Spokane: a Love story.

By the time I found myself celebrating my twenty-sixth birthday several weeks before moving to Spokane, I didn't really know what Christianity or God looked like to me anymore. Days before said birthday, I had felt God meet me there on that mountain top, an (almost) lifelong friend singing my Grandmother's favorite hymn, my sibling's voice meeting mine to sing "All I hath needed thy hand hath provided, Great is thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!" in front of 109 of my favorite people. But was that God, or was that the God of circumstances I was singing to? Did I believe that the God who created this perfect pocket of joy overlooking the rolling hills of Alleghany County was the same God who allowed our Porter's first sonogram to be filled with the sound of my heartbreaking into a million tiny pieces to fill the place where Porter's silent heart was? The truth is by twenty-six my idea of God was clouded by my idea of church, my idea of my own identity, and my years of falling away from faith. 

Twenty-six years is a lot of time to cover and it is not the main point of the story I want to tell today so I will make it quick. Years of going to evangelical churches had led me to believe that I would know God by a feeling. I don't know if anyone actually told me this, but church and faith became some sort of high for me. You went to church on Sunday. You felt the Holy Spirit move. You talked in the Community Hall for an hour after the service. You listened to some worship music and sent up some prayers during the week. I am sure this is not everyone's experiences in the churches I attended but it was mine. As I grew more socially liberal, all I could hear coming from many pulpits was hate speech. They were not biblical convictions, of which my understanding of the Gospel led me to have many, but rather speech that excluded those whom I loved, those whom I ran into in my college hallways, those that I had the power to invite in. 

I would say I never officially stepped away from my faith but the next six years were spent in a place where I would only accept that God existed, show up sometimes on Sunday when I wasn't hung over, but didn't want to put anymore work into it than that. When I finally listened enough to hear God again, it was in the form of the parents of a sweet Toddler in my classroom. They extended an invitation via Facebook for anyone to join them at church. Jim and I had a fight the night before and church seemed the place I would feel met. Jim not wanting me to leave in the midst of an unresolved fight joined, attending a non-denominational church for the first time. From the moment we stepped in the door we felt welcomed. The congregation was socioeconomically and racially diverse. The church had a funny, dynamic pastor. I would've paid just to get in for the worship. Each week we walked away with a tidy list of how to grow in faith and love and would spend hours at breakfast talking about what all of this meant in our lives. Even now when I see the church's updates pop up on my Facebook feed, my heart feels like the church is a part of me, and I, a part of it. Do you see how many times I've said church here and how few times I've said God or Jesus? It took me almost two years of being removed from the church to finally give it the title of following "Oprah Christianity". I love that church. I love the people I have met there and that they guided us through our time as an engaged couple, but it was like going to a Ted Talk with a little Jesus cherry on top.

Seven weeks after arriving in Spokane I was 40 weeks pregnant and had not spoken to anyone but Jim in all that time. Sitting in Starbucks I saw a man sitting across from me in a Seahawks jersey. Sports. I could do this. 

"Are the Seahawks going to be on good this year?" 

It was a simple question that led to us entering in to a messy and beautiful life that is still messy and beautiful. You see, Aaron, is the Lead Deacon at Soma Spokane. That day rather than turn back to his work, Aaron sat and listened to the story of how I landed in Spokane 33 weeks pregnant. Not only did Aaron listen but he handed me his card and asked us to come to dinner at his Missional Community. 41 weeks pregnant we arrived at Missional Community to enjoy a meal with 3 families of strangers. We weren't sure what we were walking into, or even what the point of the community was as we sat, talking and eating (If you're interested in what I'm talking about http://somaspokane.org/gatherings/missional-communities/). What I did know is there was something so attractive about the open arms of the body of Christ. One week later when Porter was born and we found ourselves alone in a NICU room, these people who had only known us a week, reached out and asked what they could do. Porter needed someone other than us cheering him on and so we asked that they come, that they show up and hold him, giving him love and hope. These people, these sweet families, they were the outward expression of God's love for us. 

I would love to tell you that my story from there was one of joy and love in God who was good but it was much uglier than that. As I fell into my depression and rage, these people who we did life with were not spared. Many days I showed up to events and was combative, rude, and found things to criticize. Even in my brokenness, they met me. They talked with us about our struggles trying to get to the bottom of it all and showing up at my house unannounced when they knew I hadn't showered in days and felt as though I was drowning. Their faithfulness was God's pursuing of my heart, but yet, I didn't see it.

For almost two years we went through this pattern. I showed up. I kept on my masks but I showed up. There was something so undeniable attractive about being in a church where you had your people who knew your mess and your story. In January 2016, our Missional Community had grown too large and so we decided to multiple. When the shake out happened, the Simon family moved with Aaron and his wife, and in that moment I knew if we were going to start this Missional Community thing fresh that I was going to have to actually commit. I had to take my toe out of the water and just dive. My commitment was to forget everything that had got mudded in the last 20 years of being a Christian and come to the table with nothing to give but to want to know Jesus more.

One year later that humbling and willingness to sacrifice has been life changing. I have been met by a God who loves me and is for me. A God who has given me grace upon grace. A God that says there's freedom to fail. A God who calls me loved, worthy, wanted, seen and known. A God who has invited me to join in this beautiful family of his and be messy. There are no more masks that I can wear that will make me better than what He's already created me to be. I have learned what community looks like. What truly loving and walking with people looks like. It is not perfect. It's messy and it's hurtful. It's discipleship and it's deep relationship.

My favorite Jesus story is the one that started that day in the coffee shop. As my life imploded several months ago I felt worthless, unloved, replaced and as I came with my tears and my brokenness to Aaron and Megan's table they said "We desire for you to live with us." There were so many things they could have said to me that night at the table but their word for me was that not just they, but that God desired to meet me, in the midst of my rejection. Right now I am having a lot of trouble not taking one day at a time. I continue to look at the destruction that will be left in a week, in a month, in a year. The truth is that 3 years ago when I spoke to Aaron at a coffee shop, I would never have predicted that I would live in his home when I had no other options. But God. God knew. He provided for me and continues to provide for my in so many little and big ways. He has set my path. 

Now, on the cusp of my thirtieth birthday, I am only beginning to understand who God is. In the midst of all the heartbreak and pain associated with Spokane, I have met God here, and that, that makes the city the most beautiful part of my story.

Porter James Ulysses Simon: Year 2.

Dearest Porter-

I am in a constant state of preparing it seems. This week alone I am preparing for your birthday and your Spokane birthday party. I am preparing for you to move to a big kid bed and to roll up the rugs and cancel all plans to potty train you. I am preparing to turn your car seat front facing and I am preparing for you to go to daycare twice as much so that I can find more of myself than "Mom".  I'm constantly preparing for the next meltdown, the next moment of discipline, the next creator of stress. There's nothing wrong with all this planning but it has left me looking ahead rather than just resting in the beauty of each moment with you. I apologize to you for that. 

I am so thankful for the moments that I did slow down to just enjoy the world with you. The time that we spent getting to know each other. I remember when you were born and the world was just so hurtful to you, every day seeming to hold a new offense for you to scream at. I didn't think we'd ever love each other. I am so glad it wasn't true. I think you needed to meet the ocean. You needed to let the sand run through your hands and the water to splash against your legs. You needed to know that there was something so much bigger than you and I out there making sure that the world was not that scary a place. You always return to the water. You always long to float and splash in it; to just be, you and nature. I know in my heart that some day you'll know who the Creator is and that he created that special comfort just for you.

You provide me that very same comfort. As we flew around the country this year, your little body always leaned against mine just as we took off, slowing my heart and reminding me that everything I loved was right there with me. In your two years, you've already proven to be much more of an adventurer than me. Always looking for a new way to challenge yourself and a new game to play. Recently your pediatrician told me that you are more comfortable with strangers and new situations than most children your age. He told me "you must be doing a great job with him because he knows that you're always here for him and you always be there when he gets into trouble." I like to think that Dr. Olsen was right. Not just now, but for always. We will be here when you get into troubles because you need the same grace that we so desperately need. A grace without judgment or anger but with love and understanding. I feel like I tell you this truth almost every day but I will repeat it again, although I correct you, although you are sometimes indeed "in trouble", although you don't always act the way I wish, my love for you will never change. It is steadfast, unchanging and true.

I have not always perfectly shown that. I have at times been frustrated, yelled, and made you cry with the very tone of my voice. I have handed you off to your Dad and left the house for a walk. I have learned not to expect perfection from myself, just as I don't expect it from you. I am a fallen human and sometimes my emotions are bigger than the me that I want to be for you. Thank you for meeting me after those moments with a giggle and a tight squeeze around the neck. I am glad that I can show you what real life looks like with it's whole range of emotions knowing that you are always there waiting for my apologize with a smile. Some day I am sure it will be met with a slam of the door and "I hate you" so I will cherish this phase while I can.

You are a two-year-old whose dreams are made of cars, Curious George, and forts. It is my job to show you the world so you can learn to love the world; not just those people who are like us but those who we don't understand, those that are less fortunate, and even those we feel like we have ever reason to hate. I will do my best to take this time of innocence and sweetness and stretch it as long as I can. I will continue to ignore the cleaning and get on the floor. I will get messy crawl in the yard with you. I will let us have flour fights. I will let you paint your face, and mine, if you wish. I will let you run across the neighbors yard knowing that they'll find the same light in your smile that I do. We have so much more to learn, to explore, to pray about, to understand, to forgive, and to fight about and for, but for today, I will meet you right where you, my dearest little one. Show me what your little eyes see and what your little mind thinks.

Happy Birthday, my sweet, gentle, Porter Pie.
Momma

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mommy guilt.

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

It slipped out of my mouth before I even realized what I was saying. What I should have said is, "Hi. My name is Beth and because I am a woman, I will always apologize for silly things, including the piece of paper I dropped by your foot. I will always apologize because I think I am too little or too much, too clumsy or too silly, too loud or too unfeminine."

I don't believe that I am alone in feeling like I need to apologize for things; that I need to feel an instant pang of guilt about many decisions, big or small, in life. There are so many things that people worry about and have guilt or anxiety about. I can't judge what impacts other people, after all I am the one who had a full panic attack complete with crying and screaming on an airplane this week, but the infamous "mommy guilt" is nothing that has ever crossed my mind. Do I sometimes worry whether my son is hitting his developmental milestones? Of course, because he never is, but never do I sit up at night questioning something that I did because the truth is, Snappy Impatient Mom comes out. Snappy Impatient Mom is probably the most real side of this mom. I won’t apologize for being real with my child.

The first time I heard the grumblings of mommy guilt was from Mother's with older children who would say "I don't know where I went wrong." At the time I couldn't directly apply the concept to guilt, I would have said heartbreak and disappointment, but that is what was masked under the statement.  Mother's feel like it’s a part of the universal experience of motherhood to question the things we do for or with our children. Working mother's worry about our children spending so much time at daycare while us stay at home Mom's wonder about the identity and careers that we are giving up in order to take on this new title of Mom. With the never ending new surge of "methods" to raise and educate our kids there are even more ways for us to doubt that we are doing what's best for our little ones. Let’s not even get started on those stupid Huffington Post articles that seem to just be written to piss each of us off, the breastfeeding wars, or birthing practices.

Do you want to know the moment that I know I am parenting correctly? It is the moment that people role their eyes at me or tell me they don't understand. The best thing I can do for my child is forget about the articles, the books, the advice of others and be the confident Mother who knows what is important within my individual family (and two dad families, you are caregivers too, and may have these same doubts and guilt). There is nothing inherently wrong with having a good Momma circle to guide you, trust me, I would be nowhere without mine. Or, reading a parenting book—I read about one a week—but it is when we start questioning out intentions towards our child that they will begin to suffer, because that is when Mother's begin to suffer. It's when a Mom will start to feel like she is doing something wrong, when she feels like she's alone, when she feels like her world is falling down around her that she is unable to freely be the best Mother she can be. At the core of every Mom’s heart is to love their child and be loved and appreciated in return.

Let me tell you some things about myself as a mother:

-I encapsulated my placenta and downed 6 of those pills a day.

-I birthed naturally at a Birthing Center with no doctors or interventions present.

-I think that breastfeeding is the worst thing that I've ever done to myself.

-My son had extreme colic. I'm still a little bit convinced it may have been his fault all along.

-I send my one-year-old to school one day a week so that I can do an hour of errands and 7 hours of whatever the heck I want.

-I think the most important thing I can do for my son is give him tons of experience in nature so that he can learn through open-ended playing rather than with toys that have a right and wrong solution.

-I think the worst thing I can do for my child is let him interact with iPhones, iPads, and computers.

-I let my son watch one show a day (see above).

-I think the modern school system is broken and there is no way in h-e-double hockey sticks I will ever let him step foot in a public school.

-I have a goal to give my child no processed sugar or flour

-We go out for pastries (at least) once a week.

-My son currently takes swim lessons and soccer lessons (he used to also take a music class). I loathe how overbooked our schedule is and I can’t wait to be done and not take any classes for a long time.

Do you see the common theme there? "I". What I, personally, feel is best for MY child. I think if we all turned the lens onto ourselves and what we personally believe to be true for our families, we would all less guilty and more joyful. We are all as unique as our experiences. Our children are all going to be as unique as their experience and upbringing as well. It is what makes our world thrive. What we owe each other is a whole lot of kindness and gentleness. I love what the Pastor at my old church said about gentleness. He said that Gentleness is a decision to respond to a person in light of their strength or weakness, instead of responding out of our strength. We have nothing to gain out of expressing how wonderful our child is or what a strong parent we are, we must meet others where they are at and let them know that they are not alone in this.

I am by no means perfect. The good news is I don’t have to be. I live in a bigger story of Grace. By pretending that I am perfect, whether it’s to my husband, or friends, or even my child, I miss the opportunity to teach them about my huge reliance on Jesus. When I truly believe that my identity is found in Christ, I am able to let go of the title of “Mom”, and know that is just one more way that God has chosen to use me in his story. He has enabled me to love and be responsible for a little guy who I can so quickly resent when I forget that this is where I am called in the here and now.

I recently came upon this quote: “Treat your child like a seed that came in a package without a label. You can’t tell what kind of flower you’re going to get or in what season it will bloom. Your job is to pull the biggest weeds, provide sufficient food and water, and stand back and wait.” It may just be my new favorite mantra. I completely believe it for Porter, but I believe it for myself. I may be in my late-20’s but I am still someone’s daughter. I joke with my Mom that I would be an adult at 30. The truth is I don’t have to make those plans, and my Mom doesn’t have to make them for me. My heavenly father will guide my steps out of my faithfulness as a Mother, a Wife, and part of a community.

Moms: You don’t have to be perfect. It’s not on you to know the right thing all the time. It is on you to pray, to gain wisdom from a small counsel of trusted friends and family who know your story and heart, to guide your children through their trials, to admit to them your weaknesses as they bleed out into your lives, as they tend to do, and to apologize when you wrong your child, just like you would with an adult. It is not on your shoulders. I hope this Mother’s Day you find rest in the fact that you are doing the best for the sweet child entrusted to you.

the first four months.

Jim and I are both avid writers. We scribble notes in our Field Notes or Best Made notebooks. I was writing one of these normal passages, which of late have been my venting source when I am at my breaking point. I started to think some day Porter will probably find these journals in a box in the attic. What would he think when he read the entries from the last few months? Would I edit what I wrote in anticipation of him some day finding these? Then I thought, what would I tell Porter about the first 4 months of his life.

Porter-

The day that I met you I expected to hold you for hours and take you home that night. Instead you were whisked away to the hospital and I didn't get to hold you for a few days. You looked so helpless with all those tubes and wires on you. When we would tell people your name they would tell us that it was such a strong name and I knew it was the name meant for you. I didn't have to worry about you because you were a fighter. You healed better and quicker than they thought you would.

The first night we brought you home, I woke up at your first cry. You didn't always have to eat but you always needed a cuddle. You missed us and we missed you. We spent a lot of time trying to figure out what your every cry meant. You loved to cry in the evening and we quickly realized that your witching hour was as soon as your daddy walked through the door. The first few weeks we did nothing but pace with you around the house wondering why you wouldn't just go to sleep.

In this whirlwind of your first month, I forgot what it was like to drink hot coffee, what it was like to eat a meal when I was hungry, and what it was like to have a conversation with your father. No matter how much I prepared for you I didn't realize the selflessness necessary to take care of a little baby.

There were nights when I had to text or call people to tell me that it was okay to step away and leave you crying for a few minutes. There were nights when I would sit and cry with you crying in my arms. There were nights that I had to call Daddy into the room so that he could try to get you to bed. For a while it seemed like the middle of the night was your favorite time to be up, just staring at the ceiling lamp. In the morning when you were ready for the day to begin, you would meet me with a smile. It was always the thing that made me think, maybe today will be better.

Sometimes the days felt even longer than the nights. You would spend most of the day yelling at me. Pooping, puking and spitting up on me. You would fight me to take naps and for about a month there you would only fall asleep if I was doing lunges, squats or some kind of silly dance. I would get so upset. Then I realized that every day you were yelling at me, it meant that you were learning something new. At first it was hard for you to just stay awake for more than a half hour but before I knew it you were lifting your head on your own, rolling from your tummy to back, rolling both ways, talking, learning to army crawl. Every time I felt like this was the day that break me you would conquer the world again.

Once you started teething, it seemed like every day was a guessing game on how your mood would be. Usually it was somewhere between upset and hysterical. I would tip toe around you like if I made a wrong move you would let out a gigantic wail. The guessing game was one of my favorites. I would start with taking off your clothes, move to burping, changing your diaper, change of toys, teething tablets, gas drops, gripe water, nap, until the decision was made that today you just felt like crying.

One time I ate cabbage. The next day was not either of our favorite day. There were many days when I would count down the hours until your Daddy got home from work. Not that I thought he would have a magic solution but rather both of us needed a break from each other. We would slip off your clothes and put you in the bathtub. As soon as you were in the bathroom you would calm down. There was something magically about the water to you. You would willing spend a half an hour kicking your legs in the water. Once you were dressed and ready for bed Daddy and I would sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle' to you, even if you were crying, you would instantly stop and smile at us.

Putting you to bed was always my favorite part of the night. Not because I was glad to be rid of you but because you would sweetly nurse yourself to sleep. It was my nightly reminder that if I felt like I had failed the rest of the day, you still needed me. After you'd been asleep awhile I snuck into your room. There I would find you swaddled in bed with your two best buds, arms in the air in surrender, as though to say "I have exhausted myself today. I give in to the calm of this night." Thankfully, once you were about three months old, you realized that everyone had a better night if you just got up to eat once or twice and then went straight to bed.

Baby Porter, the truth is that over the last 4 months I haven't felt like a very good Mommy. I haven't felt like a very good wife. I have felt like your crying was my fault. I have felt like if I could read you better we would all be more comfortable. I don't have a big life here in Spokane and that makes me feel like all my energy can go to making your life the best it possibly can be. I'm not sure if I'm doing that every day. One night when we were visiting Buffalo, your Grammy was sure to tell me that I was doing a good job. She said that I was loving and protecting and trying to figure out the best ways to do things. I think it took her telling me that for me to truly understand that every day doesn't have to be perfect in order for it to be a good day. I don't have to be perfect to be a good parent. It's okay if I need to leave and go get a coffee so that I have 20 minutes to myself.

What I can tell you baby Port, is that every day your little smile steals my breath. Some days your giggles are rare but the days that I do get them, it feels like a piece of my heart that has been empty is getting filled. I find being your Mommy the most difficult thing I have ever tried to do, and at times I don't love it, but at all times I love you and find your life to be the most fulfilling thing I have ever been a part of.

I will love you to the moon and back, little one.
Mommy

the fake lives we lead.

This morning an old friend reached out to me to ask me some advice on relationships. I am so glad that she did because I do believe I had valuable insight into her wonderings. There was a part of her e-mail that stood out to me. She said "In certain ways I envy your life. You look so happy and you have found the perfect husband for yourself. I struggle with so many things that look like they come naturally to you." As sweet of a compliment as this was, it was a reminder of the vast amounts of editing we do on social media. At this point social media seems to be a fill-in for real relationships, which makes it easy to forget that outlets like Facebook and Instagram are highlight reels of our friends and acquaintances' lives.

I remember several months back reading about a Dutch student who told her family she was going on vacation, hid out for five-weeks and sent them photoshopped photos of her "in Asia". She even went so far as to Skype with them with a fake scene set up behind her. (Here is an article about her if you are interested: http://www.refinery29.com/2014/09/74354/girl-photoshops-fake-vacation-facebook-pictures#slide) This seems extreme but on some scale, this is what we all do on social media. We edit our lives to the picture perfect; to the commentary that makes us look witty or worldly or funny. And although, we all know that it is what WE are doing, we never consider that's what others are doing.

When I started thinking about this all, it reminded me of going to Christian Camp and during a scavenger hunt we would get points for knowing the scripture verse John 3:15 (or maybe it was John 3:17). Does anyone truly know that verse? Even after attending that camp for 7 years, and having that question almost every year, I do not know it. There are few people that wouldn't know John 3:16. It's easy to see the thing that is constantly in front of us but not much of the context surrounding it. So tonight you will see tons of people dressed up and out at various events. There will be the selfies, photos of meals, glasses of champagne and kisses at midnight. In my experience, the people who post the most photos during their night are the people who are having the least fun because their phone is in their hand for 2.5 of the 3 hours they are out. Don't get me wrong, some people will be out having a genuinely good time. Others will be having drunken fights with their significant other that they just took a photo with or wishing they were somewhere else instead of in a loud, crowded restaurant.

I feel as though I have propagated a lie about my life across social media. I will not argue that I have found the "perfect husband for me". He is not a perfect husband, I am not a perfect wife, but we are the right pair for each other. But the fact that my friend thinks that things "come naturally" to me is laughable, especially as of late. I want to fill in the context around the pictures and statuses that so many of you see on social media. I want people to look at the good moments in my life and know that attached to those are some not so great moments. I don't say the things I am about to say for some type of sympathy, it is just one more battle for me to face, but knowing that maybe someone is out there feeling similar about their life and it would be beneficial to know that you're not the only one painting a mirage on social media.

The truth is that for most of the last three months I have been struggling with Postpartum Depression. The truth is that most days I don't shower, or get out of my pajamas, or leave the house. The truth is that every day, at least once, before ten am I say how much I hate being a parent. The truth is most days Jim takes over for a while when he gets home from work so I can just lay in bed and stare at the wall. The truth is that most days I really don't think I will survive to the next. The truth is that I find myself crying for no reason at all. The truth is I go to bed at 7:30 when Porter does. The truth is I was dealt a difficult child who cries close to 5 hours a day and I'm not sure why God thought I was strong enough for that. Most days I don't feel like myself. Most days I am selfishly mad that I don't get to do more for myself.

None of this is to say that I don't love my child and live every moment that I'm with him doing what is best for him. It doesn't mean that every moment is filled with grief, but a lot of them are. It doesn't mean that I wouldn't do it all over again if I had the chance. None of the moments I write about or post about are lies. They are just the best of the best. They are the moments that I have to cling to if I am going to make it through my day. I struggle often seeing what other people have going on in their lives. I am slowly learning that I have to assume that what other people post are also the highlights of their life. I have to believe that other people have days where everything goes wrong and have cranky babies on occasion.

I recently admitted all these sentiments to my best friend. Living so far away even she was only seeing the glimpses of my life that I wanted her to. I'm an expert at redirecting conversation or half answers. It's tough to admit sadness and defeat to someone else. With Jim I don't have to say it because he lives it with me. The day after I spoke to her I called a PPD counselor. I know I can't continue like this. I never want this to be the version of me that my son knows. Saying how I felt to someone else made it so real to me and saying it now makes it even more of a reality to me.

If anyone of my lady friends is dealing with a mental health issue, this is a great resource to get started with: http://womensmentalhealth.org

The last three months.

I was sitting in the NICU Facebook messaging with a friend when he asked me, "how do you feel after the last three months?" I didn't know how to answer that question. He volunteered a simple "well, you survived, right?" The conversation moved on and I'm sure he never thought about the conversation again but the question has been circling in my head since he asked it almost two months ago.

The "last three months" he was referring to were the wedding, cross-country move, and having a baby. I wasn't able to answer his question because I hadn't taken any time to sit down and decompress over the last three months. With so much happening at once, I had learned to look ahead rather than enjoy the moment. (You can verify this with my bridesmaids as my wedding was just a stressed, upset version of me all weekend.) I have started journal entries to turn into blogs about the last three months but only ever accomplished a sentence or two. I've never had the words and still don't.

I think the reason that the question of the last three months sticks in my head is because I don't think that I have answered the question "well, you survived, right?" I don't feel as though I have survived through those months. If you sat me down in June and asked me to describe myself it would include the words: single, runner, blogger, nanny, Buffalonian, health nut. If you asked me if any of those things held true now, the answer would be no.

I find myself completely changed by the last five months of my life. I can name the basics changes but I haven't figured out what is at the core of me. I am a mother, a wife, and a Washingtonian. I feed, change, rock to sleep and try, try, try to comfort a colicky baby. Although I wanted to stay home with Porter, I feel like I have accomplished nothing at the end of the day. I will admit to you that I spent almost 3 hours creating our Christmas cards today on Shutterfly because I knew that it is one of the only tasks that I can put a checkmark near and own as a completed project. Most days I have no doubt that I will find myself working outside the home within the year because I want to be helpful to others outside my home.

I can't rightfully say that I am a runner or even that health-minded anymore (unless you can include reading Runner's World). I look in the mirror and see stretch marks left from my sweet boy that and I can't help but be disgusted at myself. I hate the reminders on TimeHop of the healthy relationship I spent two years building with my body. I feel like I broke up with a great love of my life but with no remorse whatsoever. I can state the simple fact that I don't think I will ever run a race again. I don't know if it's the exhaustion or awkward pains from nursing, but it doesn't hurt me to say. What does hurt is the happiness that I once had at the end of a workout, or writing a blog about body image. For me, running and working out gave me obtainable goals (sure, it was wonderful getting killer abs and legs in the process). Right now, my goals are measured in getting the baby in to bed in less than an hour, taking a shower and finishing the laundry in one day.

I'll never say that I regret having a baby or that I regret moving. In the scheme of life choices, if I were to start again, I would not have chosen to do them at the same time. It hasn't left my identity much to hold on to. I used to have these dreams and desires, some were the reason that we moved out West, but I just don't find them calling to me any longer. Maybe God is preparing my heart for new dreams. I think it's okay to admit that for right now I am a little lost.

I keep wanting for a way to answer the question of "How are you feeling after all the changes in your life?" The truth is that life isn't like a book. There are no ends to chapters and neat little bows on the ends of stories. Life is a marathon with an undetermined end. Life will continue to throw changes my way. Life will continue to make me question who I am and what I stand for. My job is to live a life that is meaningful and glorifying of the one who made me. Right now, I don't know exactly what that looks like, but that doesn't mean I stop trying to figure it out.

Birth Story: Porter James Ulysses Simon.

There are a few things in life that we can fully predict or control no matter how much we try. No matter how detailed our "birth plan" is, we can not predict the time, the place, or the way a mommy or baby will respond to the experience of new life. I wish we all were able to walk away with the births that we had imagined in our minds and not the stories that many of us end up with.

Jim and I had originally chosen to go to an obstetrician and have a tradition hospital birth. After doing our research (most influential being the movie "The Business of Being Born" and book "The Thinking Woman's Guide to Better Birth") we quickly came to see hospital birth as a slippery slope of interventions. So what we decided in Buffalo was to have a home birth in order to avoid an unnecessary c-section, being induced and asking for an epidural. Women have been giving birth naturally since the beginning of time and it would not hurt me to do the same. When we moved to Spokane, we chose to use a birthing center instead of doing an at home birth (mostly to save our beautiful hardwood floors)

Our birth plan was simple. Birth in a birthing center so that there was no hope of unnecessary interventions unless absolutely emergent. Beyond that my only two wishes were not to birth in the tub and that Jim was able to catch the baby. We didn't go to birthing classes and we didn't stress ourselves out about unnecessary details about pregnancy and birth. We each picked one book, read it, and stuck with what it had taught us. At the end of the day our theory was that birth is natural and in the moment I would know what to do even if I didn't use a certain "method".

September 14 was our official due date. I was patient for the next few days after that but by 41 weeks, I was ready for our little man to join us. With family in town, Porter decided to be stubborn and come the morning my parents had left for Seattle. As a friend said, Porter knew that he wanted to arrive with just Mommy and Daddy around. The night before Porter joined us we tried Evening Primrose Oil and Red Raspberry tea. I will not be one of those people who says those made us go into labor but they may have sped along a process that had already began.

My contractions started at 7:30 am on the twenty-fourth. I was nervous for months about what a contraction would feel like and if I would notice it. People had described it to me as intense period cramps. Never having period cramps, or Braxton Hicks, this still left me completely in the dark. Jim spent the morning at home with me and only realized that I was having contractions around 12:30 pm because I had on headphones and was accidentally making small grunting noises. I had no early labor signs so I did not want to alarm Jim if I wasn't actually in labor. I sent him to work for his afternoon meetings and went next door to my neighbor's house. She happens to be a midwife so I thought that she would be able to tell me if these contractions were real or not. She confirmed that they were indeed contractions but that she did not think I would have the baby until the following day because of how little distress I seemed to be in. However, she still spent the next few hours counting my contractions with me and distracting me with conversation. She answered last minute questions I had and filled me in on all the things that no one tells you. I am so thankful for that because otherwise there would have been several things I was not truly prepared for post-birth.

Everyone told me to go for a walk and move through the contractions because that would help (I'm calling bullshit on that). I tried a hot bath but that did nothing to help. I just landed in bed with my pregnancy pillow for comfort. At some point I realized I couldn't go through the pain without a hand to hold or a familiar smile so at 3:30, I texted Jim and told him that I couldn't do it alone and I needed him to come home. Jim stopped to get me Gatorade and a bouquet of flowers to look at to keep me in a positive mindset (there may have been chocolate involved but I can't remember). In reality there is very little that anyone can do to make you feel better during contractions. Jim stayed in bed with me to time my contractions and hold my hand. At this point my contractions were 2 minutes apart and a minute in length (they never got any closer than this for the rest of labor) but I was able to sleep between them. Jim stayed in contact with our midwives as the contractions got more painful. I remember distinctly not wanting to be touched during this time period and even the hand I thought I wanted to hold, I absolutely did not.

Once 8 pm rolled around, it was impossible for me to sleep and we tried putting on the Blacklist as a distraction. At this point my foggy mind thought that Tylenol was some wonder drug that would numb all the pain like an epidural, so I hesitated to take it because I wanted to be able to give the midwife accurate information on how I felt. Jim talked me into taking one (and it was most definitely NOT a wonder drug). I started having the urge to push but my midwife said as a first time Mom that it was probably just my water membrane creating pressure and that I shouldn't push. I went into the bathroom and pushed, losing my mucus plug and having my bloody show. Now, I was absolutely insistent we were going to the Birth Center no matter what the midwife said. After 14 hours of contractions, I had already begun pushing against the midwife's recommendation.

The hours between 5:30 and 9:30 (when we arrived at the Birthing Center), were probably the most challenging of my whole life. Charting your contractions every few minutes for hours and hours makes you conscious of every single pain. Although you know the goal you are working towards, you don't know when the challenge ends and when the hardest parts are over. I assumed we would get to the birthing center and she would tell me that we only made it through one tradition time. The rule during transition times is that you often feel like you just want to give up and I had only had that thought once when I said to Jim "if this is the beginning of contractions, we are in for a long day".  For me, the hardest part ended as soon as I was able to push. The only way I survived the drive to the Birthing Center was by continuing to push, thinking that even though I was pushing I still had plenty of time.

When the midwife examined me upon arrival she told me that I was more than ready to push (yes, I said that about an hour ago when I started pushing).  I was already all the way dilated and Porter's head was only about a fingertip away from where it needed to be. Now that I was able to push, I was loving labor. I was able to joke between contractions and loved the challenge of seeing how much progress I could make with each push (must be the runner in me). Before we worked on pushing the baby out, I would have to break my water. After an hour of no progress the midwife decided this was the time to break my water. Unfortunately, I had to tell her that she had successful done this which means that she never had sight of the meconium in the membrane (which is what we've been told by nurse friends is when we should have called 911).

Shortly after my water was broke, Porter's heartbeat started to dip into the 70 and 80 range at which point it was made clear to me that there was an urgency to pushing him out. They did not know what was causing his distress, he had been fine only 10 minutes earlier. I remember the concern in both our midwife and birthing assistants voices as they told me directly with each push that I needed to get this baby out now but it was of course Jim's voice that I heard out of them all. I would later learn that Jim had seen the midwife and birthing assistant giving each other looks that spoke to the urgency of the situation without saying a word. He didn't let on to the concern but made sure to tell me I was doing a great job and that I needed to just push a little harder next time. By this time, I had tried 4 different positions to push the baby out. The position that I birthed in allowed Jim to be an active partner in the birth. Although he didn't get to catch the baby, he held me up for the final pushes that introduced Porter into this world. There is nothing more beautiful than feeling like we really did this as a family rather than Jim simply holding my hand.

I don't think there's really a description for the moments after a birth. At this point in Porter's birth story, Jim and I have completely different outtakes on what happened. I blame it on that happiness hormones. Porter arrived in this world a shade of blue that isn't often seen on humans. When you expect to hear crying but you don't even see a breathing baby within the first 90 seconds of his life, it is horrifying. Jim was cognizant of this but I was unworried, knowing we would just call a doctor and they would fix whatever was wrong need be. Once Porter was breathing, we still heard words like "respiratory distress". I can't explain the feeling of holding your baby skin-to-skin for the first time. The world seems to fall away and you know that you made this beautiful little guy out of love.

I quickly handed him over to Jim to hold skin-to-skin because frankly, there are parts of birth you just don't come prepared for and I needed a moment to collect myself. Jim's first reaction was that Porter's hands were blue. The midwife got some gloves for Porter's hands, although by this point I think we all knew that lack of warmth was not the cause of his blue hands. I tried to breastfeed Porter but he knew that his top priority was breathing and that he didn't have the lungs to eat and breath at the same time. They hooked Porter up to a machine that would tell how much oxygen he was breathing in and then keeping in his system. The number was only in the low 70s (usually an average human has a number between 90-100).

I think we felt somewhat lied to about the situation at hand. It took a period of 30 minutes to be explained what could possibly be wrong. At that point we were told that they delay sending babies to the hospital because if they are sent to the NICU they are held for a week even if there is no justification. It is possible that they would be able to keep him breathing and he would just clear up--it had happened to them before. At points during this process while they back charted, and on the way to the hospital, we were left to give oxygen to Porter. We were told that "they were not confident that their machine was working because of the numbers it was reading". Our midwife was called to a second, at-home birth, 20 minutes away while they were still trying to figure out if Porter would hold oxygen. At no point was it suggested that aspirational pneumonia was a possibility so I believe I stayed in blissful ignorance that maybe this was nothing and they just didn't have the machines and technology to help in the way that Porter needed.

I can not say enough about our birthing assistant, Brittany, who made sure that the midwife answered the questions that we had, brought us to the ER at Sacred Heart (where she also works) and talked us through what was happening. She stayed with us until the baby was fully admitted and walked us out when we went home for showers. She came back and visited us several days later with a blanket that she had made. If not for her, our experience would have been chaotic and more heartbreaking than necessary. We felt as though our midwife swung by the hospital to talk to the doctors on her way to the second delivery, not to give them the correct information but to justify that she had not done anything wrong. At this point, of course, we keep replaying in our mind what had went wrong and what wasn't handled to our liking. I will say that up until the point that Porter arrived, this was one of the most beautiful and empowering situations of my life. I've never been so proud of something that I have done.

We arrived at the emergency room exactly 2 hours after Porter was born. I have never been into an emergency room, let alone a pediatric emergency room. Within a minute, there were at least ten staff members, including several doctors, ready to help our little guy. We had answers and he had antibiotics within the hour. There are no words for going home without your baby. It is scary being sent home knowing that the problems reside in the heart and lungs, the two most necessary things for life. I don't think I knew to cry until I woke up the next morning to the perfect silence of our home rather than to the scream of a new baby. As the mother, the one who has spent 9+ months sacrificing to keep your baby safe, there is no way not to blame yourself. The "if only…" list runs through your head. I felt so guilty for waking at home the next morning while he was hooked up to countless machines, with tubes in his nose, down his throat and IVs poking into his arm. I always made Jim promise if something went wrong, it was baby before me and somehow, that protective system I felt I had set-up failed.

I wanted a natural birth and it was beautiful. Whether we were at a hospital or birthing center, we know that the result would have been the same with Porter, and don't regret our decision. I would even use a midwife again, if we choose to have another child. We've really learned the strength in our marriage this week. We were able to keep each other laughing in the NICU when we needed Porter to know that we were there, his pillars of hope and strength. We were able to go home and have honest discussions about what we felt about the day and just cry when it seemed so far from the plan we had made. We leaned on our faith and God met us with answers to each prayer, better than we would've known how to ask. Porter has made what seems like a miracle recovery. He was off of his oxygen by day 3 and off of his IV feeding tube at 5 days. There are 7, 10, and 21 day courses of antibiotics for aspirational pneumonia and we will be taking our happy, healthy boy home tomorrow after just 7 days. We will have just one follow up appointment with Cardiology for an abnormal EKG. We know that the adventure of parenting is just being, but we are glad that we were able to weather this storm.