you of the joy of the present."
    I believed the words, but I still had to repeat them constantly in order to soothe myself into a state of calm.
31. Personally, I remained healthy and felt pretty good throughout the pregnancy. My worst complaints were the terrible heartburn in my first trimester, which daily doses of Omeprazole entirely cured, and hugely swollen feet during my third trimester.
32. My placenta was on the front, which meant I felt the baby's movement later and less frequently than most, which also added to my neuroticism. (I did more "kick counts" than I care to admit to, just to make sure I could feel him there.) With such a thick barrier from the outside in, it was also difficult for my husband and family to feel his kicks and movement. For those who have never been pregnant, here's the best way I can describe baby kicks: it feels likes when a kid kicks the back of your seat in the car—but internally, if that makes any sense.
33. I am NOT a napper in general, and I tend to resist going to bed early, because there are always things I want to do, see, or read. But while pregnant, I was a sleeping and napping champion. I often slept 9-10 hours a night, hugging a fuzzy body pillow (I called it "replacement Trav"), which helped a ton during the huge and uncomfortable stage.
    
    
34. My due date was June 28, 2017, which came and went with no signs of labor. So then I pinned my hopes on a July 1st baby, because the birthday 7/1/17 would be awesome. And then I hoped for July 2nd, because Keira was born on October 2nd and my angel baby's due date was April 2nd, and that would be perfect. And then I hoped for a baby "born on the 4th of July!" And then I just wanted that baby OUT.
35. I had a C-section scheduled for July 5th. We went in at midnight on July 4th—after waiting for 6 hours, wide awake, for a call that was supposed to come sometime after 6 p.m., with Keira already gone to a sleepover at grandma's house. As Travis tried to catch a few winks, I watched the fireworks popping like popcorn across the valley, as I looked out my back window from the blue baby recliner we had just set up in the living room. 
36. We arrived at the hospital and were set up in a room, where overnight induction drugs were administered. I was advised to try to sleep, but that did NOT happen. Although we'd still be debating between a few names, when the nurse asked if we wanted her to write the baby's name on the whiteboard, Travis said, "Yes, Wyatt." And so, throughout the labor, everyone called him "Wyatt." And it grew on me to the point that, once he was born, that was clearly his name. Our runner up (Madsen) became his middle name.
37. I spent the next 20 hours in labor, just barely meeting the progress milestones when the nurses or doctor would come to check on me. "Okay, if you're not dilated to a 6 by 6 p.m., we may need to consider a C-section." And I'd just barely make it. I had an epidural, but it didn't totally work, because I could still feel every single contraction. (Although I know the drug took the edge off.) Needless to say, it was a long day. But I fell IN LOVE with flavored ice chips. Grape and orange were the best.
    
    
38. At about 9:30 p.m., we called it, and they prepped me for surgery. My body was already completely and utterly depleted. As I lay on the unbelievably narrow operating table, I found myself shaking uncontrollably. The drugs, the fatigue, the anticipation overwhelmed me. While strapped to the bed and immobile, I was overcome with nausea. All I could do was turn my head to throw up—twice—and allow the incredibly nurturing veteran anesthesiologist to reassure me and clean me up. Travis sat over my left shoulder, holding my hand, being my rock and my strength. He doesn't always do well at the sight of blood, so he wasn't sure he could peek over the barrier to watch the birth, but at the last minute, he did. He stood up and watched our son being pulled from my body. 
39. I found it so strange that I could feel pulling and tugging sensations on my abdomen, despite the complete spinal block. I could feel instruments being laid on my immobile legs, as if they were a table. I felt the touch and the pressure, but no pain. There was a strange suctioning sensation and a loss of pressure when Wyatt was finally tugged free, and those few seconds between his birth and his first cry felt like an eternity. But he let out a healthy wail, and Travis accompanied him to the weighing and cleaning station. Travis commented on his perfect lips and brought him over to show me, but I was so jittery and in shock that I could barely process what I was seeing or react in any way.
40. Gradually, my trembling subsided enough for me to be able to hold him. We were wheeled back to our room, and I sat upright in bed, holding this tiny, perfect miracle, who figured out nursing on his first try. I stared at him in wonder, feeling more than I could even comprehend.
    
    
41. I soaked up all five days in the hospital, being waited on, being visited by people I love, gently and slowly shuffling around the hospital ward, slightly hunched over, trying not to laugh. Travis showed me a video of a kid bonking his head on the way down a slide, and I laughed so hard I thought I was going to shred my stitches. Even thinking or talking about the video put me into hysterics—the extreme fatigue was surely a culprit. I tried to describe the video to my stepson during a slow walk around the hospital ward, holding on to Wyatt's rolling bassinet, and I had to stop in the hallway and giggle-cry (hahaha-OUCH-tears-hahaha) until I composed myself enough to keep on shuffling.

I could keep going and going, believe it or not, but I promised myself I'd stop after 41 thoughts/facts/memories about my miracle late-in-life pregnancy, and the birth of my beautiful son.

I could talk about the endless ups and downs of our fertility struggle. I could talk about my sweet Keira and her reaction to having a baby brother (she knew it was a boy all along). I could talk about Wyatt's minor health scare on his first day home, which about put me over the edge. I could share my thoughts about bonding with a child after an adoption vs. after a birth. I could talk about how there's NO DIFFERENCE in the love and attachment I feel for my kids, even though they arrived in different ways. I could talk about my breastfeeding journey, which was not successful. I could talk about the 32 pounds of water weight I lost in about 10 days after the birth (I wish I had photographed how swollen I was when I went home!). I could talk about so much more.

But for now, I'll end with this: as I recovered at home, I felt so incredibly proud that I had chosen to be brave, to keep going, to never give up. I felt proud of myself for the physical ordeal I had endured, and I felt a new sense of awe for every woman who has gone through childbirth time and time again, and for the women who endured childbirth long before current medical advances have so improved the odds of a good outcome. I felt overwhelmed with gratitude toward God for this supernal gift, as hard-fought as it was. I felt with absolute certainty that the torturous journey was WORTH it. This little baby was worth it. And I would do it all again if I had to, for him. 

12 Favorite Christmas Picture Books

We have "Kindness Elves" that visit us each year, who do kind things for us and encourage us to do the same. They arrive on the 13th and stay until Christmas Eve, because that's all this mama can handle. They bring a Christmas book for Keira to open every night. Some are the same books year after year, and sometimes new books enter the rotation. Here's this year's lineup of a dozen favorite Christmas picture books, divided into four handy categories.

School Book Order Favorites

Who can resist a Scholastic book order? Not me. Some of it is childhood nostalgia. We didn't order books particularly often through the catalog when I was young, so I may be making up for all the books I didn't buy as a child. Plus, it's an affordable way to try out new titles.

 1. The Great Reindeer Rebellion

By Lisa Trumbauer and Jannie Ho, 2009

If you like clever books that rhyme, and you'd like to see cats, flamingos, elephants, and kangaroos trying to pull Santa's sleigh, then this is the book for you. It's written in the style of the classic poem, 'Twas the Night Before Christmas. Kids love hearing such silly scenes described in a familiar rhyming cadence. 

"Flamingos!" he summoned, 
"It's your turn, let's go!
And I must say your pink
looks divine in the snow.

 

2. Llama Llama Holiday Drama

By Anna Dewdney, 2010

Dewdney captures preschool-age Christmas impatience perfectly, making it easy for kids of any age to relate to. This is a fun read-aloud book, although you will say "Llama" a lot, along with the small handful of words that rhyme with it: mama, drama, pajama.

Too much music, too much fluff!
Too much making, too much stuff!
Too much everything for Llama...
Llama, Llama, HOLIDRAMA!

 

3. A Snowman for Little Bear

By Trace Moroney, 2016

I'm not sure if this will be a year-after-year favorite, but my 1st grader loved it this year. It's right on her reading level. Some words were a little challenging for her, but there's enough repetition in the story structure that she was able to read it pretty smoothly anyway. It's a cute winter story that builds to a sweet ending. (Bonus: there's a template for making a cuddly bear sock puppet at the back.)

"Along came Little Red Fox.
'Look here, Little Bear--I have just the right thing.
A snowman needs a scarf."

"Of course!" said Little Bear, admiring the colorful,
woolly scarf Little Red Fox's mom had knitted.
"But...I think something is still missing."

The downy sparrows tweeted as fast as they could.
News traveled fast deep in the woods.

 

Little Golden Favorites

Here's another dose of childhood nostalgia for you. I love that some of these vintage stories have been in continuous publication for as long as 65 years! And you can still buy a new copy online for less than $4.

4. The Animals' Christmas Eve

By Gale Wiersum and Alexandra Steele-Morgan, 1977

First published the year after I was born, this vintage story features timeless illustrations and counts its way toward the birth of Jesus with remembrances from one hen, two white doves, three wise men, four brown horses, and so on. This book was a gift from my sister, and it's a fun rhyming story to read out loud. 

Five gray donkeys speak with pride,
Remembering one who gave a ride:
Our brother donkey went with them
From Nazareth to Bethlehem.

Six spotted calves now nibble hay
Like that on which the baby lay.
"They put him in a manger bed
So he could rest his sleepy head."

 

5. 'Twas the Night Before Christmas

By Clement C. Moore and Corinne Malvern, 1949

This Big Golden Board Book (which is also available in Little Golden format) is definitely BIG, and it out vintages my previous selection by 28 years. The illustrations have a fabulously '50s look to them, although the scenes depicted are from the early 1800s: the dad in the story is wearing a dressing gown, the children have petticoats, and Santa has cloud of pipe smoke around his head. Modern depictions of Santa tend to omit his tobacco habit.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

 

6. The Christmas Story

By Jane Werner Watson and Eloise Wilkin, 1952

This sweet version of the Christmas story is nostalgia in a book. It follows the Biblical account closely, using simplified language for children. As in the New Testament, the three wise men arrive later on, instead of on the night the Christ child was born. The final page shows Jesus as a cherubic toddler, holding a baby lamb, accompanied by these words:

The child was called Jesus, the name given by the
angel before he was born. And the child grew and
became strong in spirit and full of wisdom. And the
grace of God was upon him.

 

Jesus + Animals Favorites

I didn't realize this was a sub-genre of children's Christmas books, but it turns out I have three lovely books that tell the story of the birth of Jesus from animals' perspective. (Four, if you count the The Animals' Christmas Eve, #4 on my list.) Animals in general are naturally appealing to children, so it makes sense.

7. Humphrey's First Christmas

By Carol Heyer, 2007

A quirky camel with delusions of grandeur suffers with cold, indignity, jealousy, and the weight of the three chests he must carry on a long journey. He schemes and he grumbles, but in the end, he encounters an unexpected treasure that makes his ordeal worth it. The illustrations are rich and detailed; the self-pitying and tragic expressions on Humphrey's face are particularly well done. He's like a charming, overgrown toddler. 

Beloved
Most Beauteous
and Exalted King of All
should be my name.

Instead, they call me...
Humphrey.

 

8. Room for a Little One

By Martin Waddell and Jason Cockcroft, 2004

Softer and subtler than my previous pick, this book features pastoral scenes and gentle prose. On a cold winter's night, Kind Ox welcomes Old Dog, Stray Cat, and Small Mouse one by one into the warmth of the stable. Then Tired Donkey arrives, carrying a most precious load.

Stray Cat peered in.
She saw Old Dog and she stopped.
Stray Cat arched her back and her fur bristled.
"I'll not chase you," said Old Dog.

"Come inside," Kind Ox said.
"There's always room for a little one here."

 

9. Song of the Stars

By Sally Lloyd-Jones and Alison Jay, 2011

Beautiful paintings of nature scenes accompany the reverent, awestruck prose. From open fields and forests to seas and running rivers, all of nature can sense that something wondrous is happening. It's all-around magical and quite possibly my very favorite on the list.

The skies shout it to the
seas that thundered it to
the waves that roared it to
the great white whales
that sang it to the starfish
in the deep.

And tiny sandpipers danced it
on shining sands...
"It's time! It's time!"

 

Christmas Magic Favorites

I like to have a few books in the rotation that are about the general magic of the season, and two of these three faithfully deliver. One of them is a bit of a placeholder for now; I'm always open to new candidates. 

10. How the Grinch Stole Christmas 

By Dr. Seuss, 1957

No list of children's Christmas picture books would be complete without The Grinch. I practically know all the words, both real and made-up, by heart. Even without the iconic illustrations, the language is so precise, picturesque, and vivid. How adorable is the word "chimbley"?

Then he slithered and slunk, with a smile most unpleasant,
Around the whole room, and he took every present!
Pop guns! And bicycles! Roller skates! Drums!
Checkerboards! Tricycles! Popcorn! And plums!
And he stuffed them in bags. Then the Grinch, very nimbly,
Stuffed all the bags, one by one, up the chimbley!

 

11. The Christmas Wiszh

by Lori Evert and Per Breiehagen, 2013

Admittedly, part of the appeal here is that Anja in the book reminds me of my own daughter, but I think anyone will find the story magical. The photographs are stunningly styled, timeless, and so REAL, like a glimpse into a Nordic wonderland. Keira stares at them, trying to figure out how the little girl is riding a polar bear, walking under a glacier guided by a musk ox, being pulled through the sky on her skis by a reindeer on her journey to the North Pole. The inscription on the book flap says, "Be Brave. Be Kind. Believe."

Evening fell as they approached a mountain pass.
The sky came alive with the dancing colors of the
Northern Lights. They stood spellbound for hours and fell
asleep, the horse standing strong and solid with Anja
lying across his warm back.

 

12. The Story of the Nutcracker Ballet

by Deborah Hautzig and Diane Goode, 1986

Keira became enamored of the Nutcracker story thanks to the Barbie and The Nutcracker movie, which is torture to watch because of the poor, early digital animation. So I looked for a book version of the ballet, and the reviews of most of them share the same reservation I have about this one: it's a bit too wordy and long for a read-aloud picture book. (It's all about brevity, amiright? This is why The Polar Express did not make my list.) But it's a faithful retelling of the ballet, and Keira enjoys it. If you have another version to recommend, I'm all ears. (I can promise you this Baby Lit version by Jennifer Adams will be short and sweet!)

It was Christmas Eve and Marie and her brother, Fritz,
could hardly wait for the party to start. At last the guests
arrived. The drawing room doors were flung open and a
brilliance of light and color flooded the hall.

"Oh! It's the most beautiful Christmas tree in the world!" 
cried the children. 

The End

(Note: when the book When Santa Was a Baby arrives, which I discovered through another 12 books of Christmas list and ordered immediately, it has a good chance of unseating one of these. It looks adorable.)

What are YOUR favorite Christmas picture books--from your childhood or currently?

Softening Into Joy

2017 has been very, very good to me.

This is not easy for me to say out loud, because I know it's been THE WORST year for so many people. I won't even list all the tragedies and natural disasters that have befallen our nation in 2017, let alone the world, because I think we're all a little too well acquainted with them.

But even when turmoil and misery abound, there are pockets of sunshine and hope.

Someone, somewhere is falling in love. Achieving a goal. Healing a relationship. Creating something beautiful. Overcoming a health challenge. Finding God. Discovering their worth. Welcoming a baby. Lifting a lonely heart. Laughing until they cry. 

I'm living in my own little pocket of joy. And I'm terrified.

Researcher and writer Dr. Brene Brown has said, "There is no emotion harder to feel than joy." And here I am, having reached the end of the two biggest, most heart-wrenching challenges of my life, plus the realization of a lifelong dream, and I'm so stunned that it's all real that I keep envisioning something terrible lurking around the corner. I'm half-afraid that the moment I publish this post, a meteor might smash through the roof of my home, obliterating everything in sight. 

Brene calls this "foreboding joy." You look at your sleeping children and feel overwhelmed with a love you never knew was possible. Then the very next second, you picture a car crash or a kidnapping or a cancer diagnosis.

We do this to protect ourselves from future pain, but all it does is deflect the joy of the present, which is the very thing we'll need to draw upon if any of those unlikely scenarios were to occur. Here's the perfect explanation of foreboding joy:

 

 

As Newt Scamander says, "My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice." (I'm sure I heard this concept before the film was released, but when I looked it up, all the attributions went to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. So J.K. Rowling gets the credit!)

This is a mantra I had to repeat to myself ad nauseam during my last pregnancy: Don't let my fears of another bad outcome rob me of the joy of this moment. If everything goes well, I'll regret that I didn't revel in this once-in-a-lifetime chance to see a pregnancy to term. If things don't go well, my attempt at "preventative suffering" won't lessen that future pain. In fact, it might make it worse, since I won't have reserves of peace and joy to draw upon. Even if the suffering were inevitable, I could still control how long it lasts by, you know, waiting until the bad thing actually happens before I start suffering over it.

It makes sense, but it's still easier said than done. 

Luckily, there's a tried-and-true antidote to foreboding joy, and this is the perfect time of year to talk about it.

The antidote is gratitude, according to Brene's newest book, Braving the Wilderness, which I devoured in a couple of sittings earlier this month. My heart soared when I encountered this concept in her book. Now I have something concrete to do. Whenever I find myself cutting feelings of joy short with imagined future calamities, I stop and practice gratitude. When I can feel gratitude first, it's much easier to soften into feelings of joy.

Not only does this help me ward off my mental tragedy reel, it serves another purpose. As I revel in these happy moments, as I swim around in them and soak them up, I'm building up my resilience. Pain and challenge are a part of life, and I know I haven't reached my life limit yet. When the next big trial comes, I need reserves of joy to draw upon. I need memories of light and laughter to see me through. 

We tend to think "the bigger they are, the harder they fall." The bigger our joy, the bigger our crash? No, it's actually worse to spend our days wading around in low-grade misery, only to sink further when things REALLY get bad. 

So here I am, doing my best to soften into the joy of three wonderful, miraculous events that I thought might never come to pass:

#1. After 12 years of infertility (yes, you read that right, 12 YEARS...144 months...4,380 days), I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy in July. He is perfect. He is my second miracle baby, 6 1/2 years after the gift of adoption first made me a mother. My kids are my everything. The fact that I had to fight so hard for them makes the victory all the sweeter.

#2. After 14 challenging years with all of the typical blended family problems, plus a few more, my stepson is doing AWESOME. We faced some incredibly tumultuous years with this kiddo, and it was all happening right on top of the worst of our infertility struggles. But time can work wonders. He's now a senior in college, studying wildlife biology, and getting great grades. He's a healthy, responsible, contributing adult. He has a darling girlfriend who is great for him and whom we adore. Our relationship with him is better than ever. There were times we weren't sure we'd ever see this day, and it feels amazing.

#3. After a lifetime of dreaming, I signed a book contract for my first children's picture book earlier this year! I've nourished a secret wish of becoming an author from 3rd grade on. I wasn't brave enough to directly pursue the dream, so I got here in a circuitous way. I've always taken the practical path with my education and career, choosing common-sense fields and industries that would pay the bills. None of this chasing rainbows business for me! (Although I secretly wished I had the courage.) I thoroughly enjoyed the decade I spent writing and editing in the memory keeping/crafting industry, which was so fulfilling—and creatively draining—that my children's book writing pursuits were always sidelined. But now that I'm earning my keep with a part-time freelance marketing gig, I have enough time and creative energy for kid lit, too. 

Each of these gifts, miracles, blessings, whatever you want to call them, could fill a post of their own. They could fill volumes. And there will be volumes to come, I hope, as I figure out how to fit blogging into my life again.

I want to tell you my son's birth story, because I'm so proud of that accomplishment. It was truly a crowning event of my life. (And not in the way you think, wink wink, since this little man arrived via C-section after 20 hours of unproductive labor.) And I'm dying to share the serendipitous path that led to my book contract. I may not share much about my stepson's journey, since it's not my story to tell, but it's a good one...and getting better all the time.

For now, I'm practicing gratitude* so I can fully sink into this overwhelming, all-encompassing joy that I've been hoping, dreaming, praying for—all these years.

*What do I mean by "practicing gratitude"? More on that in a future post. But it's more than just feeling or acknowledging gratitude. It's an actual practice, and it works wonders.

Simple Thanksgiving Activity: Thankful Thoughts Bags

Here's what I'm pulling together at the last minute for my family Thanksgiving party. Everyone will go home with a bag of tiny notes (some signed, some anonymous) telling them why the rest of us are grateful for them. 

I'm going to arrange all 28 (!) bags on a side table so people can access them throughout the day. As funny as my family is, I'm sure some new inside jokes will be generated today and find their way into the thankful thoughts bags.

Don't have time to run to the craft store today? Try a similar idea using whatever you have lying around the house. Use envelopes or jars instead of bags. Use sticky notes instead of the index cards. Write directly on the envelopes or jars instead of using labels. Don't invite 28 people to Thanksgiving dinner (wink). There are lots of ways to make this even easier!

Materials:

Small paper sacks (I bought mine at Michael's, size 3.5 in x 2 in. x 6.75 in)

Chalkboard labels

Chalkboard marker

Sharpie

Half-size index cards 

A jar of pens

 

***
UPDATE: This was a giant hit at our Thanksgiving this year!

Sure, several of the men good-naturedly grumbled about being assigned "homework" when they just wanted to eat turkey, but I heard from their wives later on, and those same men pored over each and every note they received after getting home that night, trying to guess who had written the anonymous ones.

I emphasized that the activity was optional, but peer pressure convinced almost everyone to slip little notes of thanks into everyone else's bags. The bags were just sitting on a side table, available throughout the day, so people worked on the notes at their leisure. And the tiny size of the cards helped, too. A single sentence was enough! (I did make one rule: no airing of grievances. This isn't Festivus, after all.)

Note: We reserved a church for the day, in case you're wondering whose house is decorated with chalkboards and classroom tables.

I got a heart-melting text from my Dad the next day that said, "Thank you for the wonderful planning of our family Thanksgiving. I thought it was perfect. Your thoughtful activities* made it even more special. Your rolls were like my mom's. You are my creative one!" Worth every second of preparation.

*Activities, you ask? We also had an Instax photo booth available, which was a blast. Recollections photo prop kit purchased for 50% off at Michael's.

 

Join Me for the 52 Stories Project

 

I always have a handful of journals going at any one time. There's my main chronological journal, where I record major life events along with insights, inspiration, life lessons, spiritual impressions and more. I also try to keep up with my 5-year question a day journal, which will wrap up at the end of March. I have an Evernote file, where I keep ongoing bulleted lists, one for each month, to record my daughter's milestones, phases, funny sayings and more. Then there are a few themed computer files, where other random memories go. 

This year, I'm adding a new project to the list. It's the #52stories project sponsored by FamilySearch, whom I happen to write for. The idea is to write one story from your personal history every week for a year, based on a question or prompt. To make it easy for me (and for you), I wrote a total of 144 questions based on 12 monthly themes, so there are plenty of options to choose from each week. 

You can download the full set of questions at the bottom of my "Define Your Dash" article, and I'll post January's list below. (Here's another version of the article, written with a stronger religious slant, but the downloads and questions are the same.) Or here's a direct link to the 12-page pdf. 

The first question I answered in my new journal is the very first question on the list: What is your earliest memory of feeling proud of yourself? I didn't labor over my response; I just quickly poured out my thoughts in a few minutes. If I put too much pressure on myself to compose perfect sentences, write brilliant life-changing stories, and never misspell anything or cross out a word, I'll never stick with the project. I'm just going to do it, reminding myself that a memory recorded imperfectly is far better than a memory not recorded at all. 

To keep this project simple and doable over the course of the year, I chose a small, 56-page journal, leaving me with just enough space to answer each question on a single-sided sheet of 5 x 8 notebook paper. Having this kind of boundary in place keeps me from spending too much time on each question. After all, this isn't my comprehensive life story. It's just a way to get into the habit of reflecting over my life and writing quickly and succinctly. In the end, I'm sure some of these stories will spark more in-depth memories that I may want to write about in another venue, such as another of my journals, an article for Family Search, or a story I upload to my profile on Family Tree (so it can be found by future generations of my family). 

Here are a few additional tips:

1. Remember there are immediate personal benefits that come from journaling. This is not just a gift to future generations; it's a gift to yourself. Writing is a therapeutic act. It can give your life a sense of purpose and control. It can reveal hidden blessings and patterns. It can help you make sense of past events and current experiences. It puts you in the driver's seat of your life story—you get to decide what you write about and how you interpret and connect past events. Take this chance to own your story.

"In his book The Happiness Advantage, Harvard professor Shawn Achor cites research that shows how “explanatory style—how we choose to explain the nature of past events—has a crucial impact on our happiness and future success. People with an optimistic explanatory style interpret adversity as being local and temporary . . . while those with a pessimistic explanatory style see these events as more global and permanent. Their beliefs then directly affect their actions” ([New York: Crown Publishing, 2010], 187–88)."

2. Give your memory time to work. If you try to select a question and answer it in a single 15-minute session, you may find yourself drawing a blank. Read over all the questions at the beginning of the month, and read them again at the beginning of each week. Pick one (or a couple) and let your subconscious mind work on them for a few days, so by the time you sit down to write, you'll have something to say. When you tune your mind in to a particular memory or time period, you'll be surprised at what surfaces as you go about your daily life.

3. Go off script. Don't feel beholden to the questions provided for you in the 52 Stories project. One of the questions might spark a memory that's completely unrelated to the question itself. If another story is more inspiring to you, share THAT memory instead. Follow where your memories take you. And if you want to answer a November question in January, go ahead. This is your project, and you get to make the rules.

4. Let go of chronological pressure. The questions in this project are arranged by theme, not by date order. The stories you tell will be random, pulled from many different periods of your life. Embrace the random nature of the project. This is just a collection of stories, not your comprehensive life story. But the project has the potential to make you a better writer, get you in the habit of exploring your past, and even put you in the mindset to write your comprehensive life story.

5. Be creative with the form of your answers. You don't have to answer each question with a paragraph-style response. Some questions might be better answered with a bulleted list. For example, the question, "What do you consider your greatest academic achievement?" can either be answered with a thorough description of a specific paper you wrote, a difficult class you passed, or your graduation ceremony. Or it could be a list of all the achievements you can remember from throughout your school career.

6. Get family members involved. See if you can get siblings, parents, or grandparents to join you in the 52 Stories project. You could even use this opportunity to ask an older relative a question each week and record his or her answers with your smartphone or another voice recorder. 

7. Follow Family Search on Instagram. Throughout 2017, Family Search will post a question every week to their Instagram account (some are from the 144 questions listed on the PDF downloads, some are new and different). Follow along to see how other people respond. Reading other people's memories can inspire memories of your own. And you might encounter a question you like even better than those on the monthly themed quizzes. 

8. Find ALL the #52Stories downloads here. You can print a giant 3 ft x 4 ft. poster containing all 144 questions to hang on your wall (there are two different styles). You can print the Monthly Themed Quizzes on 12 sheets of 8.5 x 11 paper. Or you can just get inspired by them all online. It's up to you!

 

On Comparison

I love this quote, but I don't always believe it.

"Comparison is the thief of joy."
—Theodore Roosevelt

I mean, I believe it in theory, but I do not always believe it in practice.

I really, truly have to limit my intake of social media, because there's a 50/50 chance that I'll walk away feeling inadequate instead of inspired. I too easily get trapped in a cycle of comparing my worst traits with everyone else's best traits, as displayed on Instagram or Facebook.

And the funny thing is, the people I compare myself to the most (and find myself lacking) are not even people I want to emulate. It's not that they're not wonderful people; they are. It's just that I don't want their lives. I want my life, with all of its imperfections. 

Yes, they're inspiring. Yes, they have tens of thousands of followers on Instagram. Yes, they are either better dressers than me, trendier scrapbookers, better decorators, more inspiring photographers, or healthier cooks—depending on whatever particular niche they fill. And if I wanted their lives, I'd be living the way that they live and making the same choices they make. But I don't. I choose different ways to spend my time, on purpose, and then I still beat myself up when my life looks different.

But what's really happening is that I'm comparing my life with the collective brilliance I see online. One friend is a whole foods, no-sugar-eating workout machine. Another friend is a crafter, creative business owner, and impeccable decorator. Another is a brilliant, authentic scrapbooker and world traveler. And here, I think I need to personally embody all of those traits or I'm not truly following my bliss or living out lout or whatever. I've combined all of the people into one perfect woman, and I compare myself to her. But she doesn't actually exist.

So who am I and what do I really want?

Isn't that a question we all have to ask ourselves, over and over again throughout our lives?

Attention vs. Anonymity
I have an ongoing internal fight between wanting attention and wanting anonymity. I'd love 500 people to like my latest witticism on Facebook or Instagram selfie as much as the next person, and sometimes I feel bad about my standard "41 likes" on Instagram. (That seems to be the magic number for me.) But clearly I'm not willing to do what it takes to curate that level of interaction, namely, spending a lot of time on social media in the first place, or trying to post things that will generate more likes instead of simply posting the things I authentically want to say, when I want to say them. 

And yes, I acknowledge that not everyone who has 500 likes on every post is necessarily trying to get that many likes. Some people are just naturally inspiring—they strike a chord with people without necessarily understanding why. I am not naturally focused on the forefront of fashion and the latest decor or crafting trends, so the thought of posting about such things daily (or hourly) feels like an enormous amount of effort. But for some people, it is what they live and breathe. It's not work but fun. 

My problem is that some days I care about social media, and I'll post 3-4 times throughout the day, even for several days in a row. And other days (or weeks), I avoid it entirely. This is not the way to build a following or a community. So clearly, having a big following is not something I want—except when I see other people who have the validation of 25,000 Instagram followers. At those moments, I think, "What is wrong with me?" 

I compare it to watching synchronized swimming at the Olympics. It looks beautiful from the bleachers, but I can't see all of the effort that goes on under the surface. I just see the beautiful leg extension above the water and none of the flailing that goes on underneath. 

The 25,000 followers is the result of an effort that I can't appreciate, because I can't see it. And I have to believe that there's some flailing going on somewhere.

Balance vs. Productivity
I also have an ongoing internal fight between productivity and balance. I'm sure I could live a faster-paced life, finding new and better ways to squeeze extra productivity out of each day. Maybe take my laptop into the bathroom with me more often. But it turns out I'd rather not wake up at 4:30 a.m. and fuel my days with excessive caffeine just so I can achieve, achieve, ACHIEVE. I have seen the toll this can take on individual health and on families, and I don't want it. And yet I sometimes feel inadequate about not wanting it. 

For every achievement there is a sacrifice. There is always an opportunity cost. 

Every fiber of my being resists the feeling of being over-scheduled. I can ramp up and make it work for a couple of days or weeks, but I always crave a return to my natural, snail-like pace. A pace where I can breathe, and think, and feel creative. 

Some of the most inspiring online people I know will admit, in moments of authenticity, that they don't know how to relax and to breathe. But these are not abilities that the rest of us tend to celebrate. "Ooh, look at her. I want to be like her. She looks so calm and content." It's like we want to find unrealistic examples to try and emulate, just to prove that we're as lame as we always thought we were. 

There are two things I have aggressively pursued in my life: balance and flexibility. I do try not to work too much, especially given that I have tendencies toward workaholism. I try to stay within a reasonable budget. I make time to read, and to play Legos with my daughter. I make time for my husband, my mom and my extended family. For faith and church service.

I am not one of those people who humble-brags about being so busy that I only saw my husband for 15 minutes this week. (But I am humble-bragging that I don't humble-brag, so there's that.) In other words: I'm kind of boring. No one ever says: "Ooh, look at her! She's so balanced." And again, I both crave and despise the attention. I want admiration and anonymity at the same time. And I can't have both. 

The Role of Envy
I also recently realized that the social-media culture has created a strange phenomenon. Have we created an expectation that other people have to envy us—or aspire to be like us—in order for us to believe we are living valuable lives? I personally hate the feeling of being envied, because that denotes a lack of authenticity. None of us would ever envy anyone else, not really, if we could see the whole picture—all of the tears and the triumphs, all of the pain and the underwater flailing as well as the outward beauty and grace. So, if someone envies me, they don't know me. And what I desire most in life is to feel understood and to feel connected, rather than to be placed on a pedestal, where I now have to live up to whatever image has gotten me there. 

When I worked at Simple Scrapbooks magazine, there was a fine line we had to walk. We had to publish layouts that were aspirational—that other people would have a desire to emulate—but that also didn't feel intimidating. It's a tough balance to achieve. If your layouts are too much like what everyone is already creating at home, people won't feel inspired, and they won't need your magazine. If they're too far out of reach, people will feel bad about their own efforts, which was the last thing we wanted.

Maybe some people can't help living lives that are effortlessly aspirational, that are inherently out of reach for everyone else. But my life is effortlessly ordinary. And I have no desire to glitz and glam it up and pretend otherwise. 

Work-Life Balance 
Lately, I've had the following words ringing in my head from a successful CEO I know: 

"Name me one person who has accomplished something great who has good work-life balance." 

It's probably true. Those who are accomplishing truly amazing things are usually obsessive about that one thing, which doesn't leave much room for balance in other areas of life. (Unfortunately for me—or perhaps fortunately, depending on how you look at it—obsession isn't one of my gifts.) 

I could scrapbook or blog—or whatever thing I would need to do to "arrive" in some sense in the online world—late at night after Keira is in bed, but instead I'm rewatching Arrested Development with my husband from the beginning, one or two episodes per night, because this a way to connect with him, and connecting with him is important to me. 

What I really want is a happy, flexible life, where I can feel like I'm accomplishing things, but also getting enough sleep. Where I feel like I'm making time for important relationships, but also feeding my own mind, body and spirit. Where I'm doing meaningful things with my time, but that the ripple effects aren't crippling if I decide drop everything and bake cookies with my daughter one afternoon. 

And there's just not a ton of time left over for Instagram. 

Raise your glass with me in a toast to glorious, wonderful, underrated mediocrity. 

Sweat, Tears and the Sea

It has been mentioned a couple of times, and I agree, that infertility is one of those trials that is "safe" to talk about. People will generally be sympathetic and kind, even if they don't understand. Unlike some other challenges, it's not something that can be easily blamed on the sufferer. 

It can still feel embarrassing and shameful to acknowledge any kind of inner struggle. There's the fear that people who can't relate might be thinking, "Why make such a big deal out of it? Just accept it and move on." It took me years to be willing to even say the word "infertility," let alone blog about it. There's the fear that others who are suffering more will look at you like you're a whiny little speck of sadness. That they might even intone "first-world problems" at you. There's the fear that people will look at you in pity and feel grateful that they aren't you.

But generally, I've found that people try to be kind.

On the other hand, there are plenty of trials that cannot be discussed in a public way, because of the other people involved who don't want or deserve to have their part in the story revealed. I'm dealing with some of these too, directly and indirectly, as I suspect we all are.

Things like:
personal addiction
addictions of family members
rebellious or difficult children
abuse
anxiety/depression
anxiety/depression of a family member
mental illness in one's self or a loved one
financial struggles
divorce and separation

All of the above become even more difficult to talk about in a public forum like Facebook or a blog when you have older children who are able to read and somewhat active online.  

For me, it was cathartic to finally share the story of my miscarriage 2 1/2 months after the fact. I'm definitely on a path of healing, feeling mostly good most days. But there are still times when I feel like the walking wounded, and with yesterday's post, I wanted my wider circle of friends and acquaintances to understand what's going on with me if I'm a bit more absent or emotionally fragile at the moment. 

Like the other day at Home Depot, when the wail of a tiny newborn baby pierced my composure. Partly because it was unexpected in that setting, and partly because the baby was SO small and SO upset—and the mother was making no efforts to soothe the child. Much to my embarrassment, tears filled my eyes and I lost track of the conversation I was having with a store associate about furnace maintenance. Thankfully, these moments are becoming more rare.

Given the general level of peace and equilibrium I had achieved while not being confronted with distressed infants at hardware stores, I didn't expect the volume of tears that accompanied the writing of my story. I could barely type through the waterworks, and I had to write it in three pieces on three different days. But when I punched out that last sentence, dry-eyed, I thought the well was exhausted once again.

Until, that is, I read your comments on Facebook and on my blog yesterday. 

I saw there were comments, while I was out and about with Keira. I got the alerts on my phone. But when the very thought of there being comments made my eyes water—and when I got one or two texts that triggered the faucet—I knew I couldn't really read them until I had a box of tissues by my side and no immediate tasks to perform.

Good move. Because last night, I was a puddle. Useless, really. 

Kindness makes me cry. Of course, everything makes me cry. I've always known my emotions are directly wired to my tear ducts; sometimes I even cry when I'm angry, which only makes me ANGRIER. Also, extreme laughter makes me cry, which only makes me laugh harder. It's a vicious circle. (One day I'll have to tell you about the 10-minute cry-laughing fit that interrupted a recent Polar Express-themed train ride with my sister and all five of our children.) 

Honestly, I didn't expect the flood of kindness, empathy and prayers offered on my behalf. 

I am overwhelmed and grateful. 

And I feel for those who are struggling silently with things they can't share. 

A dear friend who's going through a divorce sent me this text:
"The way you expressed your feelings helps this apply to so many different trials and struggles. I definitely identified with some of your honest feelings of disappointment and still wishing that things had ended differently than they had. Also, holding on to hope against the odds!"

That was my hope in sharing this trial of mine that is more relatable than some others are.

I still believe we get most of our comfort directly, through the mirrored expression on a friend's face who may not know what to say but still shows up on your porch and gives you a long hug. Through generous hands who have prepared a meal and dropped it by. Through the ringing of the phone at the very moment I had just said "Amen" at the end of a pleading prayer. Through an anonymous note in my mailbox. Through my greatest comforter of all, the holy spirit and the intercession of a loving Savior.

We all need one or two people who can offer hands-on help with our quiet trials, and we need to be willing to let them in.

I felt, and still feel, like other people are (literally) carrying the weight of this with me. When I hear the words, "I'm grieving with you," it feels (figuratively) like a pebble or a stone has been taken from the backpack I'm carrying. And it makes me want to do more to ease their burdens too.

A few weeks after my loss, I escaped for a week to my sister's house in Southern California. I soaked up all the love and sunshine I could and shed all the tears I wanted, which wasn't too many, right then. I even bodysurfed with my nephew, unsuccessfully. As I sat on the sand feeling the wind on my face and watching the children splash in the waves, I was reminded of a favorite quote.

Thank you for shedding tears with me and helping me heal.

 ***

All this talk of water brings to mind a short, stunning article I recently read by Martha Beck: "3 Words that Will Help You Comfort Anyone." It's definitely worth reading.

Related Posts:

Falling and Rising
Meditations on Grief
I Am Infertile
The End of Infertility?
The Three Most Annoying Words in the English Language

 

Falling and Rising

Despite my intentions to make this year my blogging comeback, I'm still not very consistent. But I haven't lost hope.

I've found that holding on to hope against the odds is one of my gifts. 

An almost obsessive concern with authenticity is another gift, but also a curse.

In the last couple of months, I've found it hard to blog because the one thing that's been on my mind the most is the one thing I wasn't ready to share just yet. And blogging about anything else seemed somehow false and trivial. But I think I'm ready now. 

Right around the end of September, I had been planning to share some wonderful news that I had been keeping to myself until I was more certain. I alluded to this pending announcement a couple of times, but I had to get through one final hurdle before the big reveal. 

I was pregnant, for the very first time EVER at age 39, after a 10-year struggle with infertility.

 

7 week ultrasound

My due date was April 2, which was perfect in so many ways, especially as news trickled in that others we care deeply about were expecting too. All the stars had finally aligned for me. I was exhausted and hormonal, but otherwise perfectly healthy. No morning sickness at all. My blood tests looked wonderful, and my ultrasounds with my fertility doctor at 7 weeks and 9 weeks looked perfect. I heard my baby's strong, steady heartbeat twice. And once I saw her wiggling around like crazy, even though I couldn't feel her yet.

At my 9-week appointment, when I was about to graduate to my regular OB, my fertility doctor calmed my anxiety and disbelief that this was really happening after a decade of hoping and praying. She told me that when things look this good at this point, and considering the particular IVF protocols we had followed, my chances of miscarriage were less than 5%. And I reminded myself of that fact often.

I had told just a few people, and of course my family all knew and were absolutely ecstatic for me, but I was waiting until after my first official OB appointment before making the big announcement on Facebook or here on my poor, neglected blog.

My doctor's earliest available appointment was when I was just shy of 13 weeks along, on the cusp of my second trimester. When that day finally arrived, Travis and I headed in to the office, list of questions in hand, excited to finally get the self-imposed stamp of approval I felt we needed before going public.

 

9-week ultrasound

As we sat in my new doctor's office, going over our list of questions and feeling thrilled that A) he assumed I was in my early 30s, and B) he never once uttered the words "advanced maternal age," he was paged for an imminent delivery. He apologized and said, "Let's do a quick ultrasound before I head down there, and then we can continue our conversation after I return. I'm sorry for the interruption." I didn't mind. The high prioritization of baby delivery is precisely what I'm looking for in an OB/GYN. 

I lay on the table, and he pressed the wand into my abdomen and paused. He readjusted, pressed harder, and paused again. And again.

He said some very direct but very kind words that I couldn't hear or accept in the moment.

On the monitor, I saw a perfectly still baby in profile, but that didn't sink in either. I just waited calmly for the second opinion with the more advanced ultrasound equipment. 

"I'm not going to panic yet," I said to Trav when we were alone in the room.

When the second ultrasound confirmed the first, and we heard the silent sonogram, I still didn't panic.

Instead, the truth sank into my chest like a terrible, dark weight. 

My first instinct was to run. I wanted to escape the grief, to leap over it and land in that place of acceptance and understanding that I hoped would be on the other side of this chasm. I ached for it all to make sense, right away. 

But there were things to get through first.

In the last weeks, which have now turned into months, there have been countless tears and countless prayers—some painful and pleading, some peaceful and grateful (much to my own surprise). There have been a lot of questions and a few answers. 

We did genetic testing on our baby, who was somewhere between the size of a Brussels sprout and a lemon, and everything came back normal. They can't test for everything, of course, but all of the most common things were ruled out. We were having a baby girl, just like Keira and I both thought. 

My fertility doctor also ordered an array of tests on me, because this is just so uncommon considering the particular facts of my situation. Everything came back normal. I don't have a blood clotting disorder. I don't have a "hostile uterus," whatever that means. I don't appear to have an incompetent cervix; even a couple of weeks after my baby died, my body was not ready to let go of this pregnancy.

The answers are: we just don't know. It may only happen 5% of the time after a picture-perfect 9-week ultrasound, but it still happens. To me, so far, it happens 100% of the time.

 ***

The day we got the news about our baby, I felt restless and impatient, on top of all of the other, weightier emotions. 

Trav would have done anything to ease my pain, and in hindsight I should have requested a red-eye to Hawaii. But instead I asked him to drive me up Little Cottonwood canyon to see the beautiful fall leaves and fill my lungs with fresh mountain air. 

The heaviness in my chest pressed harder the higher we climbed on the winding canyon road. I looked out my window at the dormant, barren trees, and the scattered remnants of glorious reds, oranges and yellows littering the ground. We had just missed Utah's very short window of brilliant canyon color, probably by no more than a few days. 

Of course, I thought bitterly. Of course.

We wondered if we should just turn around. We made it this far, I said, so we might as well complete the journey. We drove to the top, and then took the sharp left toward Guardsman's Pass, leaving the bleak, faded landscape behind us--all the more depressing considering how fiery and alive it must have been just days before.

We drove higher as the sun sank lower. And there, at the crest of the pass, were dozens of cars and dozens of cameras on tripods. They were trained east, toward the scenery in front of us, instead of west, the landscape we had just left. 

Ahead there was beauty.

Small patches of trees that seemed to be lit from within were still belting out the song of fall, still fighting off the encroaching grays and browns of winter.

I stood and stared, pulling deep breaths of solace into my soul. 

It was enough, in that moment, to carry me on for a few more hours. 

 ***

I wanted to wait and tell this story when I had a happy ending to share.

That's kind of how I approached it when Keira was born. I didn't share much publicly about my infertility journey until we were pretty darn close to having a successful adoption. I know how I crave a nice lovely bow wrapped around the end of a story. 

But I'm realizing it's important to tell our sad stories too, and to speak up when we're in the middle of the struggle. That small piece of wisdom came from Brene Brown's new book, Rising Strong, which could not have been released at a more perfect time. Next to my faith in my Savior, my caring family and my friends, and several addresses from the October LDS General Conference—which have brought me waves of peace and perspective that are still ebbing and flowing—this book has been a lifeline.

No one likes to talk about the messy middle of a story, even though that's where all the strength and growth happens that eventually carries you to the finish line. We only hear about the initial falling down and the eventual rising up, and we sweep that painful, scary, uncertain stuff under the rug. 

This is my messy middle. I'm glad I could keep it to myself for a little while, shared only with a small circle of family, friends and neighbors—many of whom were first tipped off by a very excited 5-year-old. But now that I've lived with it for a while, I'm okay to talk about it, even though I'm still waffling between grief and anger and denial and hope. 

Maybe seeing me be brave, fall flat on my face, and then pick myself back up, maybe that will give someone else courage too. 

It has taken incredible courage for me to grind away at this dream of growing my family, after so many years—to continue to put my heart and my hope on the line. I had to decide what kind of person I wanted to be. Did I want to resign myself to disappointment, take the safe path, and maybe always wonder "What if..."? Or did I want to risk big, throw that Hail Mary pass, and know that whatever happens, I gave it my all?

In the lives we imagine for ourselves, we all pick the second option. In reality, it's not so easy. I'm now finding out how much it hurts when the risk doesn't pay off.

But you know what? I'm still glad I tried. 

I liked being pregnant. 

I liked finding out that I can get pregnant. 

I liked the camaraderie I felt with other pregnant women.

I loved seeing the nurturing side of my husband, as he sheltered and cradled me in my despair.

I loved recognizing tender mercies from Heaven and sacred, undeniable answers to my prayers.

I loved the outpouring of kindness and compassion from those who knew of my loss. 

I loved liked didn't mind finding out that I'm stronger than I thought I was.

***

I desperately wish things had turned out differently. In that parallel timeline where I'm still pregnant, we would have just announced our baby's gender, a few weeks before my brother and his wife did (they're having a boy). I would be showing now, like my neighbor is (they're having a girl). I would be posting pictures of baby clothes to Facebook, like Keira's birthmom is (they're having a girl). 

Instead, I'm trying to figure out what "rising strong" looks like for me. Trying to choose courage over comfort. Trying to feel grateful for the opportunity I have to choose and chase my dreams at all.

Trying, still, to hope.

What's So Funny? These 11 Writing Tips Are

Looking to add a bit more humor to your writing, journaling, or personal history? Here are some tips I shared in a podcast episode (that's no longer available) with my friend Elizabeth Dillow, who shared her funny business here.

I frequently write a bit of humor into my journaling and personal stories, but not exactly in a laugh-out-loud funny way. More in a mildly amusing manner that may cause the occasional inward chuckle. I'm not going for high comedy or punchlines, just a lighthearted, humorous take on daily life.

For me, there are two different approaches I use to lighten up my personal stories: writing techniques and writing devices. But first, some expert advice.

The Hard "K" Sound

Playwright Neil Simon, author of The Odd Couple, Barefoot in the Park, and Biloxi Blues, among others, has been dubbed "Broadway Master of Comedy." In his play The Sunshine Boys, it is pointed out that the hard "k" sound is the funniest sound in the alphabet. 

"Fifty-seven years in this business, you learn a few things. You know what words
are funny and which words are not funny. Alka-Seltzer is funny. You say 'Alka-Seltzer', you get a laugh...
Words with 'k' in them are funny. Casey Stengel, that's a funny name. Robert Taylor is not funny.
Cupcake is funny. Tomato is not funny. Cookie is funny. Cucumber is funny.
Car keys. Cleveland... Cleveland is funny. Maryland is not funny.
Then, there's chicken. Chicken is funny. Pickle is funny."

Do you agree? Start paying attention, and you'll notice that this is true! Even the word "comedy" itself fits the theory. (And this could explain the popularity of a certain word that begins with "f.") Now on to my eleven writing tips. Why eleven? Well, it's funnier than both 10 or 12, because it's unexpected, and it also might remind you of the best scene in Spinal Tap.

Writing Techniques

As you may have noticed, even the funniest story that ever happened to you can be difficult to express in a humorous way once you start writing. You have to be deliberate about how you write, if you want the humor to come across. Below are a few techniques to try, which you'll find illustrated in one of the more amusing posts (in my opinion) I've written recently, "Some Days You Just Can't Win."

1. Exaggeration. 
   From the blog post: "As I try to order, Keira wails at supersonic levels when her window is UP. But every time I roll it DOWN, she leans forward and shouts her own preferences at the intercom."
   
   
2. Understatement.
   If your scrapbook layout includes a photo of a baby grimacing after eating a pickle, an understated caption like "You could say she's not a huge fan of pickles" is much funnier than the more direct "She sure hates pickles!"
   
   
3. Unexpected Combinations.
   When writing a list, it adds humor when the last item in your list doesn't quite fit in with the rest. For example, here's a recent Facebook update I posted: 
   Learn how to melt away a double chin, which house plants cure anxiety...and my tips for summer scrapbooking. It's all in this week's Woman's World magazine.
   
   
4. Fake Gravitas.
   The contrast of writing in a dead serious tone about something that's actually hilarious certainly adds humor to a story.
   
   
5. Vocabulary.
   When you're going for a humorous effect, always go for the more unusual, exaggerated or bizarre word. Back to that blog post, notice that Keira tried to "fling my phone over the banister" instead of trying to "throw" it. I "devoured" three fun-sized candy bars instead of "ate" them. The tomato soup "oozes" onto the floormat instead of "spills." There's no doubt that "oozes" is the funnier word. 
   
   
6. Brevity and Variation of Sentence Length.
   Also from the blog post, Keira "puts a dishtowel over her face to play 'married' and promptly walks into a wall. Hard. Needs mega soothing." Notice how this combination of longer and shorter sentences is both punchier and funnier than if I had said, "And then Keira walked into a wall really hard, and I had to soothe her."
    

Writing Devices

Here, I'm talking about the initial set up of the story. If you start out from a humorous angle, you don't have to try quite as hard to be funny with your phrasing. Here are a five ideas:

1. Charts. I have used charts for humorous effect over and over again. You can be funny in the categories you choose, and then simply add a checkmark in the column that applies. The reason this works is the unexpected factor. When you see a chart, you expect something serious, scientific, data-driven. And then you start reading. 

 

2. A Memo. The contrast between the formal memo and the lighthearted words you can include in your message can add humor to a page, especially if you use a product from knockknockstuff.com

3. Pet Peeves. A page listing your pet peeves is an easy way to inject humor into your scrapbooks. I created a page years ago, without even using a photo, and most of the peeves still stand. Most especially: "Close talkers, loud talkers, and people who poke or nudge you for emphasis while conversing with you.

4. Writing Like a Reporter. Tell a lighthearted story in news reporter style, as I did on an old 2005 layout about an impromptu recorder concert my 4th-grade stepson put on for his cousins:
"Talented 4th grader Jeremy Lucas favored a rapt audience with an impromptu recorder concert in his living room. Lucas's mad record skills brought the house down. 'The house' consisted of his dad Travis (also the event's photographer), his stepmom Angie, and his favorite cousins Zach and Riley. After an encore and a standing ovation, all participants stayed for a sleepover."

5. Top 5 Funny Facts. This can be a quick and easy page that lists amusing little details about your personality, either directly in your journal, on a social media post, or on a scrapbook page. Here's a page that appeared years ago in the now-defunct Simple Scrapbooks magazine, where I was the managing editor.

Yes, I do spontaneously, accidentally adopt people's accents right in the middle of conversations. I have to really concentrate to avoid it. Just imagine how difficult it was for me to recently visit Alabama! In fact, after we landed, I lapsed into a drawl with the very first Southerner I spoke to: the Delta airlines gate agent. (Hopefully she just thought I was a local. Yeah, right.)

 

As Seen in Woman's World Magazine

Yes, I'm still here. I've been cooking up something pretty amazing, and my blog fell a few notches on my priority list. I can't share yet, but soon enough!

In the meantime, I was recently interviewed by Woman's World magazine for a column about summer scrapbooking. It sure made me miss my magazine days. It's good to know there are still some print titles that are hanging on, who care to spread the good news of memory keeping (and houseplants that cure anxiety) now and then.

 

 

The editor kindly sent me a handful of hard copies of the August 17, 2015 issue, featuring the interview with "scrapbooking maven Angie Lucas," plus a digital copy of the article.

"As a writer and editor myself, it's somewhat surreal to see myself referred to by last name only," says Lucas. (Wink.)

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