Fifty-One Hours of Rockstar

This past Friday, Sammie B completed her first-ever three-week intensive therapy session.   Three hours a day of therapy, five days a week, for three weeks.  We structured it so that she did one hour of CME (Medek) Therapy with a CME-trained PT, then two hours of neurosuit therapy (one hour of OT, one of PT).  I've written before about trying out CME therapy, and how it is targeted at kids like Sammie who have movement and balance disorders.  We tried a few individual sessions before committing to an intensive session.  We loved watching Sam with the CME therapist, and seeing what she could do.  Loved it.  And so, we decided to try a three-week intensive . . . but not without hesitation.

The place we went to (and probably many "intensive" therapy centers) is somewhat known for pushing kids through tears.  That doesn't jive with mine and B's philosophy on parenting, or particularly on therapy for Sam.  One thing we've learned is how much Sam's own recognition of her challenges and her lack of confidence holds her back from trying new things.  We cannot and are not "progress at all costs" parents.  It truly is more important to us that Sam like herself, even if that means she never meets another motor milestone (an extreme and unlikely example, but you get the point).  As I said to B, if we focus too much on therapy and pushing her to do more, more, more physically all the time, how will she ever reconcile that with the message we work so hard to instill in her of self-worth, and acceptance of her body, exactly as it is?   Surely, as her parents, we do have to push her out of her comfort and "easy" zone sometimes (as all parents must), but there has to be a balance, and we are finding that balance a hard one to strike sometimes (and one that keeps me up at night), particularly in this special needs world where there will always be "one more therapy" or "one more therapist" that someone recommends, or another special needs parent that seems to be researching and doing more therapies for their child than we are.  I, of course, never want Sammie to grow up to think we didn't do enough, but even worse, I don't want her to grow up to think we pushed her too hard at the expense of her self-esteem.  No way.  Our only goal for Sam is for her to be her very best self and to live a life filled with love, purpose, and joy, and I mean that with every fiber of my being.  I only hope that she will grow to know and understand that too, and that somehow, we will manage to strike the right balance between pushing and supporting.  

We went into this intensive with open minds, but firm in our conviction that we would draw the line at how hard to push.  That we would always, always follow Sammie B's cues, and while we would push her to challenge herself, we would NOT push her past tears.  I've learned how to tell when the "no's" are just regular four-year old stubbornness.  I've learned when something is just hard for her and she doesn't want to try (and in those moments, sometimes we should push her to try).  But, I've also seen moments where she's asked to do something in therapy or in some assessment and her little cheeks go flush and she says "no" in a way that is a "please don't make me try to do that because I just can't" kind of way, and I am determined that THOSE are the moments we will NOT push past, not now when we've decided that this little girl needs -- more than anything -- to build confidence.  Those are the "no's" we have to respect.  The moments where we say, "okay, then let's do something else."  And, I've seen in those moments, when I say "okay, you don't have to," how the color immediately returns to her little cheeks, and my heart hurts for her.  Those moments are the ones where her fragile self-esteem lies in my hands.  Those are the moments I will guard it with all that I am.  

I went into the intensive session armed with a bag full of new surprises for bribery.  We told Sam all about it in advance, and we told her that after she got through three weeks, as long as she tried her hardest even when things were a little bit hard, we would all go to Disneyland.  I expected tears in the sessions, I expected protests, and I expected to have to bribe her to just keep trying a lot. I expected to be refilling that giant bag of surprises often.  

But, I didn't have to.   My girl rocked those three weeks.  Rocked them.  

The very first day, there were some real, true "no's" and the therapists tried to push her past them, and I said, "nope, she really isn't going to do that, and we aren't going to make her."  I came home, and told B that other than the first hour of CME (more on that in a moment) I was prepared to lose the (large sum of) non-refundable money we paid for this intensive session and pull her out if the next day wasn't better.  But the next day, I talked to the CME therapist about how I was feeling, and explained how strongly we feel about respecting Sam's boundaries and not pushing so hard that she feels bad or doubts herself.  That self-esteem is more important than any milestone in our book.  She was receptive (though the real "issue" wasn't with her) and obviously shared with the other therapists because from that moment on, they really took their lead from me, and they worked to make the time they spent with Sammie fun where they could (and in particular as they got to know Sammie, they worked to incorporate things they thought would motivate her).  We pushed Sam to try hard and do new things, but not to the point that she was upset.  

And in that, some pretty magical stuff happened.  No miraculous new "milestone," but that wasn't what we were looking for.  Better kinds of magic happened.  Sam enjoyed it.  Sam loved seeing what her body could do.  Sam was proud of herself in a new and exciting way.  Sam grew stronger, her balance improved, and she was proud.  

We made videos during the CME sessions to show B at night (I went to the first week every day, my mom flew out for the second week, and B went for the third week.  Sammie B's brand-new nanny went every day but because she literally started the week before the intensive session started, one of us also went each day too, which worked out well!  We didn't want to throw either Sam OR the new nanny into the intensive alone together before they'd had a chance to warm up to each other . . . . our new nanny was an amazing cheerleader to Sammie throughout it and was just, well, amazing in general, so we have high hopes we've finally found a keeper after what has been a six-month crap shoot in the childcare department).   

Anyway, in the evenings, Sammie would ask to watch the videos over and over.  As she watched, she exclaimed (as I reminded her throughout the day) "my body CAN do AMAZING things!"   She was so proud.   

I expected her to be EXHAUSTED each day and need marathon naps, but she didn't.  She came out of there each day tired and quiet, but within an hour or so would rebound and she generally had more energy than we've ever seen from her.  The PT that does her hippotherapy said she had the two best sessions ever, her swimming lessons went amazingly.  Just incredible.   She was, however, really, really wiggly, and sometimes, a bit restless.  The therapists told us that was pretty normal because the kids are getting so much sensory input and their brains are trying to organize it all . . . . the first week, I hated that her irregular movements worsened in the evenings -- it was like she just had so much energy she didn't know what to do with it.  Our girl who could usually sit and watch Dora for hours did not want to sit and watch television at all.  Her body was just excited and "on" and she couldn't turn it off.  That part, truthfully, made me sad.  I didn't want this thing that was supposed to be such a positive thing to cause her any additional challenges . . . but that part got better after the first week, and I recognized all the wiggles were probably a good thing . . . her body was figuring it all out.   We talked about how her body was so excited a lot, and for the first time she seemed to be able to identify when her more irregular movements would happen -- she would tell me, "I'm a little bit wiggly," and we could help her find something to do to control the wiggles (like holding something or focusing on something else).  B and I were proud of her -- I think having a way to describe that feeling, and for us to acknowledge it and talk about it, is a very positive thing.  

I also expected her to hate the CME hour the most.  CME is really just straight balance/movement exercises, and because the therapist is really focused on facilitating balance and movement and exposing the kiddo to gravity (without letting them fall) the therapist isn't entertaining the way a traditional PT might be.  We brought the iPad with movies and songs and books, but still, it isn't like traditional therapy with stickers and markers or more play-based "work."   Surprisingly though, she always did her best in CME, and protested the least.   She seemed fine with the "okay, we are going to do five of these, and then we'll do something else" instructions and as long as we told her what to expect and what was coming next, she just pushed through.  After an exercise, as the therapist made notes and got out equipment for the next thing, Sammie B would scoot over to her and say "what are we going to do next?"  She really just seemed so stinking proud of what she was doing and that made me the happiest. 

Happiest.  When things got hard, we would tell her "Sammie, you've got this.  You are rocking it.  You are a rockstar."    She really just approached it all with such maturity, grace and determination.  It was as if she understood, "this is going to be hard, but I'm going to do it, and then it will be behind me."   Maturity, grace and determination.  

(I'm now going to bombard you with pictures, not just because I'm so stinking proud of this girl, but also because I've received many Facebook messages wanting to know more about the therapy and I think this is definitely an instance where a picture tells a thousand words!)

CME - Climbing stairs with just support around her knees (Day 1)

CME - Walking into (and out of a box) with just support around her thighs

So proud! 

CME - Standing on a balance board with NO support

More box walking, just supported on one thigh

CME - Walking, with just a "saddle" of support between her legs. 

Oh, just standing around on this board (this one takes some major therapist skill!) (CME)

Standing around, holding a ball

Treadmill in the neurosuit 

On this vibrating thing that she loved

Standing and swinging

In the spider cage, bungeed in and ready to jump

Suit is off, session done, ready for Disney and big smiles!

So, the idea behind CME (in my most basic, layman's understanding) is that the goal is to make the child/person responsible for their body in space, and to do exercises that provoke motor responses in people with motor challenges, particularly balance issues/cerebellar dysfunction.  Unlike traditional therapy where the therapists typically provide "proximal" support to facilitate movement, in CME, the therapist's goal is to provide as distal support as they can to still facilitate the same movement.  So, for instance, the therapist might hold Sammie's thigh to help her walk, while a traditional PT (and we) typically provides trunk support.  Then, as Sammie got better/stronger in the therapy, the CME therapist worked on facilitating walking by just holding Sammie's ankles.  Really incredible to watch, and without question, B and I both came away big believers in this method, which says a lot since we have, until this point, not really tried any "alternative" therapies with Sammie but have stuck to the more traditional things.  Unlike traditional therapy, though, it is harder to do at-home exercises -- the therapists are highly-specialized and well-trained, but B was such an over-achiever as a "spotter" that the therapist gave him a few things to work on with Sammie at home.   Also, now that the intensive is over, we are going to continue to do one CME session each week, and reduce (but not eliminate) our traditional PT hours . . . we have a lot of optimism about what CME can do for our girl, and more than anything, we hope it is just one valuable tool to help our girl on her way to becoming her best self.  No expectations, no milestones required, just her best self.  

On the last day (just before we headed to Disneyland as promised!), when she did better on the treadmill than ever before, but things got hard, she said, without prompting, "I've got this.  I'm rocking it.  I'm a rock star."  Indeed, my girl.  Indeed. 

And that is how my girl logged fifty-one hours of therapy in three weeks (we cancelled her regular PT/OT sessions during those weeks, but kept the fun stuff like horses, music therapy and swimming!).  

Grace.  Perseverance.  Hard-work.   My girl.  Inspiring me, amazing me, day after day, moment after moment.  

My sweet, amazing, Sammie,

I learned more from you in these last three weeks than I could possibly teach you in years.  You showed such grace and perseverance through some incredibly intense and hard work.  We are so, so proud of you.   If only you knew how my heart swelled in the moments where I saw pride on YOUR face at what your body was doing. At seeing you grin from ear to ear at night watching the videos of yourself standing, and asking to watch them again and again.  You amaze and inspire me day after day, moment after moment.   And I hope that someday, you will read this and understand . . . we are here, along for the ride - YOUR RIDE - and our only hope is that we are doing all the "right" things to give you the tools you need to be your best self.  But this is your story girl, and we truly do believe you are perfection.  Just as you are.  I hope you grow into a lady that loves yourself as intensely as we love you.   You are amazing.  Amazing you.   You are a rockstar.  

Your oh-so-proud and ever-lovin' mama.  

NOT Funny

I'm exhausted and about to pull a work all-nighter, which I'm most unhappy about (why is it that other associates on my teams send out out-of-office emails that say they are going to be on vacation, with no access to email, and peope respect that, but when I do the same for my child's surgery, but intermittently answer emails to be helpful, boundaries are out the door?  And since when does "I need to take a few days off next week for daughter's surgery mean "I'm not going to be able to work during the days next week, but don't worry, I won't sleep ever and will still do a normal amount of work by just doing it all night while my kiddo sleeps?"), but I digress. 

Just a quick update, in the briefest of ways. 

Good news:  Sammie had a post-op appointment with her surgeon today and all looked good.   We'll see him again in 5 weeks, and see if we can tweak her glasses prescription at all then.   Her little eyes are still so blood-stained, which I just hate.  It's like this visible reminder to me of my girl's discomfort.  Today she complained about pain and itching but that was mostly alleviated via tylenol.  Leaving the appointment with her surgeon, she made me giggle.  A lot.  I told her we needed to get cash for parking and she said, "do they have an ATM here?"  When I told her they did, she told me she wished we had an ATM at home.  Me too, kiddo.  Me too.  One that dispenses free money.

Tonight Sammie B was playing with her little doctor kit and I realized she knows way too much medical terminology.  As I sat and listened to her tell B she needed to "listen to his heart" and then "now let me listen to your back and hear your breathing," and "I'm going to take your blood pressure now," I smiled, but my heart frowned a little.  I wish this child had seen fewer doctors in her day, had her blood pressure taken a little less, and well, just seen less of the "medical."

Playing doctor.  I have no idea where Mia's shirt is. 

Bad news:  Mia has pink eye.  If it weren't so damned unfortunate, it might be funny in that "are you kidding me, universe?" kind of way.   We HAVE to be diligent in NOT letting Sammie get this.  Her pediatrician said the antibiotic eye drops she's already getting post-surgery should prevent it.  Her surgeon suggested keeping the girls completely separated for 7 days.  But, we know it is probably too late; Sam's been exposed. 

Mia couldn't go to day care today and B and I spent the day/evening chasing her around with clorox wipes and hand sanitizer and begging Sammie to NOT touch her own eyes, and making her wash her hands constantly.

Yeah, really effin unfortunate timing and NOT funny. 

When efforts to keep them apart failed, I plopped them both in Sammie's stander (Kitchen Helper from onestepahead.com) and let them play with soap.  Sometimes, I am genius. 

In slightly better news though, this explains why Mia was an absolute bear last night (well, this and the ear infection she also has, which was also discovered today) but after a few doses of antibiotics and tylenol today, she was in better spirits and is now sleeping soundly.  

The whole world is sleeping, except me.  I'm drafting a motion, and none too happy.

Over and out.  Back at it. 

Brave

We made it through strabismus surgery, and my girl has, once again, amazed me with her bravery, perseverance, and grace.

So, so brave. 

We were up bright and early Monday morning, dressed appropriately, and off to the hospital.   

We signed in, and we waited.  Sammie B hadn't been allowed to eat, and she kept telling us she was hungry, but we waited.  We passed the time together, just the three of us (a friend came to our house early and took Mia to daycare for us).  We waited for two hours -- my stomach in knots, pacing a little (and trying not to let my own anxiety show) while Mr. B, (seemingly) calm as a cucumber, entertained our bee, and got oh-so-many giggles.  The deep-belly, pee-your-pants giggles.  Just what my nervous heart needed to hear.  Over and over.  

When it was time for them to take her back, she held Dora in one hand, Diego in the other, we kissed her head and we all said our "I love you's" and they wheeled her away (she'd had some medicine at that point to make her a tad loopy so she didn't get upset when we said good-bye).  I fell apart, B held it together.

Our girl was so, so brave. 

The doctor had told me surgery would take about an hour.  It took two.  In the last half hour, I damn near fell apart.  I paced, watched the screen that showed each surgical case (by number) and their status, and asked three (yes, three) different surgical nurses that happened to walk by to go get updates for me.  One was kind enough to do so.  She said they must be finishing up soon because they'd just asked for a spot in the recovery room for Sam.  My heart stood still.  I just wanted to see my girl.  My heart raced.  I told B, "I don't think there's any worse place to be sitting than in a hospital, waiting to hear that your child is okay.  I hate this."  I did -- I hated it.  

I kept pacing and I caught a glimpse of them wheeling our sleeping girl through the hall to recovery and wanted to just run to her, but I waited, with my heart racing.  The anesthesiologist came in and said she did well, though he couldn't speak to the technical aspect of the surgery, just the sedation.  My heart raced faster; I asked him to please go find our surgeon before I fell apart.  Then, our doctor came in, smiling and said, "she's waking up now, and I want to get you back there -- all is good."

Our girl woke up a mess.  An absolute mess.  Thrashing and screaming and crying that her eyes hurt her.  She was inconsolable.  We held her.  We talked to her.  The doctor said she had woken up from the anesthesia too soon, so confusion and the effects of sedation were making it all worse.  They gave her some morphine in hopes she'd sleep a bit longer and wake up in better shape.  I paced (and cried silently), hating that she was in such pain, and trying to say something to calm or help her.  B held it together, and held her.  We both tried to comfort her as the morphine kicked in and her screams went to soft whimpering of "I'm so so so sad that my eyes are hurting me."  My heart crumbled with her whimpers, and I thought I was going to fall over.  

But then, she fell back asleep and slept soundly for another 45 minutes and indeed . . . woke up in better spirits.  Still a little groggy and confused, but not screaming or complaining of pain.  We came home and laid around in bed, in the dark.  She dozed in and out and listened to a few movies with B while I ran out to pick Mia up and kept Mia (somewhat) entertained.  I'd asked Sammie B if there was anything I could get her at the store to make her happy and she told me "one of those pillows that lights up like I saw on TV."  So, I went hunting, and found one.  Twenty dollars well spent.  That pillow has brought our Sammie B tons of joy.  She's sleeping in our bed right now post-surgery and woke me up three times last night to tell me she loves it. She also asked us all day to please go buy one for Mia (though sweet, I'm not sure this is completely out of generosity, I'm pretty sure it is because she wants Mia to have her own so Mia isn't interested in taking hers!).  

This morning, B took Mia to daycare and let me and Sammie sleep in . . . which we did -- until nearly 10 am!!!  When she woke up, I asked her how she was feeling and she said, ""happy!" and my heart felt such relief.  

And she really has been mostly herself all day. 

B came home from taking Mia to daycare with some little balloons that have kept us all giggling all day (though Elmo unfortunately later floated away to bigger adventures, after Mia took the weights off his feet when no one was looking, much to every one's disappointment).  

It might be awhile before we really know how effective the surgery was -- her brain has to get used to the new position of her eyes and figure out the muscles all over again.  The surgeon did say that once he was inside looking around, he could tell that the muscles he had operated on before had slipped out of place quite a bit.  That's good news, in a way (though we would of course rather that not have happened!) . . . because the "slipping" from prior operations is not uncommon for strabismus surgeries, so now we know that's what happened and not just that something got worse on its own, without any explanation.  

I have (figuratively) exhaled a breath so big I had no idea I was even holding it in or how I was holding it in.  

This surgery - that I've been dreading for months - is behind us.  Behind her.  

She was so, so brave.  She amazes me, every single day.

Tomorrow we take her to her post-op appointment with the surgeon, and we'll also be taking our sweet Mia into the pediatrician -- she got sent home from daycare sick today (life always throws us curve balls and with impeccable timing!), and needed some TLC herself tonight.  I stayed up to get some work done tonight, and am just hoping both of my girls are better tomorrow. 

Thank you for all of your warm wishes, prayers and positive thoughts.

This surgery is behind us.

I remain inspired by her.   

Twas The Night Before and Mama Is a Wreck

After what was a perfect 34th birthday and weekend trip away with my little family, tonight, we  took Sammie B to buy a new princess nightgown (Cinderella!) and a new princess dress (Merida, from Brave . . . appropriate) and then we told Sammie B she was going to sleep with us tonight so we could talk to her.  We tucked Mia into bed, and then we explained to Sammie B that tomorrow morning, we are going to go to the hospital, they will put her to sleep and then while she is sleeping, her doctor will try to make her eye muscles work better.

When we told her, there were giggles (when she said, "will you buy me things?", to which I responded, "my girl, this week, we will pretty much buy you anything you want!"), there were questions, and there were tears (when we explained her eyes might hurt a little bit). 

And there were more questions  . . . . 

Had we ever had surgery?  (Yes, though B's only one has been having wisdom teeth out, yet this fascinated Sammie B beyond words . . . "Are you still missing those teeth?" "Let me see!").   

Will we be with her the whole time?

What will be on the gown they make her wear?

. . . 

We've been down this road before.  This is her second strabismus surgery, so we do know what to expect, though doing this at 4 and a half is much harder than it was at 8 months old.  Much harder. Because of the questions, her awareness, everything. 

Of all of Sammie B's struggles, her vision is the thing that hits my heart the hardest.  That she has to work so stinking hard just to keep her eyes focused and still . . . and when things move or her head moves, that she has to again . . . work so stinking hard to get them refocused, and get them still, again.   And, we know for her, that fixing the eye muscles won't make all of this easier.  We know that part of the problem is her brain's ability to coordinate her eye movements . . . but we also know that right now, the muscles that were operated on before (to keep her eyes from crossing) have loosened, and now, her eyes turn out, ever so slightly, and that she's constantly trying to refocus them and bring them in.   She's constantly working to do what you and I take for granted . . . to point both of her eyes at the same thing, and to focus.  Her vision issues are complex, and while we know this likely won't eliminate all of the difficulties for her (it isn't intended too -- there isn't anything that can eliminate it all), we are hopeful that it will allow her to focus with less work.   

I hate it.   I hate it for her.  

And so, tonight, I will be begging and pleading with the universe that this little surgery goes smoothly.  That my girl rebounds quickly.  That she feels little discomfort and little pain (none would be even better) and that . . . it helps.  That it helps make this so very basic thing -- focusing -- easier.  And, tomorrow, while this amazing little creature is back in the operating room, I will again be pleading with the universe, my stomach and heart in absolute knots until I can hold her again, see her eyes, look at her, talk to her, be with her.  

I'd trade my eyes (and eye muscles and whatever else she needs) for hers in a heartbeat if only I could. 

Oh how I wish our Monday looked different. 

Oh how I wish we were not headed into surgery tomorrow.  

Oh how I wish I could give her the easiness she deserves in this life. 

Oh how I love her.  

Knock-me-over, take-my-breath-away love her.  

Oh universe, take care of my girl tomorrow.   And, please, please, please let this surgery be effective and helpful. 

Please.   I beg.  

And may I be as brave as she is through this.  

Perfectly Imperfect: Guilt

My sweet (and genius) friend H hosts a weekly "link-up" for bloggers to share the "Picture Me {Im}Perfectly" moments of their lives.

Here's the thing -- I am constantly (we all are probably) reading blog posts and facebook status updates that describe friends'/acquaintances'/blog land strangers' lives in such an idealistic way that it makes me stop and wonder why is it so easy for her/him/them?  Why do they have it all figured out when I'm struggling? Case-in-point:  I read a blog post today from a blogger who said (essentially):  "I've never understood when people talk about 'guilt' associated with mothering; I do the best I can . . . ."  I remember another post from the same blogger saying "I've never understood why people say marriage is hard."

So yeah . . . obviously, some people have it all figured out.

I can tell you, hands down, however, that I do not, and I celebrate my friend H for encouraging women to share their "imperfect" moments, to encourage and inspire and remind other women that NONE of us have it all together all the time.

With that background, let me tell you this:

Lately, I am held together by a string.  A very, very fragile string.  I am working a lot.  On cases that I love and I am getting great opportunities and really, really growing as a professional.  I've argued (and won!) multiple motions in court in the last few weeks, I'm taking and defending depositions, I'm really, really lawyering.  In a fun, and amazing way that makes me feel good about myself . . . most of the time.  The pressure is also intense.  That feeling of worrying that I'm going to screw something up, of knowing the partners' exceedingly high expectations.  And then there's the issue of my reduced schedule which has NOT been reduced as of late (but I know this is cyclical).

While I'm almost always able to leave work and make it home for bath and bedtime and to spend some time with the girls, there's been not-so-infrequent travel (though I do a lot of red-eyes to avoid to much time away even if that means sheer exhaustion for me), and some late nights.   While B is handling this all like a champ, and I KNOW that the girls are fine, fine, fine (better than fine), there are moments when I just feel stretched so, so thin.

And moments that I really, really hate that during bath or bed time, I'm watching B play and have fun with the girls in a much more easy, breezy way than I do, because I'm fretting over the work that awaits me while the rest of the world is sleeping.

Guilt.

There is nothing - nothing - in this world more important to me than being mama, and I want my girls to always know that.  I also hope that they understand someday that in the moments when I say things like "hold on sweetie, mama has to just take this one work call," that they will someday understand.  That they will know it wasn't me choosing work over them.  That they will know that it was just part of my attempt to "do it all. . . . " to manage to still be a great mama while working, and that they will respect me for it.  I hope so.

The constant "bleed" of my work/life balance is exhausting.  While I'm lucky to have a job as flexible as it is (that allows me to work from home pretty much whenever I need to, which in turn allows me to be at doctor's appointments, school events, etc., which B's less flexible job -- while having the benefit of less hours and more regular hours -- doesn't allow), the thing that has me just feeling beat up lately is that . . . it isn't like I'm taking time "off" to do these things. It just means that I'm sitting in the neuro-ophthamologist's office at Sammie B's pre-op appointment, trying to keep her entertained while listening to the doctor explain how he's going to be cutting into her eye muscles on Monday and trying not to have a complete mama-meltdown over that (Sammie B is, unfortunately, having to have repeat strabismus surgery next week, which we've known was a possibility for a long time), while getting emails asking me if I can defend a deposition next week in another country instead of getting on my flight that very night for that other country as scheduled and freaking out about how that is not going to work because I am going to be home next week with my sweet girl as she recovers.  

That moment pretty much sums up the "work/life" bleed in my life and the guilt that I feel lately.

Because in those moments, I do not not not feel like a mom that is "doing it all" or balancing anything.  I feel like a big, fat, failure as a mother.

Guilt.

And there's more.

When I'm alone with both girls, I always feel like at every given moment, I should be giving each of them 100% of me.   Which is (obviously) impossible.  But, I feel like they each deserve that and even though I KNOW it is impossible, it doesn't stop me from trying, or feeling guilty when I can't do it.  When there's only 100% total of me to give.

Guilt.

And feeling like at the end of all of this -- at the end of a day where I bill 15 hours, spend as much time as possible loving my girls, and way too little time sleeping  -- that I also have a husband who I should be celebrating more -- for all the things he IS doing to make this balance work.  And, it is not just that I "should" be, I want to be.  (So to B, thank you for all you do.  Really.  Thank you for keeping this ship afloat!).

More guilt.

I forgot to get my own mother a mother's day gift (but I wrote her a lovely blog post).   And I'm dog-tired.

Dog-tired.

And guilty.

I just feel stretched.  So thin.  And so guilty.   Like there's not enough of me to do everything.  (and let's not even talk about the things that I'd "like" to get done . . . e.g.., finishing unpacking).

I HAVE managed to get most of the "living space" in the house unpacked.  Because I hate boxes.  But, the living room, which we don't use . . . . well, it looks like this.   

The thing is, I know, in my heart of hearts, that I'm doing a good job at all of this.  I know that work ebbs and flows and after these cases are over, I'll take time off and it will be fabulous and my work/life balance will sway back the other way.  And I know, in my heart of hearts, that I am giving enough (more than enough even, I hope) to each of my girls.

But my desire for perfection at everything I do -- no doubt fueled by that feeling that somehow everyone else has it all figured out -- leads to some pretty intense guilt at times.  And, truly, I just love my girls with such intensity that I want to give them perfection all the time.  They deserve that.  But I can't.  It isn't possible, and I know that.

So there you have it.

Picture me (and my house) {im}perfectly.  But celebrate me just the same.

Mama's Day

There is absolutely no one on earth I'd rather be than "mama" to these two little girls.  No one.  May they always know that my love for them is fierce, unconditional, and unending.  Knock-me-to-my-knees and take-my-breath-away kind of love.  Unending.  Powerful.  Amazing.  

Who doesn't love a zerbert?

I'm so lucky to be their mama.  

Happy Mother's Day to MY mom too -- the lady that showed me how to be a mom -- who modeled "fierce" and "unconditional" love for me and my brother day after day.   A woman who showed me how to be an advocate.  A woman from whom I could still stand to learn a little bit about advocating "gracefully" rather than "bullishly."   A woman who has shown me how to be a mom and friend all at the same time.   A woman I could not live without.   I love you, Gigi.  We all do.  

Gigi and Mia, Fall 2011

Gigi, PawPaw and Sammie, Summer 2011

Did you ever wonder how a child ended up with a specific mother? According to Sufi mysticism, the soul of the child looks down at the world and sees every soul that resides in every woman. When she finds the one that will be able to help her fulfill his life's purpose, she makes her choice.

I picked a good soul, no question.  I only hope my girls grow up to love and adore me as much as I do her (and to know how very deeply I adore them, to know that they knock my socks off, every single day, just by being exaclty who they are.).  

New Walls, New Memories

Three weeks ago, we said good-bye to the only house our little girls had ever known as "home," and moved to a new one.  Saying good-bye was tough.  That other house was the one we bought when I was pregnant with Sam, just me and B, so so excited to become parents.  We were so proud of ourselves.  So proud that we'd (as we saw it) "made it" -- that we could afford to buy in this crazy, crazy city (that had felt like such an impossibility just three years before when we moved out here).  Proud and ecstatic that we had found the "perfect" house for our family to grow.  And, that's just it:  we thought we'd found the "perfect" house for the family we were about to have.  And it was.  For a little while.

And then it wasn't.  It was no longer the perfect house for our family, because it was limiting our girl.   As Sammie B has gotten more and more mobile in scooting and using her gait trainer, the stairs in that old house (a split-level town house with four different flights of stairs) limited her, and we hated it.  We knew it was time to move on, though admittedly it was bittersweet.  We thought we'd lose a ton of money (or ruin our credit) but we didn't care . . .well-meaning (I think) family and friends said "why don't you wait and see what happens with the market?"  But we knew: it was time.  Those family and friends weren't living our lives, seeing on a daily basis how that other house was holding our girl back, limiting her.  B and I had a hard talk one night.   One of us said, "she's going to be 'limited' by her world in so many unfair ways, we can't let her home limit her too."  And that was it . . . we put the house on the market.  We knew we might take a huge hit (and when we put it on the market, hardly anything in our neighborhood had sold for even close to what we owed -- we bought in 2008, just before the market crash).   It was a cost we were willing to pay.  But, then, the stars aligned.  We had multiple offers in just a few days, a bidding war, and then . . . it sold.  No ruined credit, not a huge loss.  I was traveling a ton for work, B scouted for rental homes non-stop, he looked at a lot of doozies and a few good ones that got snatched up by others in seconds, and then he found "the one."  I was out of town, he knew it was going to get snatched up quickly, and he did a brave, brave thing. . . he put down the deposit and said, "we'll take it" without me ever seeing it!  He was right -- it is the perfect house for our family as we are, right now.  NO stairs!  Not even from the inside to the outside!  Hardwood floors to make it easy to maneuver in a gait trainer!  A little concrete "backyard" that we adore . . . so so much to offer.  On my first tour of the house, I was ecstatic. . . as were the girls.  Sammie B scooted everywhere, saying "I'm just exploring!!!" while Mia opened and closed every door in the house 83 times each (I think it is no coincidence that the owners later installed door stoppers to protect their walls before we moved in ;o)).

Saying "good-bye" to that old house was hard, as I knew it would be. Watching everything get packed up, watching the movers empty our home . . . hurt.  Everywhere I turned, it was as if I could see some "memory" before me - in a still shot.

During my last time in the house, I went up to Sammie B's lavender room, and I sat on the floor, and I cried.  When I was pregnant and on bed rest with Sammie B, I used to sit in the glider chair in that room and talk to her.   When she was in the NICU, I used to sit in that same glider chair and sob.  Sob because I was home, but my baby wasn't.  For months, I rocked that same little baby to sleep in that glider, and a few years later, rocked her little sister to sleep in it too.  I walked slowly around the house, letting myself remember . . . everything.  Bringing each of our girls home for the first time, the Christmas mornings, the dance parties in the den, the Easter Egg hunt and first birthday parties in the courtyard, the many, many weekend days spent in the community pool. . . . without question, the best memories of my life had been made in that home.   That house is where I "became mama."   That house is where we grew our family.

As hard as it was to walk away, here's the thing . . .

In the three weeks since we moved, I haven't looked back.  Not even for a second.  You know why?  Because we've got this amazing little girl, and we pop her in her gait trainer, and she goes.  Tonight, I helped her into it on the patio (a patio that Sammie B wants to spend every spare second on!) and she said, "I'm free as a bird! I can go anywhere I want!"  Neither B nor I have a clue where she learned that saying, but it is so, so fitting.   Free as a bird.  

I worried that I'd feel like a failure if we rented.  Because we were so so proud to buy in this market.  We saw that as a huge sign of success, but until we figure out where we want to be (mostly because of the school situation) and save more for a down payment, we are renting . . . and I worried that I'd feel like it was a step back.  But you know what?  It is pretty darn free'ing too.

All around, it feels good.  Just right.  Perfect even.

And you know what?  Sammie B is making mischief like never before.  I joked to B that I'd reprimanded her more in the three weeks in this house than I had in first three years of her life . . . because it is not just that the independent mobility is giving her freedom -- it is giving her independence and confidence and incredible opportunities to explore (and get into trouble!).  I love love love hearing her say things like, "I'm going to go in there!" and "I'm going to wonder around!"  Saturday, we were out in the driveway and for the first time in her life, I had to say "Don't go in the street!" because she was headed that way . . .   And, with that warning -- my heart soared.   Imagine what this freedom and independence is doing for our girl's self-esteem.  Imagine what feeling "free as a bird" would feel like if you'd previously not known that freedom.   Oh so wonderful.

So that other perfect house?  It was once our "perfect house," but it wasn't perfect anymore.  Not for our family, exactly as we are.  But this one is.   And I know, without question, that some of the happiest memories of my life will happen in these walls too.

Where Mia's former pink room and Sam's former purple room have become "one" -- sisters sharing a room (and waking each other up, but we'll get past that one (I hope!)).  Sammie B wanted their room to be pink and purple and she wanted a yellow playroom.  Her wish is (usually) our command.   Mia seemed down with Sammie's plans.  

Openness!  Hardwood!

One of my favorite parts of the house -- it is SO nice to be in the kitchen, spying on the girls playing outside.   One of my favorite moments thus far was when I was throwing something together for dinner while they conspired together to carry all my (empty) planters from one end of the patio to the other . . . and the effort was a joint one!

Our first family dinner at the new house -- KFC because we hadn't yet unpacked dishes, etc. 

These little ladies love their new backyard . . . how perfect is it that the whole thing is concrete so that Sammie can easily maneuver in the kidwalk?!