Ugly Plants

I buy flowers from the clearance section at Lowe’s.

I wish I could say that I felt convicted to save ugly plants because of some benevolent desire to nurture the dying flowers of Brazos County, but this is not an act of compassion. This is an act of frugality.

Ugly plants are cheap. The same flowers that sell for $3 sell for $.50 in the clearance section. Sure, they’ve lost their flowers. They may die. They won’t look fantastic the moment you plant them in the ground.  You may not know what colors the blooms will be; however, with patience, you eventually get your garden. Eventually, you get tiny bursts of color that you may–or may not–have expected. It’s wonderful. I definitely recommend it.

Recently, I found this forgotten picture on a saved draft in my WordPress account:

I remember seeing the flower, and purposefully stopping to take a picture.

“I can make a blog post out of this.” I thought.

But the flower slipped my mind–as did the purpose of the blog post–and eventually, spring turned to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter…And here we are. We’ve had a few freezes that have long since killed the poor plant (I’m not exactly the world’s most talented gardener). I feel as though this photo means more to me now than it did before, and frankly, I’m glad that it was forgotten until now.

This semester has been one of the most difficult few months I have ever had. I’m trying to be patient with myself–to remind myself that I am young and my life is constantly changing in the biggest of ways–but frankly, I’m disappointed. I’m struggling with the same old anxiety, the same old depression, the same old perfectionism that chips away at who God has built me to be. I’m going to be vulnerable with you guys and tell you: God and I aren’t talking as much as we used to. I have so much resentment in my anxious heart. I’m working on it. I feel wounded. I asked God to provide for me in a specific way, and it didn’t work out the way I had planned (shocker). You would think, one surprise daughter and one foster child later, that I would take God’s plan for me in stride. Though I have come a long way, I’m still learning. I’m still growing. God is pruning me (or Satan is attacking me. Or both. Who knows). If it wasn’t for the community of believers around me, I would have succumbed to the belief that I was a forgotten plant at Lowe’s, rotting in the Texas heat.

But I’m not.

And neither are you.

I may be the ugly plant at Lowe’s, but I’m most definitely not forgotten. And neither are you.

God loves you. He sees you. He’s the guy that buys flowers from the clearance section. He’s the gardener that sees the wilted and the dying and he transplants them and brings them back to life. He doesn’t do it because he’s cheap.  God the Creator doesn’t have to do anything for us that he doesn’t want to. He does it because he sees the potential in us–he sees what we can be–and he uses his infinite wisdom to prune us, mold us, and shape us into who we were meant to be all along. He buys us because we are worth the effort (yes, even you). And damn, it hurts. But the results are incredible.

Love,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Anxious Believer

Reformed Ugly Plant

 

 

Water Hose Parenting

Friends,

It’s been so long since I have had the time and mental energy to write.

I miss it more than anything.

So much has changed over the summer: We added a foster child to our family. I went back to work…For two different schools! A friend and I began a special needs ministry at our church. Zoe began walking, had a first birthday, and started preschool (all within the span of a week and half). Our rhythm is different and our days are longer and busier, but it’s good, I think. The past two years, we were in a season of laying things down. We needed to refocus on what was important, and prepare ourselves for parenting. Now, we are in a season of saying, “yes” to what God has to offer us. Sometimes I miss the sweet Sabbath and rest that the last year has brought to us, but I’m thankful for the path God has put me on, and I’m excited to see the growth that will come with it. But saying, “yes” is risky. Saying, “yes” means I will mess up. For someone with an anxiety disorder, the thought of letting other people down is debilitating. Going back to work means someone besides my sweet husband will know when I fail.

A few weeks ago, I was recovering from a week where nothing was going my way. The games I had worked so hard to schedule were canceled. I had miscommunication with my spouse, and it ended up stressing everyone out. I forgot to put my jeans in the dryer, so I showed up to work soaking wet. You know, the usual.

When I got  home from my job at the preschool, I changed into comfy clothes and stripped Zoe down to her birthday suit. We went outside so she could play with her new, fancy water-tables. I sat her down, turned on the hose, and collapsed on the bench to breath.

“What. A. Day.”

I picked a podcast to listen to while we played, and when I looked up, she wasn’t even near the water tables. She was playing with the hose, smiling and laughing harder than I had seen her in a long time. She was perfectly content with simplicity.

Zoe didn’t need a fancy toy or any special attention. She just needed me, the water hose, and my time. In that moment, I realized how much grace my relationship with my daughter has to offer. There are so many times that I don’t feel like I’m not enough for my kids. There’s so many times I feel like I fail them, and I’ve let them down. Instead of getting angry or upset with me, she leans in for a hug. She trusts me, and she forgives me again, and again (sounds like another relationship I am all too familiar with).

Going back to work has made me feel so torn between the different roles I am trying to fill. What if, in all of the chaos, I let my children down? If going back to work has taught me anything, it’s this: Children aren’t as complicated as we make them out to be. As a culture, we spend so much time and money trying to make things, “fun” and “exciting” and “new” for our kids. How refreshing is it to hear that our kids don’t need the excess? They need raw, real relationships–just like we do. They need to spend time with you, and they need to know that they can count on you when they fail. Quit stressing out about the toy when you know they’re going to have more fun with the box. Quit worrying about filling the water-table and just give them the water hose.

Love,

Sarah

A Little Bit Stressed

A Lot Loved

Grieving Freedom

Recently, I visited a dear friend in Austin. We ate good food, drank good beer, and played good music. It was a wonderful respite from the demands of daily life that, recently, have been weighing me down. It was an entire weekend where I could just be me–the role I am most comfortable in. I love my role as mother and wife, but they are new and not entirely worn in. Being with Kate was like wearing an old pair of Dr. Martens after nearly a year of walking around in Tevas (literally and figuratively).

Out of all of our conversations, one stuck out to me the most. We spent the morning paddle-boarding on the lake, and Kate asked me,

“Sarah, did your twenties turn out like you think they would have?”

I snorted. Of course not. Until my twenties, everything had gone according to plan. I graduated high school with decent grades. I went to ACU and majored in helping people. I was involved in a drama ministry and met my best friends. I worked at Deer Run and met the love of my life.

You know, the usual.

If everything had gone according to plan, I would be sending you post cards from Thailand right about now. But since you haven’t gotten a quirky souvenir from me yet, that obviously did not happen. The freedom that I thought I would have in my twenties vanished when I became pregnant. Though I absolutely love Zoe–and I wouldn’t trade her for all the money in the entire world–sometimes, I feel like I’m missing out.

A couple weeks ago, I was talking to my therapist about this very issue. I was feeling guilty for my grief. She justified it, saying, “It’s like a 21 year-old finding out they have a chronic illness. It’s OK if they’re mad that they are sick.”

Except this is not an illness, it’s a child. I am grieving the loss of the life I could have if Zoe had waited to come until my 30’s. I can tell myself that I am mourning the loss of independence and spontaneity, but in reality, what am I really complaining about–that I have a wonderful, fearfully-made daughter for whom it is a privilege to care for?

My twenties have been a lesson in reality. Until my twenties, I was extremely future-oriented (When I get to high school I will…When I get into college I’m going to…When I’m a social worker I’ll always…). I was constantly looking forward. Then, I graduated college and went into the field. I discovered that social work was not what I thought it was going to be. I got sick. I gained a ton of weight. I got pregnant way before I had planned. And after finally being able to admit it to myself, and to others, I found something out: everyone is hurting. Everyone has disappointments. Almost everyone is wondering if the choices they made were the correct ones. My single friends are hurting. My married friends are hurting. My childless friends are hurting. Everyone in their twenties has had to deal with reality, and it sucks. Because of everything–my illness and my pregnancy–I was forced to stay present. Because of the path my life is on, I had to shift my perspective from always looking forward, to always looking at what is right in front of me.

So, no.  My twenties are not what I expected them to be. I don’t have the freedom I had anticipated. Instead, I am in the ministry of being available. You need your laundry done? I’ll help out. Need someone to hold your hand at a doctor’s appointment? I’ll be there. There’s no one to let your dog out? Cook your lunch? I got it. Do you need a walk and a listening ear? I’m here for you. Because my situation is different then I have planned, I have time for you. I can be late to a play date; the dishes in the sink can wait. I may not have the freedom to travel when I want to, or stay out late; however, I do have the freedom to stop what I’m doing and physically be there for people who need me. I have the freedom to help others in a way I never had before, and I’ll do it with a cute baby strapped on my back. It’s a different freedom then I had planned for my twenties, but I will take it–100% of the time.

Unique and Special Moms: Paige Christison

I have wanted to interview a few moms about their unique children for awhile now, and I am thankful to be able to post the first of what will hopefully be many interviews of moms with children in special circumstances.

Paige is an incredibly special mother to me. She not only raised the boy that would become my husband, but she welcomed me into her family without fear or hesitation. I knew that marrying a man meant marrying his family, and I am lucky to have the love and support of Paige. I can truly call her, “friend”. Paige is an amazing gift giver (you should see her tree at Christmas)! She is constantly serving others and goes out of her way to make people feel special. She’s the type of person that figures out you love dachshunds, and will send you a massive care package to your dorm filled entirely with wiener-dog themed gifts. Not only is she a wonderful friend, but she is a fantastic Nana for my Zoe, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Please enjoy my interview with Paige about her youngest son, Colton. Colton was adopted into the Christison family as an infant. The first time I met Colton, he called me by Kylar’s ex-girlfriend’s name with the intention of embarrassing Kylar. It worked. The first time I babysat him, he showed me that he could tell me a country’s name just by looking at his shape. He could even tell me their capitols (keep in mind, he was four at the time). To this day, I have never met a more intelligent, more curious child. Colton has had many ups and downs, but his parents work every day to make sure he has the tools to succeed. I know he will grow up to be a confident, loving, passionate adult.

Tell me a little about yourself. I am a follower of Christ, I am a wife, I am a mother, and–oh my goodness–I am a Nana! I am a teacher by trade, but have spent most of my adult life using that skill at home and church. Greg sometimes calls me a professional volunteer. I can be too controlling and have too high of expectations of others and myself, though I do think I have improved on this in the last 10 years.

You have always impressed me with your drive and your ability to get things done. I envy that! Next question: What is your favorite thing about being a mom? I love the “firsts”, the first wave, the first word, the first soccer game, the first backflip, the first best friend, the first date, the first glimpse of who they are becoming. The firsts never end, not even after they are grown, and I think that’s why I love them. There is always another one around the corner.

That’s something I have grown to love as well. It’s been so much fun watching Zoe experience things for the first time. What is something you do well as a parent? That is a tough one because often I will think, “I am rocking this,” only to look back and see I am not as awesome as I thought. It is a constant learning and evolving process. If I had to choose something (this scares me – what if my kids totally disagree) I would
probably say being there for my kids, to talk, to listen, or just support them.

I don’t think Kylar would disagree. He always looks forward to talking to you when he has something on his mind. I know it’s something that is very special to him. I know Courtney and Colton enjoy sharing their lives with you as well. Now, what made you and Greg decide to start fostering? It wasn’t just one thing but several that built on each other: ultimately it was God. I know that sounds cheesy, but it was God that put the experiences in my life that led up to that point when we decided to foster. First, Greg’s parents had done it and we talked about following their lead before we were even married. Experiences with his extended family just strengthened that goal. The series of events that put it in motion was our move to Fairview. The house was perfect for fostering because it had two bedrooms downstairs. Courtney and Kylar were old enough to understand and were on board with the idea. What really kept pushing me was a commercial by an adoption group that I heard on the radio. It played every time I got in the car. At the end of the commercial, they would say, “YOU can make a difference”. I felt like God was talking to me every time. I could not ignore Him any longer while we waited for the “perfect time”. If you wait for everything to be just so-so in your life, it will never happen. God knew it was the perfect time.

Wow. I love that. Did you and Greg always want to adopt? The simple answer is no, but I am not sure that is really how I felt. I did try to convince myself that what I wanted was to be there for these littles while their parents couldn’t. Our first placement was easy because we felt so strongly that he should go home. We didn’t and still don’t believe there was any abuse caused by the parents. That sweet boy had an unusually large head that caused him to be very unstable and fall a lot. Our 2nd placement was a brother and sister and it was really HARD! We had no true information about either child and it was a real struggle the first 48 hours. That was a really hard placement and removal for all of us. Greg wanted to be done at that point because it was so difficult emotionally on Courtney and Kylar. But God knew we were not done. Shortly after the siblings left, we started getting calls for newborns. John [Colton] was actually the 4th baby they had called us about. The others were placed before we could even reply. It was difficult for
me because I was afraid God was telling me that Greg was right and we should stop, but then there was Johnny [Colton]. He had been with us for about 5 months, when one day, I walked into the office holding him. I asked Greg what he was doing, and his response shocked me. He said, “I am researching countries without extradition because he is not going anywhere”. I remember the release that rolled through my body. I had tried so hard to be everything Johnny [Colton] needed without losing my heart to him. Now I had permission to do what I had already done: love him with everything within me. Well, that was way more than your question asked, sorry.

No! It was perfect. Adoption is such a beautiful thing, and I am so glad that Colton became a part of your family. What was the most difficult part of Colton’s adoption? WAITING, WAITING, AND WAITING some more …
There were lots of speed bumps along the way. For example, CPS said they planned on sending him back to his bio mom. It was difficult to wait for CPS to rule out all possible family/friends for placement, and then his bio dad claimed custody from jail. Ultimately, he requested a jury trial. Waiting has always been hard for me, it is certainly a weakness of mine.

Waiting is difficult for me, too. I’m sure it’s especially hard during the adoption process. What advice do I have for young parents who want to foster/adopt?Pray a lot, and be in complete agreement with your spouse. One parent can’t be effective doing it alone, and it will develop resentment towards each other. Don’t forget to still take time to be with God and with each other. It can be overwhelming at times, and you need to get back to your roots (God and spouse) to recharge. It will be a blessing to your life that you never expected.
How has Colton affected Kylar and Courtney? Well that has been all over the map and different for both of them. I think fostering opened their eyes to a part of the real world they had not experienced before. I hope he has taught them to love unconditionally, even when it is hard. I hope they have learned that everyone has a story and you don’t usually know what it is, so don’t judge people by their actions. As humans that is hard to do because that is what the world does around us. Colton could have been hitting, screaming, and destroying things for what looked like no real reason, but there was always something behind the anger. With him, it was usually fear. I hope they have learned that every person needs and deserves love, no matter how hard it is.

I think Colton affected Courtney differently than Kylar because she was still living at home through the most difficult time. It was also during my [traumatic brain injury] recovery in 2012, and she was literally taking care of our every need. During that time, she did what had to be done and just tried to get through it all. She had been the baby for 11 years and was very comfortable in that role. When Colton came along, he took that from her. Deep down, there was probably some resentment. Not completely because of Colton, but because she “lost” most of her senior year of high school. Everything revolved around Colton. If I could change one thing in our family dynamics it would be that Colton and Courtney would show each other that they are loved by the other. I know they love each other, I just wish they would let it show.

How has parenting changed from Kylar and Colton?
It is hard to discern if the differences are because of how things have changed in our society, or because Colton is a different person. He has different challenges, different interests, different needs, and different family social interactions (like small groups at church).
For one, Greg and I are older, and my physical health is not what it was 14 years earlier. Keeping Colton safe from the dangers of the outside world is much harder with the increased availability of the internet through all kinds of electronics. The ease of cyber bulling and all the information that is just one click away is frightening. Colton not having a sibling close in age has changed things too; he’s basically an only child. Our church has changed, which has changed the our areas of involvement. Our friends no longer have children his age–in fact they are all empty nesters. Courtney and Kylar made friends with the children of our friends, because that is who we spent time with. Courtney and Kylar were used to frequently having others in our home, both kids and adults. Colton hasn’t experienced that since he was a toddler. We no longer have the connections at church that we once did. Colton’s disabilities changed the way we lived our lives. We didn’t go to places that were loud or crowed, like we did with Courtney and Kylar. We didn’t leave him with a babysitter like we did Courtney and Kylar. Vacations were different too… It was not adopting Colton that changed things so much as it was the careless actions of his biological mother. She unfairly put Colton in a position where he would have to overcome challenges in his life that were a result of her selfish actions.

He’s doing a great job overcoming these disabilities. I know everyone works so hard to give him every tool he could ever need. He’s such a smart and sensitive kid, and I am thankful to call him family. Before we wrap up, do you mind telling me a story about Kylar as a child? My favorite story about Kylar was when we moved to McKinney. He was 3 ½ yrs old. The lawn at the house we bought had been very neglected for a long time. The weeds in the backyard had grown to Kylar’s height. He would stand in the doorway looking over the backyard and with songbook in hand he would lead signing to his congregation of weeds. When Greg finally bought a lawn mower, Kylar was devastated that Greg had mowed down his audience.

The Smell

We had an episode at the library today. My sweet, almost four month daughter emitted the most vile, toxic, unbearable smell out of her diaper. I’m choosing to decide that this is a funny thing.

To preface, my daughter’s poop and I have an interesting relationship. Her first week home, I decided that I–a first time, inexperienced mom with stitches in her abdomen– would give my daughter a bath.

By myself.

In the bathroom sink.

I was probably a little high on post c-section pain meds.

Who knows.

    I removed her diaper and attempted to bathe her. Our bathroom sink is tiny, and there is no counter space to spare. No one in their right mind would have ever thought that this could work, but there I was, attempting to gently wrestle wash a slippery, tiny human under the faucet. Nevertheless, she cried. It was pitiful.

The whole episode lasted approximately 30 seconds, after which I decided to wrap her in a towel and ask my much smarter, much wiser mother to help. The moment I removed her from the sink, she decided to let out a stream of runny yellow liquid out of her butt. Panicked (and trying not to drop my slippery tiny human) I held her at arms-length and attempted to wrap her in a towel. Seconds later, I realized that I could have easily held her over the sink (or better yet, the toilet), and did just that. She finished the deed, and I folded her into a hooded towel. I took a deep breath and stepped back. The bathroom was covered in yellow baby poop. I was covered. The sink was covered. My kid was covered.

Having kids is fun.

Since that day in the bathroom, I have cleaned up many of Zoe’s blow outs. They’re always interesting, and typically happen at the most convenient times. Today, Zoe and I visited the library to watch a teacher friend of ours direct her children’s choir in a mini holiday concert. We slipped in the back of the audience and settled into our seats. As soon as we sat down, I smelled it.

    The smell.

I look in her carrier, and I do not see any leakage. I check her diaper for signs of a bowel movement–nothing. Good grief, that was a heck of a  fart.

I continue watching the concert. Five minutes later, I smell it again.

    The smell.

I check her diaper again: still, nothing.

This time I decide to take her out of the carrier. Poor thing is having gas pains, and she hasn’t let out a single cry. She’s even smiling! Any seasoned parent knows that that should have been my first clue that something was up. I guess I’m just that naive.

I pick up my kid and place her on my lap. As I’m turning her around, I see a huge yellow-green streak up the back of her onesie. Great. I briefly debate finishing the concert, but by now the stain has transferred onto my shirt. This is more serious than I had initially thought. I grab her backpack and head to the restroom, where I lay her on the changing table and open her diaper.

Friends, I never thought that my sweet, soft, cuddly child could ever create such a monster. I’ll spare you the details and just say this: It was nasty. It was sticky. It was everywhere. I exited that bathroom feeling like a soldier coming home from war.

I love my daughter, especially in moments like these. I also love my friends, and I’m grateful to have people that will still hug me: even when I have poop on my shirt.

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

A Little Scarred

A Little Stinky

 

World’s Okayest Mom

Zoe turned 3 months on November 22nd. I forgot to get a picture.

      “Come on, Sarah. She’s your first kid. You’re not supposed to fall behind on things like that until your third.”

Well, you know what?

I got nothin.

      Two weeks ago, my therapist and I were talking about sadness. I had recently spent four days in a row alone with the baby and the dog, stuck at the house without a vehicle. For the first time since Zoe’s birth, I had case of the baby blues. Nothing too serious, but enough to bring up during my biweekly counseling sessions.

“I just feel so useless. I don’t bring in any money anymore. I spend my days doing laundry and cleaning spit-up out of my hair.” I ran a hand over my messy bun and pulled out a bit of formula cheese. “And I’m not even good at it. Am I a bad person for needing a break from my daughter? What happens if the depression comes back to stay. Will I be a bad parent when I’m sad?”  This is not a new fear; however, since meeting Zoe and falling in love with her, it has become more real–scarier, even. Each time, my therapist reminds me that “There are many ways to be a good parent, and only a few ways to be a bad parent.” When I am down on myself, she reminds me to ask:

Is she fed?

Is she clean?

Is she safe?

      I call this “bare minimum parenting”. She just calls it “parenting”.

The truth is, there are days when the “bare minimum” is all I can swing. I tell her this, and finish with the most painful admission I have ever made,

“Zoe would be better off if someone else was her mom.”

      I’m not sure if this observation is accurate or not, but it’s one that I struggle with every day. Every time I’ve sat in church after fighting all morning with my tiny human just to find a smear of poop on my hand during communion. Every time I’ve pulled on a pair of jeans I thought were clean, only to find a white spit-up stain down the front. Every time I’ve come home from the grocery store and figured out that I left a bag in the cart. I struggle with it every time I’ve been too exhausted to unload the dishwasher, so my (already too busy) husband does it when he gets home. Every time I’ve shown up late to ladies bible class smelling like sour milk and realizing that I haven’t showered in a week. Every time I’ve lost the car keys for the 3rd time that day (I was better off at home anyways, right?). I struggle with it every time Zoe cries for what seems like no apparent reason.

This is me. These are things that have happened and I have felt ashamed for. The struggle to give myself grace was not eliminated, but amplified in motherhood. Each time I feel inadequate, I struggle not to tell myself those toxic words,

“Zoe would be better off if someone else was her mom.” 

      Recently, I began a book called, Furiously Happy, by Jenny Lawson. It’s a wonderful memoir about living with depression and anxiety. I love it. I love Jenny, and I would give a whole, whole lot to spend an afternoon with her. She speaks to me on a spiritual level. In one chapter, she is talking about living with depression, and how that translates into motherhood. I was reading this in the back of our Mazda while driving home after Thanksgiving vacation, and I cried as I read.

“When I can’t be an active mom, I snuggle with my daughter and watch TV with her or ask her to read to me. I replace moments when I feel like I should be at a PTA meeting with a memory I hope she’ll treasure of us hiding under a blanket fort with the cats.”

I can still be a good mom when I’m depressed.

I’m afraid of a lot of things. Most recently my adventure into small businesshood. Being an imperfect mom isn’t going to be one of them. It’s exhausting. Though I know there will be moments where things will not go as planned, or my depression will become overwhelming, I know that I have a support system to keep me accountable. I know I have help when I  need it. I know that Zoe’s needs will always be met, even if it just means that she is simply fed, dry, and safe. And yes, I may be crazy and Zoe may be better off with someone else as her mom; but every family is crazy in their own right. She may as well learn to live with mine.

Essential Baby Items (As Told By Me)

Since having Zoe, I have had several people ask me which items I use the most, or what they should buy their expecting loved ones. Well, here you go! Here is a list of some items that you may not think of that Zoe and I use every day.

1. Boppy Newborn Lounger

I use the Newborn Lounger every day. If you follow me on social media, you have probably seen several pictures of Zoe smiling while using one. It has been a lifesaver for me. It enables me to have her safely seated on the couch or bed while I get dressed, eat lunch, or write in my blog. At $30, it is fairly affordable and is well worth the money. The only downside is that it does not come with a removable cover.

You can find the link to purchase a Newborn Lounger here. 

2. Gerber Flannel Burp Cloths 

Zoe spits up. A lot. In fact, just the other day she projectile-vomited straight into my face. It was glorious.

Anyways…

These Gerber Flannel Burp Cloths are lifesavers. They soak up everything and are the perfect size for throwing over your shoulder during burps. They come in several colors, and you can find them on Amazon or at your local Walmart. I suggest you buy a dozen. They’re amazing. Seriously.

3. Dr. Brown’s Natural Flow Bottles 

Before I started using these, Zoe had terrible gas and stomach pains. She cried constantly. Someone had given me the gift set at a baby shower, but I had forgotten to open them. Desperately looking for a solution, I found them in the kitchen cabinet where we keep the rest of Zoe’s feeding items. We tried them out, and her gas pains have reduced significantly. We were given the Natural Flow set, and given that Zoe has ZERO nipple confusion (as I do breast and formula feed) I would say that they are very effective. You can find the gift set for less than $15 at Target. The gift set includes three 8-oz bottles, two 4-oz Bottles, three steel cleaning brushes, two storage/travel caps, two level 2 silicone nipples, three 8-oz bottles, and five Level 1 Silicone Nipples. Some say that they do not use them as they can be difficult to clean; however, we have not found that to be an issue (perhaps it’s because we don’t use anything else).

4. SwaddleMe Velcro Swaddles

Guys. Embarrassing motherhood secret: I never caught on to swaddling with a muslin blanket. I just can’t do it. I know, I’m horrible. But we have these Velcro swaddles, and Zoe only wakes up once a night at 7 weeks old, so I’d say we’re doing pretty great. You can find them pretty much anywhere that sells baby items, and they come in several adorable prints and colors. They go for about $24 at Walmart for a pack of two. Before you buy your favorite mother-to-be ANOTHER muslin swaddle blanket, look into these instead. She will get plenty of blankets…Promise.

5. Bubula Jr. Steel Diaper Pail 

I know this is a controversial one, as many moms hate their diaper pails. But in my work running group homes for adults with disabilities, we used our diaper pails every day and I could not see myself having a baby without one. The Bubula diaper pail is made of steel, so the smell does not permeate the can. It is compatible with regular trash bags (which is my favorite feature) and looks sharp in the baby’s room. We received the Junior version, and it is plenty large for our singleton baby. If we were to have twins, I may have considered the larger version, but for us–this is perfect. The only downside is that it is not readily available. You can find it in store at Buy Buy Baby, or at their online store and Amazon. Here is the link for the one we have here.

6. Graco Pack ‘n Play Quick Connect Portable Bouncer with Bassinet

While the other items on my list are very affordable, I thought I would add my favorite splurge item: Our Pack ‘n Play. I know a lot of people say that they never use their Pack n’ Play, but I’m glad Kylar and I received one, because it has been well used. This thing is amazing, and has already accompanied me to Abilene, Garland, and McKinney to visit family. Not only can it turn into a crib on road trips, it also has a changing table, bassinet, and a storage basket included. We use our Pack ‘n Play every single day, and it was  worth the investment (Thanks United Way for the gift!) You can find it here on Amazon.

What are your favorite baby items? Is there anything that you would recommend?

 

 

An Open Letter to My Postpartum Body

Dear Body,

I went through your clothes today. I mustered all of my courage, and took the Rubbermaid container out of the back of my closet. You know, THE Rubbermaid container–the one with the “skinny” clothes. The container with your beautiful tailored slacks and work-appropriate button downs. The one with the dress that used to make you feel like a supermodel, but now makes you feel like a sausage coming out of its casing (you know the one). The one with the dress you wore to your wedding reception, with the green lace and black silk lining that you loved so much. You and I, we understand each other. You and I, we love clothes.

Or, at least we used to.

We used to love clothes, until clothing became difficult. We used to love clothes, until the tumor secreted too much of that special hormone and we began to gain weight for no reason at all. Or until we took that antidepressant that got us to work in the morning, but made us gain 25 pounds and gave us stretch marks under our arms. Or until life happened because frankly, it’s hard to hold a desk job, be married, and still find time for yourself. Since then, it’s been extra large shirts because anything that showed your figure made you feel enormous. Since then, its been a constant battle between trying on things too small and purchasing items too large.

Enough is enough.

You may not be the same right now; in fact I have a sneaking suspicion that you will not be the same, ever. And that’s OK. I hereby release you from any preconceived notions of what you are supposed to look like. I promise, from now on, to appreciate and enjoy you. I promise to love and take care of you.

I’m not saying that I will glorify your stretch marks or the funny way you hang under my dress. I’m just saying that I will let you be. I will leave you alone. Over a month ago, you did something pretty amazing. So there; you’ve earned it. You’ve earned the right to be left alone. I will no long poke and prod, stretch, complain about, or criticize you (or, at least I promise to try). I’ve decided that I am going to be nice to you, because I want Zoe to be nice to herself. She will be too amazing to be worried about frivolous things, like whether or not her thighs touch or the number sewn onto her jeans. Zoe is going to change the world. I know it all starts with you and me.

I promise to fill you with good things. I promise to provide you with what you need to get through the day. I promise to keep you in shape, so I can run and play with my daughter. I promise to dress you in fabrics that make you feel good, because you deserve the best. I promise to protect you and keep you safe, because if you’re not working, I know we won’t be able to be all we want to be.

In closing, I want to thank you. We have been through a lot together. We have both failed the other. Even so, I want you to know that I’m grateful for you, and I am thankful for the beautiful thing you made.

Love,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Still a Little Chunky

But I Don’t Care Anymore

 

Welcome, Zoe: Part 2

Zoe girl is a month old today. Right now, she is asleep on my chest. I can hear her soft breaths and gentle heartbeat. She is soft and warm. Her hair is fuzzy after I wash it. She smells sweet, like Dreft and baby lotion. She can push herself up onto her forearms, and today, held herself up for an entire minute. She likes tummy time, ceiling fans, and Ranger kisses. She is beginning to re-actively smile at things: my voice, her reflection, her Gigi’s wide smile…The smile is my favorite part. It makes the late-night feedings worth it.

 

Now, back to her birth story…

We checked into the hospital at 5:30 AM. I was examined by the same nurse, and was given the same room as the night before. Immediately, the began the process of inducing labor.

First, I was to be given an I.V. for fluids. Typically, this is an easy process. The nurse expected to be in and out within 5 minutes. My husband and I knew better. I was stuck 5 times by 3 different nurses before they were able to successfully insert the I.V. in my right hand. This would prove to set the tone for the day, and ultimately, my labor. My doctor came to visit around 9:30 AM, where he talked me through the day’s labor and delivery process. Afterwards, he broke my water. Now, I’ve never been one to flinch at physical pain, but for some reason, Dr. Price breaking my water hurt worse than I could have imagined. I believe it was fear. And possibly the large knitting needle that had been inserted into my personal space.

    Yeah, it was definitely the knitting needle.

        Once I was able to relax, he was able to break my water easily. They gave me a choice as to when to receive my epidural, and I chose to have it administered immediately. I had been through so much pain during my pregnancy, I did not see any reason as to why I could not enjoy the labor.

The epidural was a different horse altogether. I am allergic to silicon, and as you may have guessed, quite a few common medical supplies are made of silicon: including, but not limited to, catheters. Whenever my nurse looked at my chart, she looked puzzled. She asked me a few more questions, and left the room in search of a silicon urinary catheter. Thirty minutes later, she returned. “This is the last one we had in the entire hospital,” she said, holding up something in a sealed plastic bag, “we threw out all of the latex ones last week.” The knowledge of this allergy created an even bigger problem with the epidural, and the anesthesiologist was certain that his catheters were also made out of (you guessed it) silicon. The only plastic caths they had were outdated, unsafe, and rarely used. They inserted it once, but it began to bleed. They removed the plastic cath and debated as to whether or not they would try again. Luckily, after further research, they discovered that the new, safer catheter was made out of nylon, and they were able to comfortably insert it. Again, I was frightened. Hunched over, I held onto the nurse’s hands and tried to think of anything–anything at all–to take my mind off of the procedure. I was forced to stare at my hands for what felt like hours. Nervously, I said,

“I think I need one of those stupid fidget spinners.”

    I’m not as funny as I like to think I am.

With the epidural successfully administered, all that was left was to wait.

And wait we did.

And wait.

And wait.

Once 5:00 hit, we were ready to push. The nurse, Kylar, and myself were the only three in the room. The lights were dimmed, and the sun was beginning to set. All things considering, it was peaceful and quiet. I began to push. Despite the nurse stating that I was pushing correctly and doing an excellent job, nothing was happening; Zoe wasn’t moving. After several tries, we began to notice something alarming on the monitors. Zoe’s heart-rate was dropping, but was not recovering. When it did recover, her little heart overcompensated. The medical team knew they had to intervene, and they had to intervene quickly.

The nurse left me to rest while she searched for my doctor. Finally, she found him, finishing up another emergency C-Section in the O.R. The two came in, and with sympathetic eyes, told me that they recommended a Cesarean. They approached me as if they were going to have to try hard to convince me. “Just do it. Get her out of me.”

Once we decided to do a C-Section, everything felt as if it moved very quickly. Last week, someone asked me how long I was in surgery. I was tempted to say 20 minutes, but I knew that couldn’t be accurate. I looked at Kylar, who replied, “Well over an hour.”

Over an hour? Sheesh. 

Once in the O.R., they injected a large amount of anesthesia into my body. The initial epidural injection was making me cold and shaky. The increased amount caused me to almost convulse. They made my stretch out my hands as if I were on a cross, and I know I looked..Scary…to say the least. At one point, I accidentally grabbed one of the poles that held the surgical screen, and I shook the screen unintentionally and violently. Kylar noticed before I did, and quietly slipped his hand under mine to prevent any embarrassing accidents.

I could feel pressure and tugging beneath the screen, but I felt no pain or discomfort. Kylar and I laughed and made jokes with the anesthesiologist. We pushed through the nerves and dealt with our fears the only way we knew how: through humor. Finally, a sharp cry was heard. It was the most beautiful sound, and I cried. In between sobs, I looked at the love of my life and said,

“She’s O.K. Our baby girl is O.K.”

 

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Exhausted New Mom

I’m a Feminist and I’m Excited About My Baby’s Sex

I’m a feminist and I’m excited about my baby’s sex.

There. I said it.

I know, I’m bad. Is there a “Fem-Card” that gets taken away in situations such as these?

When it came down to it, my husband and I had no preference towards the sex of our baby. I was convinced the baby was a boy, not by any sort of desire, but instead due to a dream about a baby boy named Elijah Lee (maybe someday).

Whenever I was 15 weeks pregnant, I took a blood test to find out if our daughter had any genetic abnormalities. As a result, I was able to find out her sex through her own genetic makeup (isn’t science amazing?). Not only was I wanting to prepare myself in the event that she did have a disability, I was clinging to anything that would help me get to know her as a person. I felt disconnected from the child that I was creating. Instead of a mother, I was a human incubator. And though I never thought it possible, finding out that my kid had two X chromosomes brought me a feeling of relief. We could narrow down our list of names. We could refer to our child as “her,” instead of “The Baby”. I could begin to picture her in our daily lives. I could picture her playing in the mud with her siblings. I could picture my father teaching her how to garden, and my mother teaching her how to paint. I could see her scoring a winning soccer goal, or hitting the high note in the local children’s choir.

“My daughter,” I thought, “I’m going to have a daughter.”

We did not have a huge reveal party or anything of that nature. It’s not our style. Instead, we asked the receptionist to seal the result in an envelope. We went out to dinner and opened it together.

Recently, I’ve been seeing articles that put down women who find out their baby’s sex. I’ve seen articles that slam women for putting their daughters in dresses or signing them up for ballet lessons.

It made me feel small. I began to question myself: Is it right for me to look forward to parenting a girl?

And the answer I came up with, was: Absolutely.

True feminism is not a war against pink but instead a celebration of it. It is a celebration of choice. It is a celebration of staying true to one’s core self. The war against femininity is one of America’s greatest ironies. Instead of empowering women, it has the capability of oppressing those who do identify with traditionally feminine traits. How often was I told that I cannot be a feminist while wearing a skirt? How often do articles tell me that I cannot be a stay at home mom and an advocate for women’s rights? What about my high school boyfriend, who lectured me on my choice of career because it was not “masculine enough to be empowering”?

I am proud to give birth to a daughter. I don’t care if she prefers to dress like Scout Finch or Elizabeth Bennett; I’m going to support her. I don’t care if she tears up a soccer field or shreds an opponent in speech and debate. I will support her. Should my daughter fall in love with princesses and the color pink, I will proudly wear a crown along side her (even though glitter makes me cringe). Looking forward to having a daughter has no correlation with the way in which I intend to raise her. My daughter may dress in overalls or Ugg boots, but no matter what, she will be kind, responsible, and aware. She will care about those in need. She will see those that are hurting and will have been taught from birth that it is her duty to ensure that the outcasts have a friend in her.

Whether my daughter decides to dress in pink or blue, she will be a super hero. I just know it.

 

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Sorry About That

Rant Over