Someday

I've mentioned it before, but for the sake of this post, I'll say it again.

My doctor advised against giving Son biological siblings because they would likely have the same chromosomal defect as him.

It has always been a clear fact and truth that someday Dan and I will have foster kids. Now it's such an odd feeling that it's the only way to fill our house with more children.

Doctors have said that Son will have his trach tube until he's about 2-3 years old. He'll be big and strong enough by then to undergo surgery to widen his throat. Dan and I decided to start fostering once the trach is out.

A few people have joked with me about when I plan on getting my nursing degree because of how much we've had to learn since Son's birth.

Yesterday, Nurse L told me about a friend that was looking to adopt and described a local, 7-month old baby whose parents lost custodial rights before birth due to extreme drug use. The baby was immediately trached and is still living in the hospital because his case is extremely hard to place. He can literally only be placed with a trained nurse.

I'd never considered this aspect of fostering before.

Maybe someday we can be the ideal parents for a child that nobody else can handle since we've already been through it. Maybe someday we can be the ones that run in when everyone else is running out, and give a hopeless child the hope of a normal life and a place to call "home".

Maybe we will be able to change a few lives in a couple of years :) .

Can't We All Just Get Along?

Weddings always make me tear up. Seeing two people express their pure love for eachother is emotional! We need more love in this world. I stumbled across a wedding show today and fully enjoyed it, teared up, enjoyed the lovely moments, and then realized something.

"Oh, this is a male couple."

It's all love to me, yet I wondered what the rest of the world is thinking... Is this beautiful, tear-jerking couple being judged for publicly sharing their love because we were raised being told that loving someone of the same sex is wrong?

If nobody told me that it wasn't okay to love whomever you wanted to love, I would've never known that it's a cause for hate.

My hope is that someday, everyone who wants to keep lovers of any gender apart will feel as silly as all the people that wanted to keep people of different colors separate.

In a casual conversation with Nurse A, while talking about Son's future, I said it'll be weird for me to accept that he'll grow up, and anticipating the moment when "he brings his first boyfriend or girlfriend home because I've spent his whole life patting his bottom while helping him work his toots out." I froze for a moment while I processed what I'd just said, awaiting Nurse A's reaction.

I apologized if my statement was offensive to her beliefs and said that I had spoken too fast. She laughed, shook her head while smiling and said, "It's all good."

I promise myself that I will always give Son time to form his own opinion. If Son wants to paint his room pink and rock a green mohawk, he will know that it's totally fine with me.

He will continue to get odd stares and whispers around us in public the whole duration of having a trach tube and an NG tube. People stare at Son because they're curious and don't understand because it's something they're not used to seeing, but I won't let it stop us from going in public. He's alive and happy, and I will try to never let the world teach him that two men holding hands is a cause for staring, either.

Same sex couples shouldn't feel like they have to hide out. Let's just celebrate love and being alive!

Brilliant!

Mom knows that I blame Papi for breaking every pen I touch.

Recently, I had to sign something for her. Guess what? Pen ran out of ink. We both kind of smiled and shrugged. She left the room and returned with a pencil. Brilliant!!!!

(I'll be really baffled if Papi figures out how to make a pencil run out of lead).

**Update 6/7: After having 2 pens refusing to provide ink, I grabbed a mechanical pencil. The lead snapped off 3 flippin' times before I decided to give up on my task. **Sigh.**

The Youngest Learns To Be The Loudest.

In the household I grew up in, I was the youngest of 4 (and sometimes all the way up to youngest of 6-7, depending on who was staying with us).

Every Sunday, we would line up by the hallway bathroom to shower before church, and since we were lined up by age, I was always last. No hot water for me!

Did I ever get the remote? No.
Did I tend to get smashed between couch cushions and be made into a "Jacee Sandwich" while my brothers sat on top? Yes.
Did I get sent to bed early with my sister, only to sneak out a little bit later to discover all the older people were eating ice cream? Yes.

I think it's inevitable that the youngest learns to be the loudest. And by "loudest", I don't necessarily mean by volume, but you WILL find a way to get your point across and make sure you're being heard.

I told you that in order to preface this next part.

It was a weekend long event when Papi went back to sea since that's how long I told the out-of-town visitor (let's call him "T") delivering Papi's remains was allowed to stay.

Night #1: It's a HUGE rule of mine to never speak ill of the dead, and on this night, T alleged the worst circumstance and I couldn't believe my ears. I shook it off, smiled, said that I was "Full of questions, but at least for tonight, let's have a nice, family dinner and we'll talk about it tomorrow".

Background Info: My friend "L" was living with Papi and died 2 days after him. She was dying of blood poisoning on the couch while T busied himself ransacking the trailer after learning of Papi's death. T found the cash box, the wallet, dug through everything, took the car, and left L to die, claiming he thought she was just drunk.

Day #2: (Before sending Papi to sea), I was bursting at the seams with anger and questions for T and was doing so well at keeping my mouth shut, but as I sat at a table with my mom and T, chomping on my lips, the conversation went quiet and my mom looked at me to say, "Jacee is thinking something."

Yup! Flood gates opened up and I lost my mouth filter. It's like when you catch a yellow traffic light; you either run with it, or stop. I always run with it.

It is a widely known fact that when I KNOW I'm right, you will quickly hear that you're wrong. I am very blunt and if there's ever a bush to beat around, I stomp through it. Although I've learned to be ladylike and polite when necessary, this Jackass didn't deserve one ounce of politeness.

I literally interrogated T, starting with asking about if he actually knew the medical cause of L's death, and that she had died of blood poisoning from an unattended rash, and if the squatters that quickly showed up at the trailer had enough sense to call an ambulance for her, than why didn't he? Why was he so busy raiding the trailer to notice her on the couch? Would she still be alive if he hadn't been so preoccupied with stealing things? And HOW DARE HE TELL ME on Night #1 that L killed Papi because she knew she was in the will, and then killed herself because she couldn't deal with the guilt?! T's the one that left her there to die while he ran off with cash and Papi's car.

It felt like I could hear jaws dropping all through the house. A few had the same questions, but I knew nobody was going to ask.

I still didn't get any answers to my questions, but I received a lot of dumb shrugs and sighs from a very dumb person. I found peace in being able to call him out on his crap, and now I will live a happier life knowing I never have to see or talk to him again.

Mom visited on Monday and said she was proud of me for calling T out. She even said T told her on Night #1 (regarding me gently saying "We'll talk about this tomorrow") that he wouldn't be attending the memorial the next day because he didn't want me to confront him.

I am proud for standing up for our two passed loved ones, and happy that my mom acknowledged it :). My head is held higher today.

Maybe being the youngest helped me become a more assertive adult, and if that's sometimes considered offensive, than maybe you just can't handle the truth.

Papi Went Back To Sea Yesterday.

*(Before you sound the alarm, rest assured that we followed all state laws about sending human remains out).*

His wish was fulfilled, and surprisingly, I didn't cry nearly as much as I thought I would.

 

It was still very emotional for me, even though I heard a few family members say things along the lines of, "He said goodbye to me a long time ago," and, "I don't have anything to say to him," and, "Oh I guess he was really selective about which grandchildren he liked." (Then how about you don't attend?!)

 

Yet with most of my family together, as I held my 5-month old son tight (looking stunning in his tuxedo, if I do say so myself!) we watched as Papi's ashes swirled around in the water until they dissipated. Mom tossed a personal letter off into the water to be sent out with him. Even though I'd prepared a mini speech, I just couldn't do it with so many negative vibes around us. Nobody else had any words to say, and at least two made it clear that they thought this memorial was a waste of time.

 

I tried to keep myself together but the only thing I could think of to say aloud through my sobbing was, "Papi, I hope you are still a sarcastic butthead in Heaven." (I wanted to say "jackass" ((as I lovingly called him to his face in life)) but there were children around).

 

Now, after I've had time to process everything, I feel extremely honored. Maybe he was selective about which family members to show love to, and he chose me.

 

And now my son has one more angel to smile at.

 

R.I.P. Papi

Holes In The Floor of Heaven.

Today I woke up, got out of bed to maintain my typical morning ritual of fetching a glass of ice water, then headed back to bed with plans of laying there and watching the news until my cup was empty.

By chance, I actually looked at the bed before climbing back in. There was a penny on my pillow. If you know me, you know I see meaning in this. Someone is thinking of us today :).

It Happened Again

My husband and I have had an odd tradition ever since we started dating. When we wake up, our pillow talk consists of me telling him what went through my head while I was off in Dream Land. My dreams have always been so vivid and loud that I remember everything down to the smallest details, and my unconscious brain comes up with some pretty good stuff! He is always amazed and enjoys the daily story telling.

Two days ago, when he asked about what has essentially become his early morning entertainment. I was still thinking over the details and said, "I'm not sure... but I just really feel like I have to ask Nurse L if she wears leggings. Is that weird?"

(In the dream, I was simply watching TV with Nurse L when a news story came up about someone that died. I realized it was someone I'd gone to elementary school with and the news channel played a quick slideshow of photos. It quickly flashed a 5th grade picture of me and I said, "L! L! Look it's me!! I'm on the news! Look at my awesome leggings!!" She slapped her hands on her knees and said, "I LOVE leggings!").

I wasn't planning on asking her because it was just such a silly and pointless question. She only wears scrubs to work and it wasn't going to make my life any different to know what she wears on her own time. But then she showed up for her shift and I couldn't help myself.

Me: "L... I have an odd question for you."
L: "Oh, let me sit down. Is this gonna be another good one?"
Me: "Eh, not really. I was just wondering if you wear leggings?"
L: "Leggings... like spanx?"
Me: "No, leggings like what people wear with a dress."
L: "Yea, I wore leggings and a dress yesterday."

Dan was in the room and snapped his neck towards me so quickly with a "WHOA" expression.

Sure. It's nothing significant, but I am starting to intrigue myself.

Then she said, "Oh, and..."

I cut her off at that and said, "Yea, we've also noticed that [insert name of a specific medicine for Son that is only given on as 'as needed' basis] does seem to make a difference, too. Feel free to use your discretion about using it."

She paused for what seemed like an extremely awkward amount of time, tilted her head, and said, "How did you know that's exactly what I was going to ask you?" Her and Dan were both staring at me at that point, but Nurse L had her eyebrows furled up in a questionable manner as if she's wondering about what exactly just happened.

As Dan was staring at me, still looking mystified, I asked him, "Do I have to add you to the list of people that think I'm crazy?"

And he replied, "I wouldn't have married you if I thought you were normal."

I love that man :) .

Dear Son,

I didn't get to see you when you were born and it was weeks before I could hold you. I didn't feel like a mom. One moment, I had your lovely, little body inside me, then, by the swift hand of a surgeon, my body was empty.

You were gone. My phone didn't have reception, nor is it one of those nifty phones that have internet. And why can't anyone update me about my baby? I was sedated for three days during recovery, and all I knew was that I was empty. It was such a daze that even the statement that I'd just had a baby didn't even feel correct. When you have a baby, shouldn't you literally be in possession of said baby?!?!

I spent three days essentially alone in my hospital while your daddy spent his days with you at your hospital. I can't say it enough; I didn't feel like a mom. It just felt like a magic trick.... *Now you're pregnant and NOW YOU'RE NOT!" And now let's all make the baby disappear!! * Strangest feeling ever, and I'm surprised I could even find words to remotely describe it.

It took awhile for motherhood mode to kick in, I admit that, but ever since you finally became mine, I don't ever want to let you go.

Son, you are my best friend. I love you more than bears love honey (and we all know that's an awful lot). I love that you've picked a favorite blankey and a favorite toy, and that even though you can't make a sound, I hear what you're saying. I know when you're cooing at the ladies or laughing at the silly faces of bearded men (because you're really just not used to seeing men besides Daddy.) I love how we fall asleep together and you'll occasionally lift your head out of the blanket you're suckling to look at me, almost as if you need to reassure yourself about who's cuddling you. I love saying, "Yes baby, it's still Momma", then you'll give a bashful smile and bury yourself back to your blankey and into slumber. I love it when the nurses consult me about how to handle a specific situation, and I can confidently tell them that you have 3-5 meltdowns per day, and when you start having your dramatic fits of wheezing, they should expect about 5-8 coughs. I know you. And you came from me. And that is just miraculous. You are truly the love of my life.

And now tomorrow I have to face a mother's worst fear. You are having a procedure done that requires you to go under anesthesia. I know you will survive, life will go on, and I trust your doctors. But I can't imagine how I'm going to hold back from crying my eyes out so I can keep it together long enough to get through the formalities of paperwork. It used to be so much easier because I didn't know you. You were just a baby that someone said had been cut out of my tummy, and then drugged me for days. Now I'm amazed (and mildly embarassed) about how easy it used to be to just walk away when you had a procedure. This time, I've asked every hospital friend I have about who can meet me where and when because I need a distraction. Can someone just sedate me too?!

Now I have to kiss you goodbye and tell you that I love you without crying. Tomorrow will be very hard, but this procedure has to be done. You are much stronger than me, Kiddo, and we are both very lucky to have your daddy be strong enough for all of us.

I love you Son.

My Mom Said Son Is Smiling At Angels

My blog is named "Becoming Jacee" because even though I've been writing since 2007, I am still only 24-years old, and I still discover new things about myself daily.

You can call me odd, but then it's also your choice to stop reading my blog.

My Grandpa (my "Papi") died just days before Son was born. We are so close and I would easily refer to him as one of my best friends (did you notice I don't refer to him in the past tense?). I found out about his passing through a very rude voicemail and then sobbed so hard it felt like my eyes would bleed.

My cell phone became evil that day. It just kept ringing and ringing and ringing from unknown numbers and everybody wanted something from me. The attorney wanted to know who is paying Papi's unpaid balance. The squatter's that have already taken over the trailer wanted to know if they can have the trailer. The landlord of the trailer park wanted to know who is responsible for paying the monthly space rent (Fuck the trailer, I'm broke, go ask the squatters!). The person in possession of his dog that was left to me wants to know when I can plan on driving to Oregon and get her. Two people called wanting to know what was left to them in the will.

How can you focus on what's in it for you to gain when we've just had a loss? I explained to everyone that I am days away from birthing a baby that we know will be disabled, and everyone just needs to chill out when I can focus on this in about a week.

Finally, FINALLY, the phone shut up, and I was MAD at everyone who called and MAD at Papi. I was 9 months pregnant and this had just drained every resource my body had left, so I screamed AT HIM. I loudly screamed at him as if he was in the same room for 20 minutes. (HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME! YOU MADE ME IN CHARGE OF EVERYTHING AND I'M OVER 300 MILES AWAY, ABOUT TO HAVE A BABY, AND I CAN'T HANDLE THIS!!!! HOW DARE YOU DIE NOW!!!). In an emotionally charged fit of rage and despair of loss, I screamed at him so loud that I'm mildly surprised the neighbors didn't come busting through the door.

Something in me changed that day. Before you read further, feel assured that I am not crazy or hearing voices and seeing apparitions around my house. Now I "joke" that Papi lives at my house. Every time I mention it to someone new, it's like dipping your toe in the pool water, just to test how crazy they think I am. But in all seriousness, he won't leave us alone! Something about him passing over has heightened my senses with my desire to still be with him.

A few days ago, a nurse arrived for her night shift. She was physically alone, but as I glanced at her walking through the door, I just felt a man was with her. It's like that feeling when you wake up because you just sense that someone is staring at you. It was patriarchal and a friendly feeling, and as if I'd almost received the warm greeting of, "Hey, Jacee."

I stayed on the couch and before she'd even kicked her shoes off, I asked her if the name "William", or maybe more commonly referred to as "Billy" meant anything to her. (I'm grateful she didn't look at me like I'm crazy). She sat down on the chair close to me and said her grandpa "Billy" had just died, and that was her reasoning for being just a bit late. She cried when I said he's definitely still with her. (The nurses and I are not allowed to share phone numbers, be facebook friends, exchange email addresses, I don't even know her last name).

I sent her off to Son's room and that was that.

Just by looking at her, it's like I magically absorbed a wealth of knowledge about her.

On a different note, Son is usually hooked up to what's called an "oximeter". It monitors his pulse and amount of oxygen he's receiving. It alarms every time his stats drop below a certain level. The probe is attached to his foot, but any time he sweats or jiggles his little feet around, the sensor gets moved and sounds the alarm. Yesterday, he was sleeping in his room but kept wiggling and the loud alarm kept chiming. In a fit of frustration that this was going to eventually wake my sleeping baby, I turned off the machine, removed the probe from his foot, and headed back to the other side of the house with baby monitor in hand. Not too long later, (I should have been paying closer attention to the monitor),  I distinctly heard the alarm screaming again. I ran across the house into Son's room and he was clearly in distress, needing assistance. The machine was still off and not attached to him, but I know I heard it... Someone is helping me, but also enjoys pulling pranks on me. The light bulbs keep going out. Every straw I grab breaks. Most pens runs out of ink. (I usually grab 4-6 of each before settling back on the couch).

I used to call it just being intuitive, but I've changed a lot ever since Papi left his body. Now there are at least three extra people lingering around my house. When I gently ask the the spirits to leave my room before an intimate moment, whichever of our cats/dog are in the room seem to almost chase/follow them out. Maybe I do seek to find meaning in everything, or maybe there really is more than meets the eye.

(I wish I could charge them rent).

Love

This is such a beautiful life.

There is no greater feeling in the world than seeing my two guys smile at me. One chose to fall in love with me, and the other is a product of that love.

Happy Mother's Day!

I Doubt Myself A Lot.

On the first day of 6th grade at Eisenhower Middle School, (first day ever that I had to travel around a school campus to find different classrooms), the teacher of my computer class introduced himself, and then scribbled out on the white board the word "a lot". This is two words, and I didn't previously know this. (Any assignment turned in with this specific, monumental, glorious word misspelled will be handed back with an "F", and the already nervous, 11-year old, little Jacee will remember to never misspell this word again). Gone are the days of spelling "alot", and by the way, Welcome to Middle School!

There are a lot of other things I still know that I don't know. I'm hoping someday, someone comes into my life with a guide book or road map of where I started and where I'm supposed to end up. (Are "guide book" and "road map" supposed to be one word or two?. Who knows. Whatever).

Anyways, during our stay at the hospital, I had essentially rehearsed answers to questions regarding Son and how I'm doing postpartum because I didn't want anyone to question our ability to get discharged from the hospital and go home as a family. Whatever I was dealing with, that was my issue, not his, and every baby is happier at home. A smile makes every answer better.

Now I'm dumbfounded when people tell me things along the lines of, "You're such an inspiration!," and "You're so strong!". Um, no. I'm not... not at all, actually. I am just one person making from one day to the next, making it as best as I can; just like you. Didn't we do what any parents would have done? We were met with an insanely hard circumstance and both smiled through it while living in the hospital and attending classes to teach us how to care for our disabled baby. It felt as though we had to act a specific way through showing people in charge of discharging us that, yes, we are able to survive at home.

We are home now and even though it's still a struggle every day, it's worth it. I am so in love with my son and more in love than ever with my husband. But my question is this: does basically just surviving through misfortune install a sense of admiration in others? Because I still feel like all I did was exist while all the other details happened around me. And I feel I could have done a lot better, and that is where I doubt myself.

A nurse asked me, "Do you feel guilty?". Of course I feel guilty. I think any mother, anywhere, ever, in the entire universe would feel guilty their whole life if their baby was born with complications. (Of course the analytical part of me instantly disects the question 6 different ways. Does she think I caused this? Does she know it's a chromosomal defect? Does she think I drank cocktails while letting Mixed Martial Artists freely punch me in the stomach while pregnant?) Maybe she was questioning me, maybe she wasn't, but as I analyze it further, I remind myself that the fact that I immediately felt defensive is reassuring that I am a good mom. I am ready to cage fight Mike Tyson, run through a burning building, or punch a tiger in the face if it meant defending my little guy. Maybe defending him means I also have to get better at defending myself. I will always feel like there are whispers around us, asking, "What DID SHE do wrong?".

But in a different context, I still look at Dan almost daily and positively say, "We did it, Babe," because I want him to be assured that he's doing a good job. But... if we're both doing/did the same thing... maybe I'm doing a good job, too? Maybe I just need to reevaluate how I view myself.

My Son Sucks.

Yup, that's right Kiddo. This is the probably the only situation I can imagine that phrase being used in a positive light. You suck! In fact, you're really good at sucking!

This means that maybe sometime in the not too distant future, we'll be able to get that NG feed tube out of your nose because you're progressing really well on eating orally. Keep sucking :)

I See Meaning In Everything.

Dan used the hall bathroom last night while we were hanging out in the living room. He left the door open since we were home alone (with the baby) and I heard him say, "Well that was weird."

Upon coming out, I asked him what was up. Still standing in the hallway, he said he'd been looking in the mirror while using the toilet (also weird...) and saw a closed bedroom door across the hall open on it's own. I stayed on the couch while we're having this short exchange. As I'm looking at him, the hallway light burnt out. He flicked back on the bathroom light, then that light burnt out as well.

Standing in darkness, he says, "Dangit!!" and flips on the dining room light so he can find his way to new lightbulbs. The light flicked on... but only for a brief moment because then it went out as well.

I think our visitor is back and I need to go stock up on lightbulbs.

Who You Are Is Okay

I inexplicably dance every time I hear music, whether it's a lame TV commercial or the theme song to Golden Girls (which sometimes my husband randomly sings just because he wants to see me bust a move, even though he'll thoroughly deny that he knows the lyrics). I am okay with my quirks. Life is so full of hardships and I wonder why wouldn't you dance if you feel like it?

Years ago, a group of our friends went out for karaoke. Listening to someone else singing, I asked a friend if she wanted to dance. She said, "Um, there isn't really a dance floor." I replied that everything is a dance floor, ("THIS table is a dance floor!!!"). We jumped on the table and danced until it flipped over and (unhurt) we laughed uncontrollably.

I'm pretty sure that anyone who knows me knows that I've given up on social norms. Yanno, I've had a ton of hurt, and frankly, I just don't care anymore. After a lifetime of variables in a blended family, I've officially thrown in the towel on what might be considered normal, and I finally find myself returning to what feels natural to me; reading, writing, loving, and dreaming peacefully while Papi visits with me. I wish that everyone could create a life that genuinely makes them happy.

This next part might sound odd to you. Rest assured, I am not crazy; just expressing my beliefs. (Some people speak to an invisible Jesus, so it shouldn't be that weird that I'm spiritual in my own way.) It's a known law of physics that energy can not be created or destroyed. Just because someone's body has given up doesn't mean they aren't still with us daily.

I miss my grandpa more than anyone will ever understand even though he and I still hang out at least a few nights a week in my dreams. He slams his fist on the counter exclaiming how mad he is about how his estate was dealt with, and waves his hands in the air saying he hardly knew the squatters that took over his trailer. I watch him holding Son on the back porch. He showed me how he died. He tells me that he'd prefer his photo to be put next to Grandma Delores' watch in my bedroom instead of where I'd originally hung it. I don't know what to make of all this, but I fully believe that my Papi is still fully with us. There is another grandpa that visits me often to chat, then apologizes that we have to cut our conversation short because it's time for my husband to wake up for work. Every single time, I find that Dan has overslept his alarm.

Nobody knows exactly what happens when you die, and I don't want to spend my life chasing what I think will make money. If you sustain your lifestyle doing something you don't love, just to keep living a life that doesn't make you happy, what's the point? Just living?

As long as my son is happy and healthy, I have no plans on letting life pass me by.

Moral of the story, if you want to dance, just dance. If you want to sing, just sing. If you feel like making up your own rap song while grocery shopping even though people are already staring at you because of your disabled son's loud medical equipment while your husband pretends he's not with you and awkwardly laughs, don't worry. People are people, and you never know how much time you have to spend with the important ones.

Instant Mom

It's 3:00am. I woke up on the couch 3 hours ago and shortly afterwards posted on Facebook:

"Nothin' like a good book on a Saturday night. In fact, so good that the baby and I fell asleep in the living room (he was in his swing) and didn't notice the night nurse's arrival for almost an hour. After waking up on the couch, I said, 'Did the dog bark when you walked in? I'm surprised I didn't wake.' She replied, 'Yes, and your security dog is so helpful that she even showed me where the TV is.' "

I've been laying in bed ever since. Just thinking.

As I wrap my arm underneath me on my side of our pillow, I remind myself of how wonderful it is to share a pillow with someone, even though I'm pushing aside the thought that it's mildly pathetic to only have one pillow. I snuggled up to the warmth of my snoring walrus of a husband and started thinking about all the other things we share. Our straws. Our sadnesses. Our burdens. Our hugs. Our happiness. Our hearts. Sometimes even Our toothbrush.

The love and happy times make all the hard times so worth it. I never thought it was possible to feel so connected to someone; almost as if he's just an extension of myself.

I am also incredibly in love with my son. With his situation, it took awhile for the motherhood mode to kick in. After being in the hospital for so long, it was almost as if he wasn't mine. Someone else was always there to change his diaper and administer his feedings. Intimidated by all the monitors and tubes, all I could do was look at him.

I can honestly identify the moment of true realization that my maternal instincts kicked in. Just days after being home, I was giving him a bath in his baby tub in the bathroom. As we finished up, I realized I hadn't grabbed a towel so I placed him on the fluffy floor mat and darted 3 feet to the hall closet. Within seconds I returned to the bathroom and saw my tiny, little, helpless baby wiggling around on the floor with an expression that almost said, "Help me, Mom." There ya have it; Instant mom: just add water.

Blah.

I'm trying to think of something to write about.

As I travel back in time through my blog history, I realize one very prominent trend. Seems that I go through spells where I can't shut up, then long periods of silence. Eventually I show back up, apologize for my writing absence, then start with an obligatory "update" post followed with promises to stay current. I want to avoid that rut this time but it's already been a month since my last post.

So let's see. Hmmmmm.

Being home with Son has been wonderful beyond words, although definitely still jumping hurtles as new obstacles arise. We "interviewed" a few different in-home nursing companies while still in the hospital and left feeling extremely pleased and comfortable with our decision. Turns out that we were fed a sales pitch with nothing but vacant promises. After spending weeks on the back burner, we finally decided to cut ties with the company and switch to our runner up. Feeling a lot more confident now and regretting we didn't originally go with #2. All the paperwork has been signed, doctor's orders have been faxed, and the first shift with a nurse from #2 company is tonight. Please wish us better luck this time around!

On a different note, my book is about 90% done. I keep changing my mind about the cover and still have a handful of stories to write. We kept a journal while living in the hospital and chronicled funny moments by quickly writing down a few key words. Now I have to find time to revisit that moment and put the whole experience out in words. This last part will be tricky because our daily hours of nursing are close to being reduced, since we've almost reached the "been home one month" mark.

I was going to be gutsy and pour everything out in the book. Expose myself 100%. Maybe some would think, "Wow, she's brave for putting that out there," or they'd think, "Uh, yea, we didn't need to know that". I've officially decided that I'm a pansy and pulled a handful of stories, and well as decided I just wasn't ready to write some of them. We've had some very dark times, and with so much sadness in the world, what's the point of adding more?

Hopefully the end product will be worth reading.

I'm not a fan of cliches but I haven't figured out how to define myself yet. Sometimes, when I tell someone a story or they make an observation about me, the expression I receive in response is... interesting. So at the risk of sounding cliche, I'll just say that yes, I march to the beat of my own drum, I'm a bird of a different feather, etc, etc, use your imagination.

I told you that to tell you this: my husband snores. We have slept separately and at different hours our entire relationship. We have a 3-bedroom house and had a roommate until it was almost baby time. When Roomie moved out, I readily took over the extra bedroom and claimed it as my own. It was a short lived celebration though because "my room" is now what we refer to as "nurse central". They do their paperwork in there, eat their meals in there, watch TV while the baby is sleeping, etc. Well, my entire personality flips on not enough sleep. After countless nights of maybe half-an-hour here or half-an-hour there while my snoring walrus of a husband nasally sounds like he's landing a helicopter on the roof, I'd had enough. I was literally crying with exhaustion and had no place in the house to sleep. Despite the cold outdoor temperature, I hauled a ton of blankets to the back porch and made a nest on the hammock. I instantly felt so at peace. Falling asleep to the sound of rain hitting the porch roof and occasional passing train was blissful.

The next day, I went out and purchased an awesome castle of a tent along with a nice air mattress. I then proceeded to construct the coolest backyard bedroom ever, along with an extension cord, lamp, bedside table, and tablet/phone chargers. In my eyes, I had a problem and I fixed it.

Apparently this is not normal behaviour... the nurses along with a handful of friends/family, upon hearing the news that sometimes I sleep in the backyard is often met with a slight head tilt and one raised eyebrow. Oh well, I love my fortress, and if sleeping outdoors defines keeping whatever's left of my sanity, I'm fine with that.

Little Man Update

Son is doing well and entirely ready to go home. The only delay is that the in-home nursing company we chose covers a few counties and hires local, job-specific nurses on a case-by-case basis. They are still working on finding enough staff.

Son has been approved for 16-hours / day of in-home nurse care for the first month, and then 12-hours / day for the next two months.

It's my hope that we're comfortable enough with providing all his care after three months of being home and won't need to request our insurance to approve more nursing time.

Son's throat suffered a lot of trauma with the six times that the breathing tube went in and out. His doctors decided enough was enough, and that giving him a stoma was the best option. For those of you that don't know what a stoma is, (No worries, I didn't know either but now it feels like I've been through nursing school with everything we've learned in the last 3 months), it's the hole that smoker's get put in their throat when they've smoked a few too many.

He now breathes through the stoma, and since vocal cords are in the throat area between mouth and stoma, he is unable to make a sound. There is no air going through that area to allow vocal cords to vibrate. We have the quietest baby ever. Children's hospital has already set us up with a speech therapist for when it comes time for him to start talking.

Since he's been fed through an NG tube (goes through his nose and down into his belly), eating orally is still a huge struggle, but we've been practicing with a "binky trainer" and he's managed to do well with it, for the most part.

Good news:
- He is entirely weened off morphine!!!
- Neurologists have determined that even though it's still up in the air about his mental capabilities, he has full hearing in both ears.
- Parents have determined that he's extremely cool.

3/15 is our new hopeful discharge date, but we'll see. Cross your fingers and toes!

***Update: 3/18 is the new hopeful discharge date. *sigh*.

Story of Son's Birth

Early labor pains started on Monday, December 17th, even though my mom swears I was already laboring when we got pedicures together the day before.

We are very lucky we knew ahead of time that Son had a birth defect, and wouldn't be able to breathe on his own once the cord was cut. He had about a dozen doctors assigned to his case before he was even born.

Our plan had been in place for weeks: Son would immediately leave me from his birth hospital and take an ambulance ride to Children's hospital.

When labor started at home, I called Children's Hospital every few hours to see if there was room for him yet.

"No" became the longest two letter word I've ever heard.

After days of agonizing stubborness, on the morning of Wednesday the 19th, my salvation presented itself when I received a call saying, "Yes, there is a bed for him." We immediately started getting ourselves ready to go while the car heated up. About 20 minutes later, another call came. My body has never felt so defeated: an emergency baby showed up and took priority over Son's bed.

The phone rang again in the late evening. A room had freed up. It was baby time.

I cried all the way to Seattle and recanted at least 150 times (I'm not exaggerating) that I was so scared. So scared. SO scared. Hey Dan, did you hear me? I'm SO scared. We knew Son would be a C-Section baby and even after knowing that factor for over a month, I might of well been walking the Green Mile to my death because of how scared I was.

I've never had surgery. I hate needles. I hate taking pills. I hate people looking at and touching my bare body.

The first step was putting an IV into my left hand. I've never felt so lightheaded as I did when I saw the giant jumble of needles and tubes taped to my hand. Next, two nurses stripped my lower half and shaved everything from my belly button to my upper thigh. Lovely.

I watched Dan put on the blue surgical gowns. Even his presence did little to comfort me. Have I mentioned yet that I was extremely scared?!

I had to wave goodbye to my husband while being pushed into surgery yet was being reassured that someone would fetch him before the procedure started.

I was put on a table in front of about 8-10 doctors, naked.
I was painted orange with sanitizer.
I had to slump over in a very specific position so eight very painful shots could be perfectly placed in my back.

Then a surgeon with a needle appeared to take pleasure in stabbing around my body to test where I still had feeling.

The main surgeon promised me during prenatal appointments that she'd hold my baby up over the sheet for a quick glimpse before being whisked away to get worked on. She's a liar. From my side of the sheet, I heard someone say something along the lines of, "And now the baby's here."

Dan looked over the sheet, looked back at me, fully smiling with tears in his eyes and said, "He's all there. You did it, Babe." I started crying and waited for the glorious noise that every new parent wants to hear.

Nothing.

Fearing the worst, I asked Dan, "Why isn't he crying?" He responded that Son had already been taken from the room. It all happened so quick.

Three days passed before I was able to get transported from my hospital to his and ride a wheelchair to his bedside.

Not the ideal natural, water birth I had in mind, but such is life. Would I do it again for him? Yes.

Watching My Man Become a Daddy

I've mentioned it before but I'll say it again; my husband is a badass, leather-wearing, gun-toting biker and sports a full, grizzly beard that he is extremely proud of.

Yesterday I woke up on the hospital couch in Son's room without him noticing. I laid quietly with one eye open while watching him interact with our baby.

Son has a music/projector box that came with three simple spinning discs that project his "movies" (as we call them) on the ceiling. I watched Dan positioning Son around so he could watch his "movie", and it was the one with a moon wearing a night cap while other stars float around.

I hear him whisper, "Look, even the moon is going to sleep," as he comforts Son into slumber.

This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

Loud And Proud

In case you didn't already know this about me, I have always had insane social anxiety. In a small group I will talk the ear right off your head, but as soon as I felt on the spot, or felt as though I was the center of attention, I would freeze up and tremble like a cold, little dog.

This always had a huge impact on my life. It is the main reason I dropped out of college. Something as simple as standing up to introduce myself on the first day of a new quarter would make me sweat and gasp for breath. It's also why we planned our wedding the way we did. I didn't want to be scared in front of a huge group on my special day.

One other thing you should know about me is that I love karaoke (even though singing isn't exactly my calling...), yet always had to be unreasonably drunk before getting up in front of a crowd. Even the knowledge that someone had put my name on a song request would make my heart race. The drinks couldn't come fast enough for that kind of fear!

Last night a few friends kidnapped us for a group night out at the karaoke bar. I proudly sang two songs before my first drink arrived (Time Warp, anyone?). More friends arrived throughout the evening. The girls and I spent the whole night hopping on stage to intrude on a stranger's performance as we jumped around while singing and dancing to it right beside them (dancing is also not my calling...).

I had SO much fun. I had a BLAST. I am still smiling.

I haven't quite figured this out yet, but something about Son's arrival and being treated like a farm animal after my c-section while simultaneously getting stripped of my modesty, might have cured my phobia.

This is a huge break through.

Grateful Tears

"Santa Phil" visited Son on Christmas Day and left a stocking with a blanket and rattle. We were not at the hospital at the time, but Son's nurse took a Polaroid photo of Santa leaning over bedside. It will never cease to captivate me and bring a tear to my eye when someone is willing to show kindness to a stranger. That photo of my 6-day old baby with Santa will be saved for life.

About 6 weeks later, I saw on the news that Santa Phil died, and I cried over a man that I've never even met.

On Valentine's Day, a volunteer group came around to all the rooms and gave fluffy stuffed animals to all the kids, along with a $20 gift card for Amazon.com. They were in our room for less than 30 seconds but already had me tearing up. Such a nice gesture for a stranger to show they care. Sure, blame it on my post-pardom hormonal changes, but these things don't just happen in day-to-day life! What is it about misfortune that brings people together?

I don't know how to word this next part without sounding like I'm boasting about my good deeds, but I have spent my whole adult life volunteering at soup kitchens, dragging a dozen blankets on a bus to downtown Seattle to attend outreach groups that provide food and warmth for the cold and hungry, volunteering at the improv theater in the University District, bringing home homeless people (sorry Mary), and being part of the Big Brothers, Big Sisters program.

Sometimes I have a "pity party" kind of day (as my mom would call it) while I contemplate, "I always help anyone in everyway that I possibly can, but where is everyone when I'm the one needing help?" My Earth angels have finally shown up in full force. I am so grateful my son is never alone and is getting all the love, help and support he deserves.

Karma couldn't have picked a better time to show up :)

Now I Need A Drink.

Son's new room at the hospital has almost zero cell phone reception. I roamed the hallways, arm fully extended with phone held up in the air, looking for a bar of reception because I needed to return a call.

I found reception in the lobby area by the hospital elevators. After connecting with the person awaiting my call, I apologized that it'd taken me so long to call back, and explained that I had to find a bar before calling. 

Then I realized that I was sitting on a bench, surrounded by a lobby full of people, all looking at me, wondering why I've just loudly proclaimed that I've been wandering around the hospital looking for a bar.

*smacks hand to forehead*

If you thought I was joking, I wasn't.

With nothin' but time, I just fired off emails to a few publishers. I've never done this before so we'll see what the process entails, but hoping to have our book published in 4-6 months.

It is titled after my current life motto...

In conversation with friends and family, people are constantly tilting their head while sympathetically saying, "Well, at least you are still smiling about it."

I respond, fully smiling, "All crazy people smile".

So there ya go.

"All Crazy People Smile" will hopefully be in a bookstore near you soon! Even if the only one sold is a copy for myself, I'm fine with that! Cause I will still be smiling while scratching something off the bucket list I wrote years ago.

And then maybe I'll try my hand at writing children's books. Pretty sure I'm odd enough to come up with something interesting enough to entertain a 7-year old :) .

Tried and True.

One thing you should know about me is that I never exaggerate, and if I accidentally do, I'll acknowledge it and say, "Okay... I did not actually wait an hour for the elevator while one million people got in before me." And when I say things like, "Trust me on this one," or "I'm being extremely literal," it's because I mean it through and through.

Son finally has been moved to a room that we're able to sleep in with him. Dan and I previously slept in a small parental sleeper unit an entire elevator ride away from Son's room in the NICU.

Finally feels like I really do have my family together, and that is a great feeling.

[This next bit might sound crazy, but a lot of things I say these days are usually prefaced by that statement. Get used to it, and then immediately start praying to God that I don't get into conspiracy theories or my thoughts on aliens. That'd make for some eyebrow raising reading. You might even want to read my most recent previous post before finishing this one.]

Anyways, Son got fussy a little bit ago and Dan jumped up to his bedside.

When Dan jumped up, I thought, "Eh, might as well test out his mind reading abilities."

Now here's the part where I say I'm being extremely literal. I stayed in bed and stared at him, using every ounce of thought power I have and thought, "Come on Dan... plug in the music box. Plug in the music/projector box, Dan! Son is bored and needs something to look at. Plug in the music box, Dan!"

He instantly fumbled for the music/projector box, plugged it in, fiddled around with it, and got the projector part set on an area of ceiling within Son's eyesight.

This is kind of cool.

No Words

I often joke that Dan's Indian roots have made him a mind-reading-voodoo-witch doctor, and that he needs to stay out of my head.

Is it weird to say that we have entire conversations without a single spoken word?

For instance, there are times when I'll be sitting on the floor of our hospital unit, stomach starts growling, and I think, "Hmmmm..... Qdoba sounds good." Dan will immediately look at me, say that he's hungry, and that we should go to Qdoba.

Or in the car, making the long trip home, ("TMI" ALERT!) I'm silently wondering if my order from the Passion Party has arrived and has been sitting on our porch. He randomly chirps up and asks about what I ordered.

I swear, I am connected to that man in ways that there really are no words for.

I was sitting on the floor, thinking about a YouTube video that I watched years ago, considering different keywords of how I could possibly find it again just to show Dan. He looks at me within seconds and says, "Hey have you seen that one video where the guy dances backwards in slow motion to that one song....?"

Yesterday, I was upstairs making the bed while thinking, "Hmmm, Son is at that point where he needs new things to look at... I should purchase a mobile to hang over his bed...and I'm thirsty, probably dehydrated. I should go get some ice."

Moments later, Dan walks into our room, with four cups of ice, and says, "I think we need to get a mobile for Son's bed." I shake my head and tell him to stay out of it!!

This morning he woke up, looked at me, and said, "Hey."
I responded, "Yes I will get you ice."
He says, "Perfect," and rolls back to his side.

Maybe his super powers are rubbing off on me :).

How To Catch A Cat

Trust me on this one.... if there is ever a cat that you desire to hold... just outstrech your arm with one single finger extended. 9 out of 10 cats seriously can't resist the urge to run up to you and touch their nose to your finger. Try it; I dare you.

Well that was awkward.

This hospital has thousands of staff. My husband seems to have a pretty good handle on who all the nurses are (go figure), but I've given up. I don't even bother anymore. Auto pilot. I usually plow into the NICU at full speed and head to my son's bed. If a nurse starts talking to me, I don't even look up. Sorry. I swear I'm listening but I don't care to know your name or your face because you'll be gone in 7 hours anyways.

My son had a procedure earlier today and I entirely forgot that I was warned that he might be moved to a different room afterwards.

I did my usual FULL SPEED AHEAD!!!! type walk into Son's OLD room. I'm staring at a baby, confused... hmmm... that's not my baby. Then I look around and realize there are a handful of people also staring at me, confused. A woman that I'm assuming was the mom, (with an almost pissed off expression because she's wondering why the hell I'm so close to her baby,) says, "I'm sorry, I don't think I've met you."

You're right. That's yours... Where's Mine?

Maybe There's Still Hope...

I posted on Facebook requesting anyone who attended our fundraiser event on Sunday to please send me their address.

(If you attended you would have agreed that there was absolutely no hope of passing around a guest book. The restaurant was chaos!)

Something interesting happened, and when I make an interesting observation, I will definitely share it.

It's a full day later yet NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON sent me their address.

I find this odd because at one point I proudly acquired over 70 "likes" on a silly cat photo within hours, so I know people are out there listening, but... could it be?... With hundreds of people showing up at the event to show their support, could it be possible that seriously not one single person is expecting anything in return?

Maybe there is still hope for humanity.

Hmm... I will have to ponder this strange phenomena a little more.

Delirious

Mentally, I feel like I can entirely handle this entire situation. I am ready to ROCK, conquer it all, KICK THIS SYNDROME'S ASS, power ahead at 400 miles per hour, and someday soon run 38 miles home with my baby. Oh, what's that? Ya want me to repaint the entire hospital in my down time? SURE! Find a cure for Fryn's while simultaneously making balloon animals in the playroom? I'M ON IT!

Physically, my body does not agree.

I don't really know how to explain this next part. It might make you raise an eyebrow and seriously wonder, "Wow, she's on some special kind of crack."

Let's start with the movie Avatar. There is a scene when the main male character returns to his human body, yet his love is still in her 14-foot tall, blue, Avatar body. She saves his life. She still loves him. She looks at him, presses her hand to his heart, and says, "I see YOU." Hold onto that concept as you continue reading.

I often describe myself as being separate from my body. I describe it in the form of, "My body has decided to stop producing milk..." Or, "I don't want the pain pills because I don't want my body to become addicted."

I am Jacee, and my mind is separate from this shell of a body that I'm stuck in. I might be 120 pounds or 208 pounds, but I'm Jacee, and I'm in this body.

When I look at you, I am not looking at your hair, or whether you are looking fashionable with your leggings and boots, or if your clothes match. I am looking at YOU; at your soul, and I will see you for who you really are. I hope that makes sense, and I hope you see ME, too.

I hate slowing down in any situation, and I hate to admit it, but my body is giving up.

If it were up to me, I'd be running laps around the hospital until my legs are burning while twirling a baton and directing the marching band.

But just like I had no control over my body deciding to stop producing milk, I feel like I have no control over how tired I am.

I described it to Dan as a car that has gone a hundred thousand miles past it's scheduled "change oil" date. It just breaks down.

It's like when people remark that the President's hair has turned white or grayed by the end of his term. It's stress. Through no conscious effort of their own, a person's body will just react to stress.

I've been pushed many miles past the "change oil" date. And now, it's extremely frustrating to the lucid, mental part of me that I can't do everything I need to/want to do, because my body is just breaking down, and apparently needs to sleep for 12 hours a day (even though I'll still wake up exhausted with tired eyes.)

If this makes me sound crazy, it's because at this point... I probably am.
***Side note.... I just watched a guy throw a chair in the kitchen and storm out on the woman he's with.*** Never a dull moment.

Flexible Hose

Ladies, there is an infomercial out there right now about a new product simply called a "Flexible Hose."

It sounds handy. It coils itself right back up after usage and therefore takes up almost no space at all compared to a normal hose.

However, do not let your man see this infomercial, because if he's as immature as mine, he will laugh all the way to Seattle about all the things he could do with "Flexible HOES."

Oh, hey Dude.

Upon moving into the hospital, Dan and I coined a specific area in the family room as "our area". It is the one and only semi-private area with a couch and a TV. It's a very coveted spot.

That's where we sit and watch late night TV and reconnect with eachother while we pretend our son wasn't dealt the worst cards ever. There's usually a bag of popcorn involved.

About two weeks ago, I left our tiny unit and set out to get the microwave working on our snack and reserve "OUR spot," and Dan was expected to meet me there within a few minutes.

Nope, I returned to our unit, bag of popcorn in hand, head and shoulders sagging a little bit, and explained that there's some dude out there in a white hat, fully sprawled out on OUR couch. Date night was doomed!

Then I had an idea... Told Dan that I'm on my way back there to sit next to White Hat Dude on the small couch, hopefully evoking feelings of awkwardness that would result in him leaving.

So there I am.... sitting on that couch.... Dude fully stretched out.... he thinks nothing of it...

I text Dan, "Plan is not working!"
He responds, "I'm on my way!"

He comes out to family room and casually smashes himself next to me on that little couch. Dude scrunches himself up a little more but still doesn't acknowledge either of us.

Well, soon we learn that Dude's name is Josh. He tells us his story and we tell him ours. There is an unspoken feeling of unity because the three of us are all here because we all have a child in the hospital. And since that awkward meeting, Josh Dude has already delivered a free cord of firewood to our house at the cost of his gas money, and has become a pretty awesome friend. I also introduced him to an equally awesome female friend of mine and so far... the love connection seems to be working out pretty well for them :) .

Life can be crazy with it's wheelings and dealings of the way the cards are dealt, but maybe there really is a method to the madness.

Pennies From Heaven

My mom came over yesterday with intention of picking me up for a pedicure but after explaining to her that after 9 months of pregnancy, I really can't stomach wine, yet was stuck with 4 open bottles from the Friday night event, she came inside and we laughed and cried for hours while her one glass turned into three.

We talked about my Grandpa; my "Papi."

I asked if she could find time to give Tinkerbell (My grandpa's dog. He died last month and I was recently able to go to Oregon and get her,) a bath and wash her jacket, because I'd kept Tinkerbell overnight and she smelled horrifically like cigarettes.

Mom says that she has already washed Tinker twice, and that my niece has even covered Tinker's eyes in the tub while they washed her face. The jacket has been washed in hot water twice as well.

I take it as a sign that my Papi is with Tinker.

During the chat with her at my house, I told her.... "Your dad is here."

Others might not notice, but I do.

Son's indoor swing will start swinging without any sort of stimulation.

The windchime hanging in the kitchen that I bought as a memorial type thing randomly starts chiming, without any open windows or a breeze from anywhere. (Trust me, it's January in Washington. I do not have any open windows).

I look at the wood stove, frowning, thinking, "AW MAN! I let my awesome fire die!" And then the stove instantly reignites itself full of red hot flames.

I asked "the guys" (refer to http://staytunedtoace.blogspot.com/2013/01/only-for-believers.html if you're wondering who "the guys" are) to please leave my bedroom before it gets awkward while I pump. Within seconds, Tinker started making a funky, curious squeakish type noise and jumped off the bed with her little 2-inch legs and ran after them out the bedroom door. (This spoiled little dog hates jumping off the bed and also prefers to whine at you from the bottom of a staircase instead of just climbing her lazy ass up.)

I go to the kitchen to grab a straw for my ice water while I'm typing on the bedroom computer. And then of course it's just my luck that my straw is broken, *Sigh*

I tell my sarcastic Jackass of a grandpa to please stop breaking my straws.

I return to kitchen, grab a new one, go back to desk chair, and guess what! That one's broken too.
I return to kitchen, grab a new one, go back to desk chair, and guess what! That one's broken too.

(No, that repeat was not a computer error. I went through three damn broken straws before getting one that wasn't defective.)

Last night I sat down in the living room with a cup and a handful of straws. Dan and his two guests looked at me like, "Whoa, what are you about to do with all those straws?" I don't bother explaining the back story and only say that I need extra "just in case the first one breaks down."

My Grandpa is laughing while twirling his fingers in Heaven. Prankster.

Mom and I did eventually go out but it was for food, not pedicures.

There was a penny on the walkway from my front porch to my driveway.

Mom grabs my arm and says, "Jacee, my eyes are always searching the ground for coins, and that was not here when I arrived. It's a penny from someone in Heaven."

The Little Things

One thing you should know about me is that I ALWAYS pay in EXACT change. Sometimes I opt for the self-check out machine and feed $17 of change into it just to rid myself of what I've acquired. (Dan still hates it when I do this. Get used to it, Bud.)

A few weeks before Robert's birth, Dan told me that he regularly hides coins for me to find when I clean because he knows it makes me happy to find change.

I seriously cleaned the heck out of my house on Friday before friends arrived, but while cleaning up yesterday, there was a quarter on the coffee table and a nickle by the security camera screen. (Dan had already come home to fetch me yet went down for a nap instead of immediately returning to hospital.)

I love that man.

I'm Too Old For This

I'm old-fashioned. I've heard from handfuls of people that I'm an "old soul."

[Disclaimer: My previous statement does not include the fact that I have a young potty mouth at this time, but I plead temporary insanity.]

If you're reading this, you most likely know my husband, and you most likely know that he is a real "manly man." He's a bad ass. He loves guns, pit bulls, trucks with big tires (which he then ironically "bags" them), and knowing he can protect and provide for his family.

An outsider looking in could easily think, "Wow... Jacee is kind of a dead beat.... She didn't finish college... She doesn't work... Well, what DOES she do?"

This next bit is something I've never felt like explaining; but the way we live has always been the plan. Our plan. Sure I might just be setting the Women's Right's movement back another 60 years, but this was always the plan.

You've likely seen the TV show "I Love Lucy" which I believe started airing around 1952. Sure I could look it up real quick, but don't care that much.

I musta been born in the wrong era because that's the lifestyle I want, and when Dan asked me to marry him, it was just known that that would be the life I'd get. It's the life we both want.

He told me that I will never work again because he'd bring home the bacon and I'd cook it.

He's the man and I am HIS woman.

I will get the pleasure of running around barefoot and pregnant.
I will make the bed every morning after he leaves for work.
I will never need to drive myself again.
I will find time to care for all the animals, wash the dishes, have laundry washed, dried, folded and put away before he comes home from work, push a vacuum for awhile, and there will be lunch on the table while the dinner meat is thawing.
I will collect the eggs and clean the coop.
I will do the grocery shopping, manage the bills and all the other mundane tasks of running a household.
He will chop and bring in the firewood, (but I will make the fire, because I like fire ;).

I am valued for reasons besides a dollar amount that I bring to the table.

I wish I lived in the days when people dressed up just to sit at the dinner table for a meal. Or people played cards with their friends and sent out cards in the mail.

The days when men would say, "You are beautiful," instead of, "You look beautiful."

I will continue to send out checks in the mail instead of signing up for automatic bill pay.

And when my cell phone contract is expired, that thing is GONE! You will then have to get ahold of me by calling my home landline, and I will get the pleasure of asking about your day, because ya know what? I am one of a declining population that genuinely care.

Gone will be the days of recieving texts that only say "Hey."

Really? Three letters? Don't even bother me. I also prefer that you smile at me in person instead of in a text.

Am I being demanding? Or has the evolution of technology made it so damn simple to forget about really connecting with others?

Maybe I've spent too many hours watching I Love Lucy and wondering why that time period had to go.

Too much change for this ol' fart.

We're Really Not That Different

I purposely throw myself out there and leave the door open for judgement. I want to know YOU and I want you to know me. Only then can we decide if we're worth eachother's time before we spend years kicking rocks around while pretending to care.

Judge me, please, and then I will throw rocks right back at your glass house. Might just give ya something to talk about at your tea party.

Back in the day before I was a married old lady, I had a handful of friends that were known to do/say weird and unsavory things. I always thought, "Eh, if she's not embarrassed for herself, than I'm not gonna be embarrassed for her. Rock on, Girl!"

And by this point, I am positive that I must be classified by someone to fall into that group of people that do weird and unsavory things.

It's whatev...

I will continue to swear on the internet. (Fuck it!) It's not because I have a poor vocabulary. Trust me, I know a ton of big words. Just so happens that at this point in my life, my moods and thoughts are best understood by immaturely swearing online. (Pssssst! I don't give a fuck!)

I want to look back when I'm 65 and laugh while shaking my head about what an idiot I was. But I want to remember these feelings.

I will continue to start sentences with words such as "And", and "But", even though it makes every English teacher I've ever had shake their head as well. Can we all just join hands and simultaneously shake our heads together? Might speed things up a bit.

I will continue to be a sarcastic jackass. Get used to it.

But if you are reading this, I will continue to love you. I will fight for you. I will be honest with you and with myself. I will run in when everyone else is running out. My shirt? Oh ya want it? Sure, take it. I know that I am innately good and go through life with the purest heart and giving soul, and I will only surround myself with those that can reciprocate the feeling.

I will continue to write weird stuff about ghosts and my animals, and that my husband can read my mind and hears me from miles away.

I tend to think that I'm not the only person that feels these things, thinks these things, etc. Maybe I'm just the only one crazy enough to throw them out there on a public forum. It's how I keep track of where I was at in life.

Judge me all ya want. I promise you that I can handle ANY situation, and since I've brought you into my life...all I ask is that you please wipe your feet.

Pt. 2 : Only for the believers

My mom picked me up from the hospital earlier today because I overdid it and obligated myself to three events in three days.

I cried while we pulled out of the hospital parking garage. Even though Dan is picking me up tomorrow after Saturday's event to go back to my baby, this is going to be a very hard weekend.

I am trying so hard to get my house ready for the "women's-only" party here and with only two hours left, I started setting up the "private ordering" place in my son's room. I collapsed on the floor and just cried. And cried. And cried. There should be a baby in that bed.

I cried on the floor and begged for anyone listening (Yes I believe in spirits and love knowing my son is surrounded by his grandpas and other passed loved ones), and I begged for anyone listening to hug me and help me get through this weekend.

I am being extremely literal about this next part: I was immediately pulled off the ground. I didn't even have time to look from side-to-side but I was fully standing through no conscious effort of my own.

My tears dried up. My cheeks were no longer flushed. And after being reassured that I am surrounded by love, I know I will make it through this weekend.

Thanks for the hugs, guys.

Who Cares?

Today I woke up at 2:00am with a woman standing in our tiny hospital unit, staring at me sleeping on the floor.

I'm incredibly used to this occurrence by now. (Please refer to this post: http://staytunedtoace.blogspot.com/2013/01/hey-im-just-as-bad-as-you.html)

Without skipping a beat, with one tired eye open I say, "Hi. Coulda sworn the party was tomorrow."

She walks out without saying a word.

Dan keeps telling me, "JUST close the door!!"

No. It's MY door, and I will leave it cracked, and if people really can't resist the urge to open it ALL the way, ALL the time and see whatever weird stuff we're up to, than I don't care, either.

We are only allowed to have one room key. This gets tricky because there are times when one wants to go shower while the other goes to living room to watch TV. Or one goes downstairs to check on Son while other has to visit with the social worker.

We usually just leave the door cracked even though it concerns Dan every single time.

He is convinced that everyone and anyone is trying to rob us and will if given the chance.

I just sigh and shake my head.

Okay, let's assume that our unit is robbed, in a hospital that requires every single person to pass security and wear a badge, and then walk down corridors that each and every single one has cameras.

We own nothing valuable. And if we did, we certainly wouldn't have it here.

So... what's the big deal? Someone steals a 6-pack of orange soda, a $15 plastic shelf that we brought to store our thrift store clothing, and our hospital provided blankets?

Let's focus that paranoid energy elsewhere.

Yes, it's good to keep your guard up to a certain degree, because yes, there are a ton of people in the world that would love to rip you off. After stressing about who would carry the door key or who would meet who where, I told Dan that NOT EVERYONE IS OUT TO GET YOU.

Then I realized how sad it is that I have to reassure my husband of that. I still have hope that there is some innate good in everyone.

Everyone is here because they got past security because they know a child here. I'd like to think that everyone here is concerned about something other than a phone charger. And if they aren't, we'll buy a new one.

Breakfast Bacon & Breast Milk

So let's see... It's 8:40am on Thursday the 24th. I believe I slept for about 3-4 hours during the wee hours of Tuesday the 22nd after searching for a dead chicken. Needless to say that, yes, I am extremely tired.

Know how I keep saying that there's no such thing as time when you live in the hospital? I thought it was just me that felt that way but the feeling finally sank into Dan as well.

We went to the cafeteria for our "breakfast bacon" at 6:30am. Not once has he stuck to the two pieces of bacon that we daily agree on during our walk there. Whole plate load and $13 later, we head back to our unit.

By 8:00am, he was glancing at his plate again and asked, "Do you think it's okay to eat eggs that have been sitting out all day?"

Really Dan? They were purchased an hour and a half ago. Eat the damn scrambled eggs! He somehow already thought they were from yesterday..

K, done with that story. Tangent alert!

Some women never produce breast milk. Some only produce it for 2 weeks while others produce it for 7 years. I have pumped and pumped and pumped every 3 hours since Son's birth. Well... at 5 weeks old, and without having a baby to hold to my chest, it appears I have started to dry up. 

I told Son's nurse that he will soon need to switch to formula when the supply runs out.

She says, "Oh well there are ways we can fix that."
Fix "that"? You mean "fix me"?

I'm broken?

Thought this was a totally normal thing but I guess not, and now I need to be fixed.

Let It Be.

New Rule: Do Not Go Back And Edit Your Old Posts.

Ignore the typos. Ignore the missing words. Ignore the fact that you didn't say exactly what you wanted to say.

It was exactly how I was at that specific point in time. Screen shot of my life.

I think I mentioned it somewhere in 2008; (during the time I was a full-time photographer), about the PTA moms that enjoyed letting their children pick out their outfit and do their own hair for picture day, because it's not about dressing yourself up, it's about capturing who were at that exact moment in time.

So yes, I acknowledge that my sleep deprived eyes have caused some crappy writing, but that's okay.

I have decided to stop trying to fix it.

Flying Man

In the same Fred Meyer venture that I described below, I also managed to acquire a thin, 3-shelf tupperware type thing for us to make life easier while in hospital. That sleeper unit sure has a way of feeling cramped real quick even though we have nothing material to show for it!

Dan dropped me off at the top level of the parking garage and it was my mission to run around to as many floors as necessary until I found a red wagon, generously provided by the hospital, and then without my hospital badge, ID, or cell phone, we would just magically find eachother. Guess what? Took me 3 floors to find a wagon, yet less than a minute to find Dan.

We loaded up the red wagon with everything new going to our unit. We laugh each and every time about how we are "moving in", again.

Being the seasoned veterans that we are, we cruise past the 12ish people waiting at the security desk for clearance, dragging this damn red wagon, and while attempting to flash our parental badges and keep on casually walking, some dude does a 180 degree turn and literally flings himself over our wagon, goes crashing to the ground, wondering if he's just smashed a child, and immediately we get surrounded by security and his family members, who were screaming, "Dad!"

Probably not how he planned on starting his day, but also not how I was planning my day, either.

Two hours of sleep.
Dentist appointment.
Hour and a half drive.
Attempt to cause an elderly man's death.
Get searched by security to prove that No, I am not carrying a small child under that towel covering some more that frownable items.

Check please!

Ugh.

$55

Yesterday I did something for myself that I haven't done in years.

I purchased brand new clothing. Even though we've never been poor, I have still always preferred thrift store shopping, and I like to joke that I'm like that because we all know I'm gonna mess up my clothing anyways. I'd rather openly have fun and play, while rolling around in mudd or down giant grassy hills instead of worrying about my $200 pants.

I went to Fred Meyer last night to purchase a few things for our household and saw the clothing section. Thought, "Eh.... maybe you do deserve a brand new shirt for once... and you've spent most of your life in someone's leftovers." I want to look halfway decent for the fundraiser dinner on Sunday.

Found two that I liked and fit me well. I wasn't expecting thrift store prices but I almost crapped myself in the dressing room when I looked at the price tags. S%@#!

Thinking, "We can't afford this! This could be a Comcast bill, or put towards my maxed out credit card, or put towards our past due medical bills."

But then I looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing my husband's sweat pants, my husband's t-shirt, and my husband's hoodie. And I looked like shit. And I don't deserve to feel like shit.

So yes, I put that $55 worth of two shirts back into my cart and discarded all my feelings of guilt, because after all we've been through, I was shaking my head for even questioning if my happiness and pride is worth $55.

Yes, Jacee, you are worth at least $55.

An Unknown Lesson from Dad

As a young girl, I woulda sworn up and down that my dad was a super hero.

He was the strongest man ever. He could somehow carry both his daughters (before Allison was born) into the grocery store at the same time, even if one was on his shoulders while the other rode a hip or a leg. Strongest. Man. Ever.

He was the tallest man ever, capable of reaching anything unattainable by my little body.

He could make the best fires known to mankind when the power went out, and still make it fun even though we didn't have tv or computer games.

And he could see in the dark.

We made fairly regular trips over the mountain pass to visit family for 4th of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. That road was reallllllllyyyy dark.

It was customary for my sisters and I to all make "beds" in the van and try to sleep through the 3 hour trip to Wenatchee. Allison's bed was the short 2-person middle seat.  Jena's bed was the 3-person back seat, and I slept on the floor between the two rows of seats. For some reason, I really enjoyed that spot. I would stash goldfish crackers underneath the middle seat and pretend to myself that I was some sort of survivalist and had to ration my food during this insanely long trip. (No I was not every really starving, but these are the kinds of things a 7-year old girl comes up with to keep her brain occupied during car trips).

Anyways, back to my point.

Every now and then I would pop up out of my nest to check where we were. The car would be surrounded in darkness yet Dad was still plowing ahead at full speed. The headlights only showed about 6 feet of road. I felt safe, so I'd just plop back down to my "bed".

Dad was clearly using his super hero powers to see the dark road.

Upon reaching adulthood, I finally realized that my dad has no super hero abilities. He couldn't see the road any farther than I could, yet he just kept on going, trusting that the road is there somewhere.

This road I'm currently on might be really crappy, full of potholes, and get so foggy that I don't know what to expect 6 feet from now, but I know for a fact that IT KEEPS GOING.

Only for the Believers

Call me crazy for believing in ghosts.

Last night, on Tina's way out of the hospital, she asked me if my Grandpa Floyd smoked.

Well yes in fact he did.

She said, "I believe he visited Robert three times today, and he's always in the rocking chair. I can smell him. It comes and goes so quickly that it's not as if a smoker has walked by and the smell lingers, it really is a presence that comes and goes."

Instantly brought tears to my eyes. I love to believe that my sweet son is never alone even when I am not in his room.

She said that Robert hangs out with "the guys" because he'll look away from her and focus his adorable eyes elsewhere in the room. "The guys" are Grandpa Robert (Dan's grandpa that sweet baby boy is named after), other Grandpa Robert (cousin Tina's dad), and my Grandpa. She says she has to tell the guys to leave when it's time for baby boy Robert to sleep.

[This is choppy. Sorry I haven't quite figured out how to connect these two entirely different thoughts yet.]

I may not be a Christian, or a follower of any specific religion, but I do believe there is a God and he/it reveals himself in the goodness of others and the compassion that human beings just feel for each other.

God is present when a crying stranger sits down on the couch next to my husband, and Dan automatically hugs him. Or when the homeless man behind me at the gas station can't afford his single stick of string cheese so I pay for it. Or there is a man with two small daughters trying to hold his family together and sleep on the couch here at Children's, so I put a blanket over them.

No need for organized religion. There is definitely a greater power out there somewhere, but I don't quite think it's what everyone expects it to be. It's in us. Just let yourself be open and appreciate all the kind gestures, a cool breeze, or a hug from a stranger. Of course you're leaving yourself open to get hurt, but hey, can't plan that kind of thing.

And then you just hope that the reward was greater than the risk.

The Road Less Taken

I'm glad no one warned me what I was in for after rejoicing that we were having a baby.

If someone would have told me it'd be this hard, I would have acknowledged, "Well I'm not strong enough to deal with that. Abort!"

Now seeing that precious little face, OHMYGOD. MY son. My son. The best parts of me, and the best parts of Dan. My perfect little baby.

We didn't know what we were in for, but we did it.

My mom visited yesterday and apologized for being late; said she'd passed the freeway exit. Had to get off at the next one. She could've easily just gotten back on the freeway but it was so backed up from traffic and construction that she decided to just explore, and follow roads that ran concurrent with the freeway.

It came down to deciding between choosing the path that she knew would get her to where she needed to go, or taking the unknown road.

And guess what? She reached her destination. And it was all okay. And life went on.

She might not have realized it, but in telling me that story, even though I wasn't personally in the car, I learned from it.

I'm glad nobody told us what to expect. This path is surprisingly okay with me.

You Got THIS

It's all a mess.

I have to mail out the documents to prove who I used to be and who I currently am, just because my son's birth certificate arrived with a typo. At least it conveniently arrived with a letter acknowledging the typo and the steps I need to take to fix it.

I need to bang my head against a wall.

I need to call our insurance to inquire which local dentist offices accept our insurance because I need to take care of myself too. That's a hard thing to remember. And after that, I will find an eye doctor. I really can't tell if my eyes are just tired all the time, or bloodshot from crying, or what, but I should get those things checked out.

I have to call the social worker and find a way to get Son signed up for a disability program. I also have to ask her if I can keep getting vouchers for $5 off my meals from cafeteria since I am still a pumping mom. Trust me, I am not starving in the hospital, and all the snacks from friends and family are hugely appreciated, but surviving on lemon bars and mac & cheese packets are not gonna help with losing weight.

These days, sometimes even something as simple as a $3 cafeteria salad is a huge treat to myself. And honestly, sometimes I don't even feel I am deserving of that. In a sit down conversation with the geneticist, while talking about what might "be wrong" with my baby, I was entirely honest; because I've always felt this was my fault, and I was prepared for her to tell me, "Yes, Son's condition was YOUR fault."

I told her I didn't know I was pregnant until about 6 weeks in (I somehow felt pregnant, but the tests kept saying negative).
I told her I drank alcohol during that time.
I told her I cleaned the chicken coop just weeks before his birth and fell hard on my belly.
I told her I played bingo in a smokey casino.
I told her that my seat belt had been yanked too tight, and that I'd hit the shopping cart when a wheel jammed, or anything and everything that could somehow make this my fault.

She told me, "No, his defect was NOT YOUR FAULT. It's chromosomal."

Yet I still don't know how to get past this feeling of guilt. Babies don't just have these issues! And it's not fair my son to get played these cards!

*bangs head against wall again*

I need to work on myself a bit. And I am about to write another post but it's on an entirely different subject so I'd like to keep them separate.

And no joke, there is a man sitting on the computer RIGHT next to me, LITERALLY 10 inches from me, and he is jamming to sound track of Beauty and the Beast.

*bangs head against wall again*

Hey! I'm just as bad as you!

I made an interesting observation and felt like sharing.

We've been moved around between three different parental sleeper units at the hospital. I mentioned it on facebook, but not here. I always leave the door cracked, if not wide open, while I sit on the floor and Dan sits on the small bed. I'm lying to myself believing that I'm inviting fresh air in, but really, I just need it to feel less like the closed-box-coffin that it is.

I could never understand why people would constantly (about 4 times daily) feel the need to cruise over to our door and push it. I joked with Dan, "What do they expect to find? The flippin' Chocolate Factory?!?!" I was even more baffled because our door was the very last one at the end of a dead end hallway, so these obnoxious people had to intentionally go out of their way to push my door.

Well, then something interesting happened.

Dan and I both went to the bathroom at the same time. On my solo trip back, I saw a cracked door.

I instinctively and immediately felt the serious urge to push it open. Primitive curiosity made me, for a brief second, wonder what was behind that door, even though I already knew. I've already slept in that room.

I resisted the urge and went to our room.

Dan returns moments later and says, "Weird; I saw an open door and really wanted to push it."

There's no explanation for this strange phenomena, but it exists solely at Children's and it's contagious.

FUCK

What a day... What a day... What a shitty day.

There are no words to explain how much my grandpa meant to me. People's grandparents die all the time and they're just like, "Eh, whatev, have to go to a funeral today, no big deal. "

Huge deal for me. I have no extended family on my mom's side besides him. Now her entire family line is gone. GONE.

Everyone is dead. I have no aunts, no uncles, no cousins, and no grandparents from mom's side to introduce my baby to. Dan reassures me by saying that everything's okay because now it will just start with us.

And it will be okay, because we always find a way to make any crappy situation okay.

But you know what's not okay? The squatters in my grandpa's house. I was cordial with them long enough to get down to Oregon and retrieve Grandpa's dog.

We got the dog but the rest of the visit didn't go so well. My grandpa had a lot of very special things in his locked hutch, yet it was very baren by the time we got there. Those items would have been the only family heirlooms in existance that I could someday hand down to my son.

Well, I got mad. I got real mad. We drove 7 hours there and I was just too exhausted to throw a fit at the house in Oregon.

I thought about it for awhile.
I planned out the conversation in my head.
I called Patty and after she said "Hi!", I told her, "You will listen, and you will be quiet until I say it's okay to talk. YOU WILL produce a box of my grandpa's missing things, and you WILL have it ready for my brother to pick up on Friday at 5pm."

She denied knowing what I was referring to.

She said, "Your husband stole some of our stuff TOO!"
Choose your words wisely, Bitch. I swear, this woman incriminates herself every time she opens her mouth.

My grandpa died 6 days before Robert was born.

She called to say things along the lines of, "Oh yay! We showed up right after the paramedics left and we're so lucky they left the door unlocked!"

Then she calls again about a week later saying she'll have to start selling my grandpa's things if I don't immediately send her $500 for the monthly lot rent. Um, excuse me? Fuck yourself.

Then oh wow, how weird, things are missing from the hutch! I call her up, admittedly crazy after we'd gotten home and I had time to sleep and process things. I tell her that Tim has photos of everything in the hutch and that everything needs to show back up pretty damn quick.

She says, "Well, which ones are you looking for?"

Ha, Okay, Patty, How about fucking ALL of them! Any of them. Every single piece of anything that your pathetic ass stole from my family!

So now to get down to the point of my story.

My grandpa's will specifically states "I leave my dog Tinkerbell to my grandaughter Jacee C*******".

But I received a call today to inform me that there is a warrant for my arrest in Oregon because this stupid bitch Patty called the cops and reported that I showed up at HER HOUSE and stole HER DOG.

Awesome. Let's just add one more stupid fucking thing to the giant heaping plate of awesomeness that I have to deal with at this time.

Thank you.

I just posted this on my facebook but want to remember it so it is now here as well.

My faith in humanity has been restored. Son is of course priority, but it would definitely devastate me to return home to a coop full of dead chickens. We searched online for a very specific product for 'the girls' because we have to quickly run home tomorrow. Found a local mom and pop style shop that had what we wanted. Super friendly people. Very talkative. Asked if we are from around here and we explained that we live over an hour away but are currently living at the hospital because of our month old baby. She went back to the shelf and grabbed two items that I'd briefly carried around, but put back after considering our budget and just gave them to me. Kissed me on the cheek twice and hugged me while I cried. So rare to see someone willing to show kindness to a stranger