The King’s Kingdom

When meeting someone new

The question almost always comes

Where are you from?

I hardly know how to respond

I spent my childhood in Utah

My adolescence in Kansas 

High school in Michigan

College in Utah

Ohio, Nebraska, Ohio

So where am I from?

What place do I hail from and from whence was I hewn?

I am from her place. 

My vibrant, bright and loving grandmother’s home. 

I am from her house. 

The land of my people smells delicious 

Two trays of rhodes dinner rolls in the oven 

At least two meats presented with a gravy boat 

Wanda cookies baked with an abundance of love

The scents of warmth and care 

Wafting around, inviting all to partake

I’m from a place of music and rich sounds.

Carols sung around an aging piano during Christmas 

The deep, operatic voice of my grandfather 

The radio always on when no one is there to hear it

Voracious laughter and playful conversation 

The continual companions to the ear.

The phone calling to her hourly 

Her voice reminding you she is praying for you

Loving you, reminding you to be your best self.

Our language is rooted in faith 

Spoken loudly with an inviting cadence 

A limited vocabulary is available 

For response to a query of wellness  

The proper response is traditionally translated as “ I’m fine”

My country is green, lush and inviting.

A long driveway hugged by a row of perfectly tended roses 

Ushers you into the King’s kingdom 

A garden bursting with the world’s sweetest peas 

Peaches drip like rain, turning the grass to sticky mush

The cherry tree, the Brutus of this land, repentant of it’s betrayal

Gives apologetic shade to every backyard inhabitant. 

Each holiday is markedly recognized by this tiny nation. 

The lawn adorned with whirly gigs and all manner of decor

The trusty and fashionable stone goose festively enrobed 

A tiny trinket on every available spot 

dutifully reminding one of what holiday is being honored 

Cups run deep with candy and chocolate

My people are a kind, hardy group

Each of our number treasured by our blessed matriarch and patriarch 

An heritage of love and lineage of strength gifted to us from her and from him 

The nation of kings pieced together 

With indescribable love 

My land now belongs to another 

Our king and queen returned to their original home, returned to one another 

At times, I ache to return to my native country

I am from her place, but really, I am from her 

 I see her woven deeply into my people 

I am sustained by them, scattered we may be

What gratitude of mine it  is to be hers 

1-year old Baby Soda

 I wrote this when Mosiah was 3 months old " Mosiah Aka Baby Soda is growing and changing so much everyday. It's difficult to comprehend the changes as they truly happen overnight. His little facial features have altered just slightly every morning. Watching him grow gives me a thrill of excitement with a slightly less powerful pang of sorrow; a sadness of realizing my brain won't be able to store each sweet feature and tiny detail before Mosiah moves on to the next stage, the next milestone, the next version of himself." 

It's still true. Watching my babies grow has brought indescribable joy and excitement. Looking at any one of my children's faces bundles an entire lifetime of dreams, hopes, and love into one moment. It blurs timelines merging past, present and future into one messy, beautiful knot of feelings. Remembering how they were when they were sweet little babies brings those warm, blissful memories of delight along with the pang of longing for moments forever passed. Thinking of how they'll change each year gets me giddy with excitement. What will they look like? How will they act and see the world? What will they be passionate about? I simultaneously do not want them to grow knowing the days of all those heavy, big feelings that come with growing older are ahead of them. Right now, all four of them live in a fairly simple, pure little world where feeling sad, angry or happy has a linear pathway of events. Someday soon a hug, kiss or moment of loving attention will not be enough to comfort them and I'm not ready for it. The present is a a mind bender. I can see all that they ever were up until this moment and the vibrant strokes of their personalities have outlined who they are since day one. I think I'm going to remember everything about the present version of themselves while also knowing so much will slip away. The way Mosiah snuggles against my chest on the way to his bed and then immediately rolls over onto his stomach in his bed when I tuck him in seem like such concrete memories that my brain will store forever. I already can't remember how the other three laid in their cribs when they were his age. Were they tummy sleepers? Side sleepers? Something I gently did for years has already vanished. Thank goodness for the written word to help job my future self's memory. On that longwinded note, here is what I want to remember about sweet Soda. 

He started consistently walking this week. He's wobbly and falls on his diaper-padded bum almost constantly, but just smiles and keeps on going. He's completely unfazed by failure or setback and it is a good reminder to me of how I should view learning new things. Mosiah is a needy, wiggly little guy. He would like to be held most of the day, but he would also like to be actively doing things while being held. It's a super fun conundrum. He likes being in the backpack and carrier, but they don't exactly lend themself to functionally completing all the activities. Anything that involves bending over is out which is unfortunately a huge part of my day- dishes, sweeping, cleaning out the chicken coop, etc. You don't realize how much you bend over for things until you have an adorable baby on your back. Mosiah is hungry. He loooooves to eat. He recently started getting his own lunchbox when Rocky get his and there's never been a happier baby. He really likes grapes, cheese sticks, bone broth, soda (oh the irony), squeezing tiny juice boxes all over himself, meat in all it's forms, cooked carrots and applesauce pouches. Or anything anyone else is eating is also his favorite. He whines desperately when one of his siblings is handed something in the car assuming it's food and that he's being left out of an eating experience. I'm really excited to see how he does with a smash cake.

Mosiah signs a couple words inconsistently- more, milk, and tree. We're working on it more and he's a fast learner. He also says a couple words pretty clearly -duck being the primary one. He loves the "ducks"- which include the chickens and is always trying to crawl in their coop with them. When actually presented with the opportunity to pet one, he pulls his hand back. It's odd to thing about how different his babyhood/toddlerhood is already than the older kids. He spends so much time outside and would prefer it to be that way 24/7 - eating rocks, crawling after birds, eating sand, eating grass, riding in his little bike and car, licking pavement, eating dirt, honking the horn in the pickup truck and licking the window. He cries hardcore if someone walks outside and he doesn't get to follow. I culled three of our roosters over the last two days and there was Mosiah making sure I did a good job. He's a country kid already and not quite one. My aunt pointed out in a fun family trivia game that he's moved three times if you count when I was pregnant with him. That fact blew my mind a little as his little life has already been one of many a transition. 

Mosiah loves nursing a lot still. His top two teeth have sloooowly been coming in and he reminds me of a little vampire sometimes when he forgets he has teeth while breastfeeding. He's starting to sleep through the night about 5 times per week and the other two nights continue to be pretty chill with one sleepy nursing session. He transfers back to his closet room (he sleeps in a pack n play in our closet still) without any resistance which is so nice. Down to one nap most days which makes things a little easier in terms of going places. He loves when I chase him or tackle him and has such a sweet giggle. I live for his sunshine smiles. Mosiah climbs everything. It's terrifying and horrible honestly. He will climb up on the counter, table, chairs, stairs, bed, anything he can climb, he will do it. I was taking a box out of the attic the other day and he climbed the ladder and almost crippled us both when I tried to descend with him literally on my heels. It took him 30 seconds or less to climb the ladder. He also has this terrible tendency to think it's a game for me to quickly try and grab him before he falls off the edge of something. He thinks it's so funny and has been saved from severe head trauma by the luckiest of heel grabs. He continues to really love being a part of the pack of older kids even when Rocky is super rough on him. He's hilariously compliant to being carried around by all the older kids even though he's 2/3 the size of Rocky and Lyra. Mosiah is size 2T right now and Rocky just barely is growing out of some 2T clothes which is making him VERY sad when Mosiah gets his hand me down. So we just hide those clothes and will hope he forgets they exist over the next few months. 

Mosiah's eyes seem green and his hair is light blonde. His eye shape reminds me of baby Lyra and how his hair grows, hair color  like Rowan, and climbing death wish like Rocky. I had a little picture in my head of him while I was pregnant as a smiling, loving man hugging me and laughing while his three daughters ran around a table. I know it sounds a little out there, but I pictured that version of who he could be a lot throughout the last hard bits of my pregnancy. I also remember meditating while walking on a beautiful sunny day about him and FEELING his joyful, peaceful spirit while looking up at large, beautiful clouds. That same peaceful, joyful sense about him while in utero has remained on the outside. I'm so grateful for his sunny little self and how much love he has brought to our family. 

Mosiah's Birth Story

 It's hard to believe it's been over a month since this sweet little man joined our family. The first few weeks postpartum are always such a whirlwind. It's a precious time of soaking in that beautiful, miraculous baby while also trying to adjust to little sleep, changed family dynamics, and a symphony of postpartum body changes. I always feel so connected to my new babies while we both figure out how to live in this new life we've both been thrust into. 

I had a miscarriage when I was six weeks along right before becoming pregnant with Mosiah. I was devastated. I would find myself crumpled on our kitchen floor in the middle of the afternoon crying for the baby we would never hold. It was a pain I had imagined many times before when friends and family would suffer their own losses, but all the imagining didn't really help shield me from the sharp pain that would come when I experienced my own. I prayed often during that time period. Angry prayers, sorrowful prayers. One evening while praying, I had an incredible sense of peace wash over me. I could feel both of my Heavenly Parents' love for me and assurance that all would be well. I took a pregnancy test a few days later and was shocked to see two bright pink lines. I immediately thought back to how'd I'd felt praying that week and knew this person growing within me was the comfort and peace I'd pleaded for. When I looked up my estimated due date, it was September 21st International Day of Peace. They ultimately changed my due date at my first OB appointment based on ultrasound measurements but the feeling I felt when I first saw when he was slated to arrive sustained me throughout the pregnancy. It was not an easy pregnancy. Not that any pregnancy is ever really a breeze, but this one came with new aches and pains I hadn't experienced before. I had a dislocated rib that made normal day to day things randomly painful and I couldn't sleep on that side almost the entire pregnancy. I do really love being pregnant. I feel so incredibly grateful to be a woman when I'm pregnant. Despite the uncomfotable bits that come with pregnancy, I'm always in awe of the miracle that creating a person really is. My respect for life in all it's forms becomes heightened. Death becomes so heavy for me knowing all the love, time, energy and prayers that get poured into the creation and sustaining of one human being. I stop being able to watch shows where anyone casually dies (like crime shows) because my heart can't handle it. 

This pregnancy also brought a big cross-country move. I was so grateful for the timing of this pregnancy in relation to our move. I was able to do a good amount of the packing, carrying, and lifting that comes with moving without falling apart. Though, this miraculous feat is due mostly to the countless hands, primarily our families, who helped us. We had a good few weeks to help the older kids get adjusted to their new place before baby brother got here which I think has helped them immensley. We had time to make some wonderful new friends who helped with childcare while I went to those frequent last OB appointments. The phrase before and after I have a baby that constantly goes through my heart and mind is "what debt of gratitude is mine". We have been so blessed and have so much to be thankful for. 

I have never even remotely gone into labor on my own. Rowan was a three day marathon induction plus he was two weeks overdue. Lyra was a much easier induction, but I was dilated to nothing beforehand and had to do cervadil for twelve hours the night before. I was almost at 1 cm with Rodrick when they induced me so I thankfully didn't have to have cervadil, but I was induced early in the morning and he didn't get here until 11pm at night. This boy gave me something different and I love him for it. I started having contractions on my own Saturday evening that extended all day Sunday. I'd never experienced labor on my own and hadn't been thinking it would ever happen. I spent Sunday doing all sorts of things to see if the contractions would become more consistent. When we were walking around at one point, I felt a trickle of water go down my leg and wasn't sure if my water had broken or I had peed myself a little. Since they had told me at my last ultrasound that I had lower fluid, we decided I should go in the L&D to get checked. Thankfully my mother-in-law was here and able to watch the kids so we could go in. I was already scheduled to be induced on Tuesday as the aforementioned ultrasound was saying Mosiah was already a little over 9 lbs and had lower fluid. I also had been at almost 2cm at my last OB appointment which was huge for me because again, I'd never even been to a solid 1cm before. I was almost at 3cm when we got to L&D and my water had not broken (just peeing myself like a pro). They had me walk the halls for an hour to see if I would progress any further and I had some terrible contractions and I hated it. It was awkward too because we just did laps around the nurses station so we got to make eye contact with them every two minutes. I ended up feeling awful and went back to the traige room to barf. It was fun. Loved it. When they checked me, I hadn't progressed at all. We asked if they could just give me pitocin and get things going since we were already there. After calling my OB's partner (my OB was dropping off her son at college), the partner said she wouldn't want to step on anyone's toes by inducing me. Since you know, my OB was just dying to do it herself. Eye roll. They told me I could walk another hour and they could check me again after that but I was too tired and felt awful so we went home. I'm ultimately really glad they didn't start the induction that night since I get to sleep in my own bed for another two nights, get everything solidly squared away for the baby, and kiss the kids again a few more times. 

We had to get to the hospital at 5am on Tuesday which was soooo early feeling. I had contractions the night before and hadn't slept wonderfully (cause who even does at this point in the pregnancy anyway). I got to remember how much I hate hospital births with all the poking, prodding and immediate un-comfyness. I HATE having an IV so hard. Hate it. Ripped it out myself this time the very second they told me I could. They started me on pitocin and told me my OB would be coming around 11 to break my water. I bounced on a ball most of the morning watching shows while Mike went through old pictures on his phone. I had very mild contractions that I hardly noticed for a few hours and they didn't stay particularly consistent. It was a whole lot of nothing from 6am-1pm. The nurses were fantastic and didn't hover, just let us do our own thing while occasionally checking on me. Despite it not being particularly painful during this part, I was so uncomfortable. The IV, as mentioned, sucks. Moving my hand or arm around in any fashion was uncomfortable. Wearing the hospital gown to allow all number of cords to wrap around my body is uncomfortable. The beds are soooo uncomfortable. The most comfortable thing to sit on was the birthing ball and we just kind of bonded for that wasted bulk of hours. I had gone back and forth with Mike and the nurse on whether to have the anesthesiologist give me an epidural before or after they broke my water and I elected for after as I really wasn't in any pain. (In true mother-of-afour fashion, I started this blog post weeks ago and have only added bits of it at a time. The facts of actual timing is a bit fuzzy at this point so I'm not sure the exact timing of any of this) The OB finally appeared around 1:30pm to break my water. It took all of five minutes and she was on her way out of the door. Contractions started to pick up and I decided to ask for the pinnacle of modern medicine; an epidural. I had spent my two first births determined to have a medicine free birth and can tell you I had no intention this time around. I hadn't done any mental preparation and had really enjoyed how epidurals made the births of Rowan and Lyra (and mostly Rocky) enjoyable. Can you imagine telling a woman 200 years ago that she might sit contentedly in a bed and realize with not one inkling of pain that the baby is crowning? I don't know why exactly, but I was not feeling like the anesthesiologist was going to do a good job the minute she came in. I kept making eye contact with Mike while she was trying (and failing) to hook me up and mouthing "is she bad at this?". She had to jab my spine three separate times and it took foooorever for anything to go numb. I was feeling all sorts of things at this point and was very inpatient for the epidural to do it's thing. I had what they call a hot spot, a portion of your body where the epidural doesn't work, that was awful. Mike dutifully kept pushing the button to increase my dosage, but nothing was dulling that pain. Transition started to hit like a runaway freight train and I was not ready for it. We asked if the anesthesiologist could come back and bolus me, but my nurse said "let's just push this baby out without pain medication". Mike was a great defender and insisted I would want that bolus as it wouldn't take long at all and I did NOT want to feel the ring of fire. I was a delirious mess and could hardly think even remotely clearly. Mosiah was crowning and my nurse assured me I could do it. THEN she left the room, told me not to push while she ran to find the OB. I had the very irrational thought to get on my knees and start pushing anyway. I would have done it had one of my legs not been completely and utterly useless. Mosiah came in a quick, furious rush the moment the OB came in. Two painful pushes and this sweet boy was earthside. 

He was my biggest baby, 9 lbs 10 oz and 21 inches long. He had poor broken vessels in his eyes from his quick trip down the birth canal and was super jaundiced. He even now, almost 6 weeks later, looks a little yellow. They wouldn't let me take him home the following day because of his bilirubin and I cried in that cold, unfeeling hospital room pretty much the whole night. We had been planning on heading to dinner that evening and my MIL had brought the big kids. I bawled while the nurses told me I couldn't leave and Mike thought of a genius plan for me to still see the kids. He drove around to the back of the hospital and let them all wave from the parking lot up while I tried not to cry behind the window. I kept thinking of all those families with NICU babies and how heart-wrenching it must be to not have all your children together in one place. I know it was only one night, but those hormones after you have a baby are no joke. We busted out the next evening and got to introduce the older three kids to their new baby brother. My recovery took a turn for the worst two days after getting home. I had been feeling really good and done a few chores around the house when I started to feel miserable. I spiked a fever and started to fear that mastitis was visiting me again. I could hardly walk and had horrible pain in my abdomen and lower back. I mostly laid around in a feverish state trying to not fall apart while keeping this new little person alive. My FIL came on Saturday evening and I didn't even see him until he'd been in my home a few hours because I was in such a bad state in our room. I kept trying to take sweltering hot showers (a for sure sign in the past of mastitis for me) to stop shivering and I couldn't stop my teeth from chattering. Mike taught me the trick of sticking my tongue out which helped for a little bit, but oh my goodness, I was so, so cold. I was in a kind of pain I hope to never revisit. We called my OB Saturday night to ask for antibiotics and struggled to finally find a pharmacy open 24 hours. I felt like it wasn't mastitis at this point because it had never been painful to walk or move like what was happening now. My OB said if it was a uterine infection, mastitis or endometriosis that the same antibiotic would be prescribed regardless. I am SO grateful for modern medicine. The ibuprofen and antibiotics helped me recover from an infection that likely would have taken my life 100 years ago. I'm so grateful my in-laws were there to help and for the rock of a man Mike is. 

I am so, so grateful for this smiley sweet boy. He is well-loved by his older siblings and is such a gentle, pleasant thing. Mosiah is a perfect baby. His name felt so right when we first considered it. I needed this person to know his name was a tie to strength, peace and faith. While the world seems to spiral out of control, he will always know where to turn to find the same peace and light I did when I was in the depths of despair. 

National Breastfeeding Week Thoughts

 This week has been national breastfeeding week and I've been reading lots of posts from friends and family about it. It made me think a lot about things I wish more people talked about in relation to breastfeeding and things I wish I'd known starting my first breastfeeding journey. 

Going into my first birth, I listened and read a lot of things about birth along the lines of "your body knows how to birth" and "trust your body and baby to know what to do". I assumed breastfeeding had similar mantras attached to it. My body and baby were born to breastfeed and I just needed to sit back and not interfere with all the miraculously and inherently instinctual things my body and baby would do. This was not my experience. While, yes, a newborn baby instinctually looks to latch and suckle to sustain its life, it doesn't mean they all somehow know how to do it successfully. As a new mother, my body was eager to produce milk, I didn't instantly know what a good latch looked like or whether I was doing any part of it right. 

The first few weeks of breastfeeding all three of my babies has been H. A. R. D. and extremely painful. There are resources that will teach you about latches, tongue ties, and increasing supply, but none of them highlighted that it will (or at least was for me) be painful. Everything the lactation consultants or books I'd read emphasized that breastfeeding shouldn't hurt unless you're doing it incorrectly. Every time my baby latched that first week was like being in labor again and my post-birth nursing contractions have only gotten stronger with each subsequent child (NOT easier like I feel like they should). With my oldest,  one of my nipples got a terrible crack that just couldn't heal and I had to start exclusively pumping on that side . I found out about nipple shields and tried to start transitioning back to nursing on that side, but my baby preferred plastic by that point and was super offended if I offered just skin. It wasn't until he was four months that we finally got into exclusively breastfeeding and it wasn't awful anymore.

With my second, I felt like things were going to be a breeze. I had nursed Row for 18 months and felt like an expert. I knew what I was doing now. It was still so painful that first month. I went to the lactation consultants three times outside of the hospital unsure of what I was doing wrong and why it hurt. When she was six weeks old, I got a terrible mastitis infection and ended up in the hospital. We figured things out faster than with my first, sure, but it still wasn't what I'd call easy for that first bit. Also, I got mastitis again when she was 14 months old and ended up in the E.R. again because no one tells you bits like that either. Mastitis is not just a thing of those early days of engorgement and adjusting. It can come at you anytime you aren't getting enough water. 

My third was probably my easiest transition to breastfeeding. I had breastfed for a grand total of 3.5 years at this point and knew it was probably going to hurt a whole bunch at the start like it had with the others. It did, but I knew about when to expect the pain to pass. I wasn't afraid to openly nurse without a cover. I felt confident in our ability to be successful and journey on despite all the hard things that come along with nursing. I had a super supportive husband and breastfeeding wasn't foreign. 

Here I am a few weeks from starting another breastfeeding journey with 5.5 years of breastfeeding under my belt. I highlighted all the hard bits about it because I wish I'd known some of that going into it. The other side I wished I'd known is that it DOES get better. Suddenly, I was able to nurse anywhere, anytime without stress, pain or embarrassment. I loved nursing my babies in the end and they sure loved it too. I'm a huge supporter of breastfeeding and wish it was talked about so much more. There are these weird layers to it I wish I could banish from our society. Breasts are seen as sexual objects so it's "gross" or inappropriate to breastfeed your baby, when really that is the sole purpose of a female having breasts. The reasons attracting a male to them is that they are a signal that "hey, this potential mate could feed your offspring". It makes me SO angry that women are told to cover up when breastfeeding. It should be their choice to do so, but I think most wouldn't if we didn't have this stigma attached to it. Covering up adds another annoying thing to maneuver while trying to figure things out. My babies HATED having their faces covered and I don't blame them at all. 

Honestly, I think the hardest parts about breastfeeding, birthing and raising children come down to two  gaping holes in our culture. The first hole being that our culture does not revere women for being able to create and sustain life. At all. All parts of feminity, the things that ONLY women can do, are seen as a very unimportant and have so little respect attached to them. Fed is always, alway best. To all my friends who can't breastfeed or struggled or made the choice to not, I see you. This is in no way meant to shame you or feel bad. Society is already too good at shaming women and pitting them against one another. Man has figured out a way to not need a woman to sustain a life in the way of formula. It's a miraculous thing that no baby needs to die of starvation if a woman cannot produce milk and it always will be. Somewhere along the way though we stopped seeing the ability to breastfeed as something spectacular since you can just pop into the grocery store to find a replacement for breastmilk. We no longer have to search out another woman who could potentially feed our babies or do what too many of our ancestors did and say goodbye to a baby too early. Instead of marveling that a woman's body can somehow create a constant stream of nourishment for another human being, we've decided it's not really a big deal. Instead of finding a way to embrace all our sisters unable to breastfeed while simultaneously supporting and cheering on the other sisters who could breastfeed, we've turned things into sides or camps. Which leads into this other giant hole in our culture, we don't have a "normal" support system for women. 

Most cultures not only revere women for being women, but there are giant support networks for the gargantuan task of creating and raising a human being. Women are surrounded by female family members and friends who all lend their wisdom and expeiences of birth, breastfeeding, and child-rearing to the other mothers in their circle. Even more so than just having access to multiple resources of knowledge, these women have access to a constant flow of legitimate support. You slept 20 minutes last night cluster feeding your baby? Your aunt, sister, mother, female in-law of any nature is there to help. You can't get the baby to latch right without it hurting? There's multiple people in your home or on your street who can help you. All the messages sent to American women are "you should be able to do this on your own and recovery very quickly from giving birth". Maternity leave is generally 6 weeks long which sends a message loud and clear to everyone that by 6 weeks, your body and mind should have fully recovered and you should absolutely have nursing and taking care of your baby down. You shouldn't need any real help with anything a month and a half after having a baby. What an incredible lie we tell our women. We leave them alone, confused, overwhelmed, exhausted and in pain. No wonder we have an alarming amount of women who suffer with postpartum depression and anxiety. Sure, hormones have their role in creating PPD/PPA, but I firmly believe if women had more support after having children it wouldn't look like this in our country. Many women live away from family or their families aren't very supportive of breastfeeding so it falls entirely on the exhausted mother. When she struggles, she blames herself and feels ashamed that she can't handle it all. She has to give up things like breastfeeding for her mental sanity because there isn't enough support. People are kind of starting to wise up to the important role that husbands, if the woman has one, play in offering support to a new mom. Paternity leave was hardly a thing and is now finally starting to get some traction. Even with that, however, women are still in need of something that is so obviously missing. 

Reading all the posts this week has made me ache for my sisters who can't breastfeed and also feel like I'm not allowed to say "I did it!" because it might make them feel bad. I somehow managed to get through all the thrush, pumping, cracked and bleeding nipples, cluster feeding and I'm dang proud of it. Those first three months every single time were haaarrrd, but it was worth it and I'm so glad I pushed through. I had support from my husband, friends and family which I know a lot of people don't. I'm grateful everyday that I was able to nurse as long as I did. There is a narrative that if something is hard it can't simultaneously be beautiful. I've learned the bulk of my most valuable life lessons from experiencing hard things versus those that have been or come easily. I've learned what things are beautiful from having experienced the less beautiful parts of life. I'm grateful breastfeeding wasn't a breeze so I could learn what I'm capable of as a woman and what my body is capable of. I'm grateful it taught me what other women might be going through and ways I could legitimately help them while they slog through the fourth trimester. Here's a virtual nod to all those other moms out there working hard at breastfeeding, you got this.

Was still nursing almost 1-year-old Rowan in this picture and there was no way he was going to give it up at this point 

Little Lyra was the easiest baby even with all our breastfeeding hiccups in the first six weeks. She was THE hardest to wean two years later 

Rodrick was probably my best nurser so he gets a white star or something like that  

Life Updates April

 I haven't posted in such a long time and my brain so easily forgets the cute things these kids do. They grow so quickly and come out of their different phases before I can really cement their mannerisms.

I can't even believe how big Rowan is sometimes. He has gone through FOUR sizes of shoes since October and has the appetite of a teenage boy. His most recent wellness check said he was in the 98% for height which is mind boggling to me. He's never seemed insanely tall to me, but he's not messing around these days with growing up. He is just such a good kid. So good-hearted, responsible, kind and sweet. He is rocking the socks off of kindergarten and excelling in all subjects. I'm so proud of the person he is and is becoming. Sometimes, he'll go in the backyard to play by himself with a stick or some other random object and play forever. I have no idea what he's doing, but he sure does. It involves lots of moving around brandishing objects and fighting imaginary foes. Rowan is also doing remarkably well at Taekwando. He should be getting his yellow belt this next month and can hardly wait to move ahead. It takes a lot of memorization to excel and I am blown away at how quickly he seems to pick up the combinations and moves. He continues to be a sweet, gentle brother to his younger siblings. He's excited for this new brother to make his arrival and says the sweetest prayers over him. It's such a miraculous thing to see this almost 7-year-old boy who used to fit in my arms be so independent. He wakes up every morning, dresses himself, gets ready for school, and then spends all these hours away from me learning and growing. I get sad when I think about it sometimes, missing when his whole world revolved around being at home with me, but I also get emotional thinking about how amazed and proud I am of him for being so responsible and grown-up. He does not like doing chores and moves like a sloth when asked to do them, narrating every moment and highlighting how much he doesn't like doing his current task. This boy's mouth hardly ever stops moving. His instructor commented the other day that you never have to wonder what Rowan's thinking. He goes on and on and on in excessive detail about anything he's thinking about. He's always been such a talker. I remember when he was a baby/toddler and how he'd just babble all the time while driving or when waking up from a nap. I love seeing his faith in Jesus Christ grow and his desire to be like him. He blesses our family in such a profound and wonderful way. 

Lyra girl. Oh boy. This one is so funny. I can hardly keep up with her, but I am trying. She's going through the same reading book with me that I did with Rowan and doing a smashing good job. Each lesson takes about 20 minutes and that's about how long her attention span can handle. She's just so busy all the dang time. Her handwriting is absolutely perfect. Those fine motor skills of hers are top notch. She enjoys writing more than reading and loves to color, write notes, and even makes little paper dolls and paper dollhouses to play with. She's so creative and picks up on things so quickly. Lyra is very content playing by herself, but seeks out friends more than our other three. She likes to be "momma" to Rocky and they play really well together (most of the time). They're both pretty brutal with one another when they aren't getting along, but have a sweet relationship about 90% of the time. We put her in taekwando in hopes it would help her grow her focus, self-control, and discipline. It certainly is helping and her instructor is fantastic with her. Physically, she's a wonder and pretty much nothing can hold her back there. She and Rowan are both natural athletes and I love watching them learn more about each sport. She tries to instruct the other students during class a lot and makes sure to let her instructor know when she's doing a good job at teaching or offer some tips for improvement. Again, thankfully her instructor finds her funny instead of too much to handle. Lyra LOVES to clean. It's nothing short of a miracle. She'll proudly surprise me with an entire room in the house that she cleaned and organized. I love her spunk. It's hard sometimes to parent, but I admire it so much about her. She is never, ever afraid to go to bat with me over something and defends anyone she feels is being mistreated with the ferocity of a lion. Again, a little exhausting, but she's going to need that tenacity facing this crazy world. Lyra likes preschool despite us still not really knowing what goes on there for her. Her teacher has only positive things to say about her and says she is doing really well. She tells us wild stories all the time about school and I should have been more diligent about documenting them. I love her sweet and sour little self so much. I wish I could be half as cool as she is someday. 

Rodrick Royal is rockin being two. He is very extreme in his emotions as any good toddler should be. He tends to be very happy the majority of the time, but watch out when he's angry or sad. He loves big kids, but will randomly attack kids his age or younger while playing. It's exhausting to keep up with to keep him from brutalizing poor, innocent children. If a kid hits Rocky, I run over there real quick. Usually the parents are expecting my haste as a sign of how upset I am that something has happened to my kid, but they're dead wrong. I just need to get over to him before he finishes the fight. A little push or shove is not going to really hurt Rocky, but what Rocky does next is always a little terrifying. I think because Rowan and Lyra are generally effected so little by a push or hit from Rocky he doesn't understand completely how much he can really hurt a small person like him. He loves to read books, especially about superheroes or dinosaurs. I love that he reads books with me in a way my other kids absolutely did not. He also loves when I sing to him and the older two likewise did not like me to do that. He loves to insert his siblings and self into any book or song.  His current song choices are "Mean Old Witch", the monkey/alligator song, and the car and train song from Mother Goose Club (with various family members in every. single. song). He's our slowest talker which makes things hard for the both of us. He's talking more and more each week, but our other two were on full sentences by this age which made understanding one another so much easier. His pediatrician said they are seeing toddlers by the droves struggling with speech delays. A lot have been around people so much less and aren't picking up language from social settings and children learn a huge amount of how to speak from watching lips (which masks prevent). We had the option to be on an incredibly long wait list to see a speech therapist, but I'm very hopeful we will be able to get him to where he should be by just being more meaningful in our communication with him. He's so charming and sweet. He has dimples on both sides and has the most heart-melting smile (especially when saying sorry for something he shouldn't have done). I love this age on him so, so much. I love watching him follow his siblings around and imitating them. I'm also pretty lucky to get some one-on-one time with him five days a week. It makes me feel as if I can fully appreciate all the little things that make up his personality right now. I love how much joy he brings to our family and getting to know who Rocky boy is. 

The Tsunami

 I don't write on here very often anymore. I wish I did, but I usually opt to write in my journal instead when I'm feeling the urge to work through some feelings with writing. I have so many right now though that my hand would cramp if I wrote it all out and typing is much faster. 

I have been mentally struggling for awhile now. I'm sure many have with the type of year this has been, but mine started getting really bad October 2019. I'd for sure had bouts of depression in the past, but it never felt quite so heavy. I attribute part of it to trying to go on a very restrictive diet to, you know, lose all my baby weight ASAP. Bleh. I could and likely write another post about how angry I get over society's mind-numbing expectations and damaging beliefs on how women should look, be, find worth in themselves. This diet made me feel like a perpetual failure and the dark thoughts just took over. It got so, so bad. I wrote letters. I looked at dating apps to find my husband a potential replacement. I researched least traumatic ways for children to lose a parent. Luckily, I went to therapy and it helped a little. Time ultimately helped lessen the gaping mental wound I had. I started to do all the things I knew would help me. Exercising everyday, journaling, being more grateful, praying more, serving more. I think sometimes it can feel really confusing when I say I'm struggling with depression because there are so many days, moments, weeks where I genuinely feel so happy. The dark, sad feelings that sometimes take over seem so small and distant in those happy moments. It seems impossible that I'll ever feel THAT bad again. 

Have you ever seen the movie The Impossible? It's about a family of five vacationing in Thailand over Christmas during the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami. I would highly recommend watching it for a multitude of reasons. I've been thinking a lot about the scene when the wave first hits in relation to how I feel about my depression. Naomi Watts and her family are having a grand time swimming in this really nice resort. Completely happy despite some worries about Ewan McGregor's job when their vacation is over. They're sure it will work out and they can handle it. She's reading a book and a gust of wind blows one of her pages against these glass panels. Those glass panels to me are all the things I'm doing to keep my depression under control. The good things that really do help me be happy. If I were to huddle behind them, they would keep me dry from the occasional splashes of water life is sure to throw. Then, out of nowhere, this giant, black wave comes crashing down on them. Naomi Watts presses herself against these glass panels knowing it's certainly not going to keep her from being crushed by this wave, but it's all she's got. It's not strong enough to keep her from being ripped apart by this tsunami even if she'd spent a year making it the most durable glass in the world. She could have built a sturdy house of gratitude, exercise, therapy, and it still will be covered by this wave of destruction. 

Something I'm not ready to talk about started a new wave for me and it's hard, at times, to feel like I'll ever find the surface. The moment that changes things in the movie for Naomi Watts is hearing her son call out her name while he's getting dragged along this enormous current. That's how it feels for me too. Whenever I want to just cling to my palm tree and scream and maybe let go, I have three little voices calling out my name. The four people I love the most are what keeps me from letting go. It's not easy. I still have to walk around in unfamiliar territory with my chest cut open and a giant leg flap dangling about, but who else will make sure my family is okay? 

After it's faded a bit, I usually find a portion of myself grateful for that excruciating pain because it opens my eyes to how other people might be feeling. I am not unique in feeling like this. There are countless around me with hands that hang down and sorrow that the world can't see. However, this world is pretty dark right now. People hate one another. Such cold hearts. I have a medical condition that makes it really hard to wear a mask. I normally am effected very little by my disorder, but I've had it tested at the doctor's office and my O2 levels drop to the mid 80's when I'm wearing one. I could easily carry around a doctor's note excusing me from mask wearing, but no one cares about that, not really. I often let my nose out so I don't black out, but wow. Strangers, friends, family hate me for it. It's so painful to already have all these thoughts swirling about like dark mist whispering "maybe it's not a bad idea if you died" and then have others thinking or saying the same thing. I wish I was this incredibly resilient type. My husband is, thank goodness. One of us has to be. He's a fighter whereas I'm just..not. I don't know how to be like that either. I wish I was. When I'm meanest to myself, I throw that at my inner crumpled self over and over "what's wrong with you? Get up. Get up and fight. Why can't you just be different?!" I can fight for other people, that's so much easier. I can fight for my kids, my husband, friends, family, but myself. Woof. This isn't just about mask hatred, it's about that incredible palpable hatred and fear of one another. I generally believe people are good at heart, I do. Hearts seem to be getting harder though. 

I don't know exactly why I felt that I needed to write this. I have trouble sleeping these days and starting this helped some of those late hours go by quicker. I do have hope, even when my mind assures me it's not a realistic thing. When I can feel that hate in the world, from myself, the love of Christ feels stronger. I was reading in Ether the other day about the Jaredites and their journey. They spent a year getting slammed by waves and wind and only had a tiny amount of light for their long journey. Yet, they praised God during all this. The waves beat them to a better place even when I'm sure it felt too much to bear at moments. I have to believe it's getting me and all of us to a better place too

Sixth Sense- Rowboat is 6

 My firstborn is six-years-old. At times, it's felt like ages ago that I held his fresh, tiny body for the first time. How did this tall, bright, and tender-hearted child once fit completely on my chest? Other times, I feel like I just barely got to take him home from the hospital. Time is both my sweetest friend and most-despised enemy. 

Rowan at six is absolutely wonderful. He's incredibly patient with his two younger siblings who often use him as a trampoline, punching bag, and chair. He never really complains when they maul him, which is sweet to me. Rowan's thoughtfulness coupled with maturity is something special. Tonight, we told him to go upstairs and get ready for bed. He walked up without any further prompting, put his clothes in the dirty hamper, showered by himself, dressed himself, hung up his towel and brushed his teeth and additionally laid out pajamas for his little sister. It was the first time he's done that because I'm normally quick to lay out pajamas while they bathe/shower. He saw a need and filled it without any expectation of reward or encouragement to do so. He's so pure. 

Rowan is loving kindergarten. He thrives on routine and order which school is blessedly giving him. He enjoys his teacher and friends and especially learning. He loves math and is already a super reader. He's already a very bright kid and being one of the oldest now is only helping him feel capable and smart. In so many ways, he is such a beautifully easy child. He's obedient, kind, and respectful. The emotional outbursts of his younger years are fading as he learns to self-soothe and regulate big feelings. He occasionally has something he can't process, but he recovers quickly. 

His current interest list continues to keep switch/video games in first place. He also really enjoys sports/exercising. He started going to CrossFit kids while we were in Idaho and really loved it. He wanted to come with me on the weekends when I would work out and do his own workout. Now that we're back in Nebraska, he's started going to a kid class while we workout that teaches them whatever sport they wish. His first request was soccer and then volleyball, basketball, pickle ball, and football. He's always had a natural ability to do well in sports and I hope he keeps that with him as these next few years go by. I can't decide what he would like being enrolled in more and he gets too excited about all the options when I ask him. It makes me feel like he lives a more balanced life knowing he likes both video games and athletics. His favorite game to play is Minecraft with his dad and grandpa. It's pretty cute to watch. They'll pull up chairs close to the TV, facetime/or call Papa, and all play together for as long as time will allow. It makes me feel like he's a teenager already for some reason. He likes Pokemon, fighting robots with Dad/Rocky, making obstacle courses in the backyard, racing, daydreaming about flying, math, doing flips off the couch onto our mattress (ahhh please stop this), constantly trying to solve a rubik's cube and board games. 

Rowan continues to say "I love you, mom" and dad a lot. I love it, but he still seems to say it as a filler of silence sometimes. He also talks non-stop. He needs to explain things to me or anyone else in full detail. I wish I could focus better on his long descriptions, but catch myself saying "uhuh and really" a lot more than I'd like. It's easier to soak all of his words in when Lyra and Rocky are otherwise occupied which happens very rarely. He's so encouraging and loving to his siblings regardless. Lyra hasn't slept in her bed for an entire night since we got back. We have a sticker chart going and an excessive amount of promised prizes as motivation (Nothing is working btw). The FIRST thing ROWAN asks every morning is "Did Lyra do it? Did she sleep through the night?" He's so hopeful she succeeded. He'll tell her when she wakes up "You can do it tomorrow night, Lyra. Just do it." 

He eats mostly well at this age. He'll luckily eat a fairly broad spectrum of nourishing foods. His favorite "healthy" foods are cucumbers, watermelon, cantaloupe, bell peppers, fresh peas (never cooked ones), apples, and grapes. He can eat an exorbitant amount of ice-cream for his size. While in Disneyworld, he got to eat a TRIPLE cone and he ate the entire thing somehow.  He still protests eating beans which makes life super un-fun for meal making since most of my favorite meals and ones everyone else will eat have beans in them. He loves sandwiches, is really into the concept of double-double hamburgers (he discovered this was a thing while eating at an In-n-Out in Utah), he doesn't like chick-fil-a food (probably because he's eaten there an excessive amount in his short-life span), and he continues to follow in GG Chocolate's footsteps by loving chocolate. He sleeps perfectly. Goes to bed without a fuss, sleeps through the night and wakes up between 6:30am-7:30am most mornings. I appreciate this about him a lot particularly because he was not an easy sleeper for the majority of his babyhood/toddlerhood. 

He continues to have an incredibly contagious and cute laugh. He laughs easily and is starting to understand jokes. Rowan's favorite people in the world are his extended family. He adores spending time with both sets of grandparents, aunts and uncles, second cousins and he loves his cousins so, so much. They're absolutely his best friends. It was an amazing 100 days of summer for him to be with family so often. It made me really wish we lived closer to our families knowing how much our kids thrived being surrounded by people who love them. 

I just really, really want to be like him. I wish I could be as gentle in my parenting as he can be in his brother-ing. I'm grateful for the gift that he is to our lives. We love him dearly and are grateful he's been with us these six years.