A Few Scars of Life

 Once when I was about three years old (my mother told me), I was running across our living room, and in an early incident of what eventually became my trademark clumsiness, I ran into our wood stove.

It was in the middle of winter, so the stove was hot.  As my mom always did like a very warm house, I am sure that the iron of the stove was just a touch shy of being orange with heat (oh, for the good old days *non-sarcastically thought*).

Instead of jerking away like a normal person (Mom also recounted), I stood there a touch longer than a rational mind would have demanded before pulling away and screaming (I've been told I had an especially nerve shattering scream in my early youth).

As I sit here 34 years later, I still have the scar that runs across the top of two of my fingers on my right hand.

Around age 4ish here...
sporting a classic backwards wig.

Once when I was about nine years old, I decided that I was going to take my cat Sophie fishing with me.  Whether she wanted to go with me or not (and she didn't), I did not care.  Finding anyone else to go with me that particular day had proved impossible, and I wanted company.  Plus I had this romantic vision of future summer days, with Sophie trotting along my side as we made the trek down the railroad and through the bushes to my favorite fishing spot.  She was going to be better than ANY dog, because she was the one pet of our family that only belonged to me.  I just had to be persuasive and show her how great it could be. We were going to break through all of the stereotypes of how "cats hate water" and "cats follow no man (or girl)".

There was no way she was just going to follow me that day (first try and all), so I decided a leash was probably my best bet.  Unfortunately, carrying my fishing pole and gear while dragging my cat by the neck proved to be somewhat difficult.  Sophie responded not at all to my coaching and encouragement.  Eventually, she stopped pulling away from the leash, and instead let herself be drug like dead weight.  My "compassion" and frustration finally kicked in about two blocks away from my house.  Picking her up, I awkwardly held the still docile (probably oxygen deprived) cat under one arm, while trying to hold on to my fishing pole and tackle box with the other hand.

Our house was about seven (?) blocks from the dirt road that eventually led to the place where I cut across to the railroad tracks where I would normally do a tight rope walk across a railroad beam for about a half mile before bush whacking my way down to the edge of the first pond.  I would then bypass the first three ponds to the very end pond where all of the best perch and sunfish were.  I would then walk the whole length of that pond to the very end, where the BEST best fish were.  What I am trying to express here is that it was no small jaunt to my favorite fishing spot, even in the best of circumstances.

Another one of my personality "trademarks" often commented on as a child was my stubbornness (other variations I often heard:  tenacious, willful, strong willed, pig headed).  This particular trait added to the stupid circumstances (limp cat + fishing pole + tackle + epic journey to fishing pond) was nearly the death of me this day.  By the time I made it to my destination, I was sweaty and mad and in no mood for fishing for anything.  The troubles of my trek had begun to make me doubt my original vision of  Sophie as the perfect fishing companion, so I was disillusioned and a little depressed.

The sun was hot that day.  I remember laying down along the edge of the water, letting my feet soak in it's coolness while I lightly pinned Sophie to the ground with one hand so she wouldn't be tempted to escape.  My recovery time in those days was quick.  I had only been laying there for around five minutes, when I started to hear the sounds of the pond over my own heavy breathing.  Realizing that some of the sounds were very close to me, I forced myself to breathe softer and quieter.  Slowly lifting myself to my elbows, I carefully scanned the water directly in front of my soaking feet.

Predatory excitement quickly filled me.  Not even four feet in front of me perched about four little frogs, croaking without a care in the world.  Visions of catching them filled my head.  Hope also filled my heart because perhaps these frogs, once presented to Sophie as a plaything to share (I realize my treatment of animals in this story is one step shy of sociopathic), would finally make her understand my dream of a girl and her cat playing by the pond all summer.

Sophie- The Non-Avid Fishercat

There was a dilemma, however.  If I released Sophie so I could actually go into the pond to catch the frogs, she was sure to dash off and miss the awesome bonding opportunity that the frogs presented.  The only answer I could come up with (other than trying to find a tree to tie her to, and there weren't any close enough) was to carry her with me into the pond and try to catch a frog one handed.  This seemed like a legitimate idea to me because a) I was a REALLY good frog catcher with a lot of experience and b) up to this point, Sophie had been extremely compliant and docile.

Gathering her back under my arm, I took a very slow cautious step into the pond, not wanting to scare the frogs.  They stayed right where they were, filling me with the confidence that this could be done.  The rocks under my feet were slimy, but if I curled my toes around their sharp edges just right, I could move along fine.  Slowly I picked my foot up for my next super quiet covert step.  THAT was the unfortunate moment Sophie seemed to snap into full awareness.

It was the perfect storm.  Under my arm, the cat who had been so inert suddenly burst into a panicked hurricane of claws and teeth.  This sudden attack/distraction made my careful toe gripping falter.  As soon as my toes lost their grip on the edge of the rocks, I began to slide backwards.  I'm sure it happened in the blink of an eye, but the moment felt much longer as my arms flailed around wildly, trying to keep the inevitable from happening.

The first casualty was Sophie.  The moment she hit the water, I'm sure that all of her suspicions were cemented that my 'girl + cat +fishing together during summer' plans were in fact a terrible idea.  The next casualty was my foot.

As I crawled out of the pond completely drenched (Sophie had got out of there in mere milliseconds, and was no where to be seen already),  I lay down at the edge before taking stock of any damages.  Since my foot felt a little funny, I sat up to look at it, but at the sight of the thick red stream running down the side I had to lay down again.  I laid there for awhile, waiting for the black spots and dizziness  to recede (the sight of my own blood had me panicked).  When I felt I could handle it, I sat up and looked closer at the injury.  Gingerly I bent over to see how bad the damages were, and as I brushed away the blood and pulled against the cuts (there were two), they spread wide open.

Black and red spots again filled my vision.  After taking some time to insure I wouldn't pass out, I got up and hobbled to whole journey back home again, only this time unencumbered by either cat (who eventually made it home all by herself), or fishing pole/tackle (I was FAR too injured to carry anything, at least in my own mind I was).

About a block from my house, I looked back and saw the small trail of blood from my foot peppering the streets of Paradise.  It occurred to me that this was a very dramatic situation.  I hadn't felt much pain up to this point, but the constant hopping on my good foot during the journey home was really starting to emphasize a throbbing pain in "the injury".  I began to imagine the shock on my mother's face as I limped through our door; her fallen daughter who had lost so much blood.  The whole thing started to make me feel weepy.

By the time I actually walked through the door for real, I had streams of panicked tears running down my face.  Mom was in the living room watching TV, so instead of hearing me open the door and and then running to me in a wave of motherly worry (as envisioned),  I had to alert her to my emergency with a panicky "I'M DYING" voice that was sure to get the appropriate response for the seriousness of the situation.  Before the shrill "MOOOOOOOOM" had finished leaving my mouth, she was was already in front of me with a very satisfying took of terror on her face, chanting "WHAT'S WRONG?"  over and over.  It was a very dramatic moment for me.

Finally a look of clarity came over her face (I had been her daughter a long time, and this wasn't the first occurrence of a freak out from me).  She stepped back and took in my wet/smelly, dirty appearance, and then noticed the red stream leaking out of my foot onto her kitchen floor (mixed with dirt, with several blood/dirt foot prints already stamped around me from the times I had forgot to hold my injured foot up to avoid the extreme pain that was sure to follow touching it to the ground.  As I openly wept, I began to hear my mom's then calm voice telling me things like "calm down Rachel", and "You'll be alright, it's just a little cut".  This wasn't my mom's first rodeo.  I was her kid number five; she'd had plenty of moments just like this.

I soon found myself in the back seat of our Dodge Aries with a towel wrapped around my bloody appendage, en route to the emergency room at our local hospital.  Long story short, I had to get about thirteen stitches that day (which, if memory serves me, I took very nobly and without crying).  The wounds actually healed up very quickly, but to this day I still have two straight little scars running down the side of my right foot.

And that is the story of how I caused my second set of scars.

Going, Going, Going.... G.O.N.E.



First Day of School

Today was the first day of school for the kiddos.  Derrin is now a fifth grader, a "big kid" in elementary.  Kloe is now a third grader.  I went to school with them this morning to meet their teachers.  Both teachers seem to be really nice, so hopefully this bodes well for a good school year.  Actually, both kids just walked in the door from their first day and said they LOVE their new teachers.  This does bode well.

I can not believe that summer vacation is over for them already!  This summer was one of the fastest on record- I'm pretty sure that is a documented fact.  It looks as though I will have one more month before my summer vacation is over and I go back to work to my part time office job; I am still working for Derrick's business keeping the numbers balanced.  So, while I have more free time, I better concentrate on soaking up every last molecule of sunshine out there.  I'd also better concentrate on bringing some order to this house.  There are still bags that have not been completely unpacked from our Seattle trip.

We went camping with our friends Rob and Deana and their kiddos this weekend.  It was our last chance to really soak up some friend/nature/sunshine/swimming time for the summer. 

The lake we went to was AWESOME; warm, calm and beautiful.  It even had a sandy beach; something rare for these parts.  The kids lived in the water while we were there, and even the grown ups (myself included) spent a lot of time in the water.

We had a great time with Deana and Rob, and the kids all got along really well, which always makes me happy.  Age wise, she is right between their little girls Olivia and Alena.  They all ran around together (usually in groups of two... the mystery of why groups of three NEVER work out with little or big girls goes on and on....) and Derrin was able to hang out with their son Tyler.  All of them had a great time:)

Kloe and Alena seem to have a lot of similarities.  Same sense of humor and that little splash of crazy that makes us wonder what we are going to have going on once teenhood sets in.

I came up out of the lake at one point to dry off on the beach, and Derrick was smiling about something.  When I asked him what was up, he told me that the little girls had run over to him and told him very seriously that there was a headstone on the beach. 

He laughed, thinking their imaginations were going wild (not an uncalled for assumption, actually), and said he was pretty sure that there weren't any headstones on the beach.  They insisted that not only was there a headstone, but you could actually see stones around a grave.  When he again said he didn't think that graves and headstones would be allowed at the beach, they asked him if he'd like to see it. 

Looking Oh So Sad

He agreed, and as they let him to a stone sticking up that really did, strangely enough, look like a headstone.  He was thinking that was weird, he could have sworn there wouldn't be an actual headstone, but then he looked closer and saw the name on the stone was HIS (in little kid handwriting), and the girls were behind him giggling. 

There is no way to tell that story without sounding morbid, but I tell you, this is SO FUNNY.  No one EVER tricks Derrick, but because of their perfect delivery, these two little monkeys pulled a bit of a fast one on him!  I laughed so hard when he told me the story:) If it is a flash of what we have to look forward to when they get older, we'd better hold on to our hats.

Anyways, we will have to remember weekends like this one to get us through the winter.

Even a cold water wuss like me could get in the water!

Olivia's night art around a campfire

The Fam Visits Seattle

We spent this last weekend in Seattle with David and Tia. It was SO good to see them. I wish we lived closer. I wish I had a vehicle that's abilities included warp speed travel...

ANYWAYS, our time there included sushi (at Marinepolis, one of our favorite sushi joints), going to the aquarium, spending some time at Alki beach, and on Saturday the guys took the kids on a ferry ride to Friday Harbor while Tia and I stayed in Seattle and had a marathon girl-talk in which we solved all of the world's problems before going to a movie and dinner.

We ended up taking Jessy with us on our trip. I've never had the experience of traveling with a dog before this little one showed up. She is good in the car, sleeping most of the time. Whenever we would stop for her to go out and go potty, it felt like we were traveling with a rockstar. There was one instant where her rockstar status was severely compromised, but I will get to that in a minute...

I had coffee for breakfast every morning I was there and it was so stinking great. I knew I would pay for it when I got back (and I am), but it was heaven. I always feel really good in Seattle. It might be that it's closer to sea level there, or maybe the extra humidity, OR maybe the fact that it is always vacation time with no responsibilities, or the conversation with Tia (which I suspect may be the real reason- what beats a good talk with a friend in the feeling better department?), but I just felt great.

Then we come home.

Fire on the Mountain

It turned into fire season here while we were over there.

And no coffee means a big, all-day head ache.

And there is road construction on the road leading to my house again.

And I forgot my wallet at Safeway.

And I was going to drive back to Safeway to get my wallet, but then I realized I'd lost my keys, so I couldn't start my car.

I finally gave up finding my keys and borrowed Derrick's, had to reface road construction again and made it back to Safeway. The good news is that my wallet was still in the shopping cart out in the parking lot where we'd left it.

SO, I went home and took a nap.

That has been the bulk of my first day home, with a couple loads of laundry in there too.

School starts a week from today. I can not believe this summer is over. I was able to do pretty much everything I'd hoped to at the beginning of the summer, but I still need more time!!! We have one more camping trip this weekend, a final hurrah to summer. It's with good friends, it will be awesome. But then school starts. *sigh*

SO, on that sorry note, I will tell the story of what happens when you take a puppy to a beach in Seattle...

We'd been working with Jessy to go potty while on a leash the whole time we were over there. She'd stubbornly refused to go at all unless allowed off of her leash, which was only allowed while at David and Tia's place.

We went on a couple outings to Alki beach in West Seattle. It has one of the best views of Seattles skyline I've seen, AND you get to be in sand by the water while seeing that view. It is a win/win for all involved. We decided to bring little Jessy with us because she'd been inside for most of our visit over there; puppy needed to stretch her legs and run around.

We knew she wouldn't love being on a leash, but those are the breaks. As someone who has never been a dog owner as an adult, I have been very surprised by how many places flat out don't allow dogs, and the places that DO allow dogs all seem to require leashes. Seems unnatural, but I didn't make the rules. We would follow the rules at Alki beach; Jessy would wear her leash.

The guys dropped us off so they could find a parking place. We (Tia, kids and myself) made our way down to the water. Jessy was being drug along by her leash. Derrin was limping along in a dramatic fashion because he'd hurt his foot by jumping from high places earlier in the day. Tara and I were carrying our beach chairs, getting ready to do a lot of sitting, talking, and taking pictures of the kids frolicking. Kloe was already heading for the water with every intention of jumping in.

We set our chairs down and proceeded as planned. Eventually the men joined us, and we all were enjoying our time by the water. We were completely surrounded by people (that beach is crazy busy), but it felt like we were the only ones on our little spot of the beach, enjoying our time together.

Then Jessy happened. The puppy who wouldn't go potty while attached to a leash the WHOLE TIME we had been there? Well, whether it was the sand, the sound of the water hitting the shore, or just the relaxed atmosphere we'd all been enjoying, she was all of a sudden in her comfort zone. All of a sudden she was squatting and without thinking I cried out "OH NO!!!", just so if anyone else on the beach WASN'T witnessing our dog soiling the sand, they were now alerted to have the opportunity to do so.

Oh Lordy. There was a lot of illegal puppy poo there, and as new puppy owners, we have NOT developed a good checklist of puppy related things to take on all outings, the first of which would be a plastic baggie for such an occasion. I stood up and started fumbling for my shoes, only thinking "MUST FIND BAGGY". In my shoe finding haze, I missed the heckling calls from the group of people closest to us, but I heard later it was to the effect of "Get that dog off the beach!!" And when I heard them shouting to pick up the poo, I shouted back,"Well yeah, of course we will" because I am a QUICK thinker like that. Did they want me to pick it up with my bare hands and carry it away as penance? Maybe they did, because I felt their eyes on us until we had the situation resolved. David was the one who ran up and found a bag, and then I scooped up the shameful deposit, problem solved. SOOO dramatic. *sigh*

In looking for the baggy, a sign was discovered by David and Derrick that while dogs were allowed on the sidewalk above the beach, they were not allowed in the sand. This was a huge surprised to us, because we had seen literally dozens of dogs down there. If you can't take your dogs to the beach, where CAN you take them? Not only were they not allowed, however, but there was a five hundred dollar fine for having a dog down there. Derrick and David took off with Jessy, intending on going for a walk and avoiding a fine.

As for Tia, myself and the kids, we stayed. We couldn't let the hecklers think they'd driven us off, so we hunkered down and enjoyed the rest of our time there, every extra minute a triumph.

Eventually we had to pack up all of our stuff and go out to find the men and the cars.

We were a pitiful looking crew. Derrin hobbled along like he'd actually LOST his foot at some point, so I carried a chair and my big camera with one arm, and held on to him with the other. Kloe was completely soaked from jumping in the ocean, AND she had about four cups of sand in her underwear from scooting along the beach on her behind while playing. She walked bowleggedly along behind us, tears in her eyes, every inch screaming pitiful, miserable girl. Tia finally took pity and started carrying that 8 year old girl on one hip while carrying one of the chairs in her other. We should have been carrying tin cans so West Seattle could at least throw dollars in there to help relieve our suffering.

Eventually, we found the guys, the puppy and the cars, loaded the broken children in them, and back home we went.

Preeclampsia and The Very Little Baby

During my 26-week prenatal doctor appointment, I found out I’d developed severe preeclampsia. I had tell-tale protein in my urine, my blood pressure was through the roof, and I’d gained a huge amount of weight freakishly fast. It was an acknowledgment for what I’d known for awhile: something was WRONG.

I was sent home on bed rest but the following Monday my blood pressure was higher than before, so they decided to admit me. I assumed I’d be in the hospital for a couple days; they’d get my blood pressure under control and then I’d go home for the rest of the pregnancy.

I was put on a magnesium drip as soon as I settled into my hospital room. The magnesium made me very relaxed and warm. Everyone else was buzzing around me, scared, but I was A-OK. Derrick showed up, scared, confused and tired. This had been a hard pregnancy from the beginning.

Both of our families were in and out of the room. Between the magnesium drip, the company, and the relief of not working, I was feeling better than I had in months. I wasn’t opposed to the idea of just staying in that room for the next three months if I needed to.

That wasn’t going to happen.

The blood tests the doctor ordered showed that my condition was getting worse. The doctor kept saying something about worrisome “leaky vessels.” I was developing something called HELLP Syndrome, which was causing my liver enzymes to skyrocket. The small capillaries within my kidneys were leaking. The danger of liver failure, seizure and coma were very real.

No one told me what all of this meant because worry was the last thing I needed. Not that I could have been bothered to worry; I was still all rainbows and butterflies on my magnesium drip. Even after my sister told me to prepare myself, I didn’t understand the magnitude of the problems.

~.~

September 28th was a Thursday morning. The doctor came in and announced it was time to have a baby, as continuing the pregnancy would be too dangerous for both myself and my baby. I was only 27 weeks along- three full months too early.

Right before going in to surgery.

They wheeled me into the operating room. Derrick stood up by my head, holding my hand. They wheeled me into the operating room for the c-section. Derrick stood up by my head, holding my hand, while I felt tugging and pulling for only a few minutes. One minute the little baby was inside my belly, the next minute I heard a teeny tiny cry. It sounded like a kitten.

All of the action was then diverted to a different part of the room as the NICU staff went to work saving my baby.

They sewed me up and as they started to wheel me out of the room, they paused briefly so I could look over at the baby laying under the bright lamp on the table. He weighed in at 1 pound and 10 ounces. He was bright red – his skin looked too undeveloped to have color, like it was transparent to the organs underneath. He didn’t look real. The amounts of magnesium in my body made me feel extremely detached, like this was all happening to someone else; this was some other girl and her baby.

They wheeled me back out of the room. I didn’t see him again for another four days. His daddy and grandparents saw him a lot those days (His Auntie Renae tried to slip into the NICU too, but got caught. Only parents and grandparents were allowed in there). He was hooked up to a lot of machinery, and struggling to breathe, but he WAS breathing.

They took me off of the magnesium and eased off the pain medication. By removing my baby from my body, I was out of harm’s way and on the mend. Now it was time to help him heal, too.

When I was finally able to walk from my room to the NICU to see my baby, they led me over to his tiny bed where he laid on a sheepskin blanket, tubes coming in and out of him to help him breathe. His color was better – not as red. He was wearing a diaper the size of a panty liner and it completely engulfed him. I pulled the hat he was wearing gently away from his head to look at his teeny ears. They were completely flat against his head, like they’d not had time to curl up into regular ears yet. He didn’t even have nipples yet. He just wasn’t done cooking.

First Trip to the NICU

After that I was in the NICU constantly watching him or gently laying my fingers on his back. I needed to touch him, but I was warned by the NICU nurse not to stroke him because his undeveloped nervous system couldn’t handle the stimulation. So I just held my hand across his back gently and felt the rise and fall of his lungs gasping for air.

Eventually, we were able to hold him. We’d hold him skin on skin against our chests (it’s called “kangerooing”), careful not to move too much. Even though he was still struggling to breathe, we were told it was more dangerous for him to lay there and not be held – even babies that premature need to feel human connection and love.

We named him Derrin, after my brother whom I’d lost when I was 8. It was the most special name I could have given him.

The day I was discharged was bittersweet – it was nice to get out of the hospital and sleep in my own bed, but it felt horrible to leave Derrin there.

I pumped milk frantically because it was the best nutrition he could have, but the results were seriously pathetic. I worked for HOURS to get minuscule amounts of milk. I’d bring it into the NICU, write our name on the little baggy, and put it in the freezer with the gallons of milk the other moms were producing.

I was put on medication to help me produce more and got in contact with the Le Leche League folks who gave me lots of advice. They set me up with a top of the line, grade-A breast pump but, still, I could only produce thimble-fulls. I kept at it, pumping those thimble fulls, supplementing with formula when necessary. I was sad I couldn’t produce more, but what I gave him made me feel connected to Derrin; a little more like I was his mom. While the nurses did the lion’s share of keeping him alive, I was the only one who could bring thimbles of real mommy milk.

First Bath

There were good days where he’d do really well…and there were other days where his whole chest would almost collapse while trying to breathe. Those days I felt helpless.

The nurses noticed that even though he was the smallest baby there, he was also one of the most stubborn. They’d arrange him just so, his body positioned perfectly to help him breathe, but he wiggled and rearranged himself. That little dash of stubbornness amused and comforted me; it was one more thing to help him pull through this.

He’d open his little eyes when we were there, whenever he heard our voices. His grandparents, daddy and I all read to him whenever we went to visit. We all held him close to our skin and rocked him while holding oxygen to his little face.

Gramma Patsy and Derrin

 For the most part, we had a happy little routine for that first month. He steadily gained weight, his breathing became less of a struggle, and nothing majorly wrong happened. I realized we were very fortunate, as I saw a lot of other babies in the NICU undergo surgeries and have scary things happen. I attended the funeral of one little baby, and we all just held our breath and prayed for the best.

~.~

I had the whole “why did this have to happen to US?” moment when one of my friends who’d been due two months before me came in to have her baby. She had a perfectly happy delivery and brought her baby home right away. It’s not that I bemoaned her happy delivery; it just hit home that what had happened with us was just so far away from the joyous event it could have been.

~.~

I took many pictures of Derrin. Since I couldn’t take him home to show him off I carried pictures everywhere. When he was two months old, I took some pictures and developed them right away. When they came back, I realized his skin looked very yellow. I hadn’t noticed that when I had been in the NICU.

I went back to the hospital, and the neonatal doctor was by his side, checking him out. They’d run blood tests and discovered that he had CMV (cytomegalovirus), which was causing jaundice. He could have contracted it from me during birth or from my breast milk (aw, sweet irony). CMV is very dangerous for preemies, potentially causing neurological and developmental problems, deafness and blindness. It was also very contagious, so he was moved out of the NICU and up to the third floor where he had his very own NICU nurse with him at all times.

The move actually made it a lot easier for me for be able to stay with him. I had stayed several times in spare rooms they kept for NICU moms, but now I could actually sleep in the same room with him.

His jaundice was under control fairly quickly, and he just kept trucking along. I quit trying to pump around that time, which was emotionally hard; my milk production had never really kicked in. Pumping isn’t that effective at spurring prolactin production which helps the milk to flow, and my poor little baby was still too undeveloped to have a suck reflex.

Auntie Nae and Grampa Billy

He had to gain more weight and learn to drink from a bottle. He got most of his formula from a little tube that went up his nose and down into his tummy until we found that if we held him just so and had a plastic bottle, we could squeeze streams of formula into his mouth and coax him to swallow. We did that for a week and HE PUT ON WEIGHT! We were thrilled!

Finally, they gave us the go-ahead to bring him home. It was December 28th – his original due date – exactly three months after he’d been born. It was also one of the happiest days of my life.

Feeding Tube

Unhappy about the Car Seat
But GOING HOME!!!

Bringing him home was also very scary. He’d had TEAMS of people keeping him alive for the last three months, and now they were just going to send him home with US? What were they thinking? But we did it!! His daddy and I took turns, waking up every three hours to feed him the thick, extra-calorie formula. Our poor little guy would throw it back up more often than not, and we’d start all over again. Derrick and I were walking zombies for quite awhile.

I had to take him to neurological testing and also eye and ear testing for the next two years because of the CMV virus and prematurity, but he quickly caught up to other babies born the same month as him and he always tested very high on the tests. He is one smart boy.

Now he is ten. NOW when I think about everything that could have happened my heart stops. You would never even guess that he was a micro-preemie by looking at him. He  is SO good with other people- serious social skills. I am always in awe when I watch him with other people. He genuinely just loves them. We have a theory that it's because he was exposed to so many people right from birth. He’s the healthiest person in our family; he loves to read, he’s in advanced math, and with some encouragement, he gets great grades.

He is the kind of kid who will wake up early and make his mommy the perfect cup of coffee just to be sweet. I am so BLESSED to have Derrin in my life.

I was able to stay home with both Derrin and his little sister when she was born.  All of those worries that we couldn't make it financially if I wasn't working just weren't true for us.  We figured out a way to make it possible, and even though being a stay-at-home mom of two small children was the hardest job I ever had, those years I was able to do it are some of the happiest of my life. 

                                                ~.~

My Baby Boy- Age 10

I think about the dream that Derrick and I had in the beginning, and of course we'd still love to travel the world some day, but the life we have with our kids is so much better than any dream we ever could have imagined.   Of course we've had our ups and some pretty hard downs, but I wouldn't trade it.

~.~

I know not all moms and their preemies are as fortunate, but I like tell Derrin’s story to new moms who are going through this scary situation because in our worst moments, it helped to hear positive outcomes of those who had been through it before me.

When we first had Derrin, one of the NICU nurses told us that someday this would all seem like a dream from a long time ago.

She was right.

~Artless~

Being a mom has a way of making me remember what it was like to be a kid myself.  The world was so different back when I was a kid.  I had a lot more freedom than my kids get to have.  We are pretty careful about knowing exactly where they are at all times- which means they pretty much have to stay in the yard, and when they ride their bikes they have to stay within a couple houses of ours.  If I walk outside to call for them and I don't hear an immediate response, I get nervous right away. 

I wish they could have the same freedoms that I had as a kid.  I did have to check in every twenty minutes or so (or longer if I was planning a bigger adventure; I'd just need to share my plan with Mom), but that was plenty of time to do most things I wanted to.  The good thing is you can't miss what you never had, so my kids don't get too upset about needing to stay close to us.

As kids, we walked to and from school by ourselves every day.  It was only about a fifteen minute walk (or longer, if we were dallying, which was just standard operation for us back then).  It wasn't uncommon to run into other groups of kids, so very rarely would we end up walking by ourselves. It seems like there were always deep and confrontational discussions (I remember lots of  "Nuh uhing" and sticking out my tongue), sword fighting with branches, and Kung Foo fighting. 

From First through Third grades my cousin Heidi lived right next door to us.  I'd walk to school with her and her older sister Wendy, and my little brother.  Heidi was my hero.  She is almost exactly a year older than me, and she was one of the most entertaining people I had ever met in my life.  When we'd have sleepovers (which was pretty common), she would tell us the best stories.  When we played with our barbies, she came up with the most dramatic plots. 

She also was an artist.  At eight years old, she could draw animals and nature scenes better than most adults can.  One time on the way to school, she had a stack of drawings she was bringing to show her teacher.  The drawings were awesome in themselves, but she'd also taken the time to make frames out of sticks and then glue then to the drawings.  They were very impressive.  As we walked toward the school, more and more kids joined our group (as usual), and of course everyone wanted to know what was up with the drawings.  Eventually she just stopped in the middle of the road and let everyone have a look.  Talk about being a sensation!  She was like a little kid celebrity for the rest of the walk to school.  I remember being simultaneously impressed and jealous at the attention.  I was also very inspired.  It was apparently a good thing to be an art-teest.

In second grade we had an art teacher come in every Friday to help us with  new art projects.  Art became my very favorite subject.  I loved my art teacher (I shall call her Mrs. Libby to protect her identity:), and I mean "love" with all of the admiration, respect, and adoration that a seven year old has in her little heart.  I did my very best on all of my art projects, and when she would praise me for doing such a good job I would hum with feelings of specialness.

When that school year was over and summer vacation began, I missed Mrs. Libby.  I missed her art projects, and I missed her telling me what a good job I'd done.  The thing is, Paradise is a very small town and I knew where she lived.  I also had art supplies of my own.  The natural direction this would take (of course), was home made art by one seven year old( me), which would then be hand delivered to Mrs. Libby's house.

But, ah, what to draw!  There was no one to give me a project!  So I looked around, high and low.  I ended up sitting on the floor in my bedroom, pencil and paper in hand, looking at the wall.  I started looking at an old poster that had been there for as long as I could remember. 

I still remember it very clearly- it was a cartoon drawing of a man holding a tennis racket, with sweat dripping off of his face.  His face was very droopy and sad but also comical.  There was some wording under the picture.  The picture was very simple- easy lines (mostly profile), very little shading, and the words underneath were easy to spell out.  So, I drew the poster. 

I drew it over and over until I was so impressed with the results that I decided it was time to deliver my work to Mrs. Libby.  As I walked to her house, I imagined her cries of delight as she noted my skill and effort. I was so disappointed when she wasn't home!  The house was completely quiet.  So I carefully folded my picture up and slid it into her door and left, fully expecting a visit soon from my favorite teacher. 

A couple weeks went by, and I didn't hear from Mrs. Libby.  I stopped by her place a couple times to knock on the door, but there was never an answer.  In the meantime, I'd drawn my poster a couple hundred more times, and I had some really outstanding results.  If anyone could appreciate the improvements in my artistic ability, it was Mrs. Libby! 

I was very frustrated with our inability to reconnect!  She had to see my new work.  So, I took a stack of my new drawings and journeyed to her house again.  I knocked, and again there was no answer.  So, I did what any desperate seven year old who is secure in the love and admiration of her teacher would do- I turned the door knob.  It was not locked! 

I stepped into her house and called out her name.  Total silence.  I looked around her living room and saw that everything was in boxes.  My most favortist teacher was moving!!  I was completely crushed! So, I searched through my giant stack of drawings, found the very best one, and laid it on her kitchen table.  I didn't leave a note or sign it- she'd know it was me, right?

I don't remember ever seeing Mrs. Libby again.  As an adult, I am a little (well, kinda a lot) mortified about the whole thing.  I heard years later that her husband and she separated that summer, and that was why they were moving out.  Probably not the best summer for her.  I went into her house, uninvited!!  Boundaries?!?  What boundaries???  And, this is the worst part...  that poster?  That horrible, rotten poster about the sad, droopy, sweaty tennis player?  The one I drew a thousand times that summer all in the hopes of impressing my art teacher?  The easily spelled words under the picture were "Poor Loser" (which makes me wonder about both the original artist of the poster *what a horrible idea!* and about why that thing was hanging on the wall in the first place!)... which would have been okay if I'd ever actually seen her when I delivered my pictures to her.  I could have said,"Mrs. Libby, I drew this picture for you!  It's from a poster that I have hanging on the wall in my room!".  That conversation never happened though- she just had those unsigned, unexplained pictures showing up out of thin air throughout that already bad summer.  **Hanging my head in mortification**

Hindsight, huh?

When I think abou it, I really did feel sorta like Paradise was just full of open doors.  I know I picked more than my fair share of unasked for apples, and pretty sure I picked my (un)fair share of neighbors flowers (cuz what's the point of flowers if you can't pick them?).  Haha:)  Boundaries... it's crazy and sad how we've gone from what I had back there to what we have today.

Me, about 7 years old

Musical People

The sun is actually shining out there this morning!  Having a very difficult time accepting that I am going to be a grown-up and make myself go to work, where I will be in an office  instead of outside playing.  Oh-well, there will still be sunshine when I get home later (there better be!!!).

I went a little dark  in here yesterday.  I thought I'd counter it with something I've been wanting to write down for awhile.  I want to start writing more stories about my parents' lives- the happy stuff.  Someday I am going to print it all out and give it to my kids.

The last time I saw Dad, he started talking about the piano that he has in his storage shed.  It's the same piano that was always in the family house in Paradise, right at the bottom of the stairs.  Mom could play the guitar, accordion and the piano. Out of the three, the piano was her favorite.  When they moved out of Paradise, the piano never made it into their new place; it was just too big for their downsized home.  I don't think I ever heard Mom play again after they moved, which was sad because she played beautifully. 

Dad was talking about that piano, and about how he wants to have it restored and retuned.  He isn't a big talker- he's not the kind of guy who will sit you down and tell you his whole life story in one sitting.  He lets little gems slip out once in awhile though, and the back story behind the piano was one of those. 

The story starts with him, right after he first moved to Paradise to work at the railroad.  He was living in a little house on the property of my grandparents, right behind their family house.  He said that after work he would sit outside his little house and listen to that piano playing inside the big house.  He didn't know it yet, but it was my mom, her sister and her best friend in there.  It sounded like they were having fun- being silly and rowdy.  So, in a way, that piano was his first introduction to Mom, which for them was the most appropriate and perfect introduction I can think of. If there was ever a way to get his attention, is was through music (well, music or old cars, preferably of the model T variety).  It probably also didn't hurt that when he actually met her, she was a beauty.

Neither one of my parents were very big talkers, but they were both musicians and that was no small part of the communication in their relationship.  I remember them singing and playing together, Dad in the kitchen saying,"Hey Pat, what song is this?" and he'd start playing a song on his old Martin and singing (usually an old western) and soon she'd join in.  They knew all the words to the same old songs, and they would harmonize with each other.

I have a mandolin hanging on my wall- a gift of long ago from my mom to my dad, one of the first gifts she ever gave him.  They saved up for other instruments.  Back in the sixties they spent three hundred dollars for my mom's accordion- a fortune for them in those days.  It seems that whenever Dad shares a special memory about Mom, there is always music attached to it in some form.  It was such an important part of their story.

~Mom playing the piano at their wedding reception~