Product Review: Thinx

Here's a very serious caveat: If you were born with a Y chromosome, this post is not for you. Nope. Move along, friend. Buh-bye.

Okay, just us Double Xes, then?

Hi there! You might remember (but probably don't) a review I did almost exactly four years ago on The Diva Cup. I was not overstating things when I insisted that it changed my life. It seriously did.

So, here we are, now six and a half years after this discovery, and guess what? I made another discovery.

Not an "instead," but an "and also." Why? Because life changes.

It's likely that the convergence of a couple of things have conspired to create an unsatisfactory (even more so than the usual) situation surrounding this here lady's menses.

First, I had a second baby. Shouldn't be surprising that that changes some stuff.

Second, I'm likely in the early stages (middle early?) of perimenopause. I think Perry Manypaws sounds like the name of a Disney character. No? How about Merry Pennypaws? Definitely. Someone get on that.

Anyhoo, since I'm breastfeeding -- yes, still -- I fully expected, based on the voracious nature of my son's desire for "la la" (he calls it) and his nearly-constant sucking reflex, that I'd get a break from my period for a year or so.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. About four months in...

Not only that, it was like high school grade awful. Extremely painful, making me more anemic than usual, and often lasting ten days. Oh, goodness, and the volume.

Since I have a Diva Cup, I know pretty much exactly how much I'm bleeding. It's terrifying.

And so, here is my problem: Even if I empty and clean up every single time I'm in the restroom (which is a lot, because I drink all day long; at least once an hour), I end up with leaks.

Ugh, it's been like a teenage dream... a nightmare: Switching underwear several times a day, STILL having to change pants, being nervous that something might have happened since last time I checked. 

Hope none of the Ys are still here; I warned them!

As has everyone with internet access, I'd seen Thinx and it seemed really neat. Also expensive. But, after nearly a year of this, I was getting desperate. Six months ago or so, I read a very funny review that made me decide, "Eventually, I'm going to do this."

Get it? Thinking about Thinx.

Still. More than $30 a pair. Actually, that's about what a good bra costs. So, finally, after more and more of the same, I went for it. I was going to buy one pair and test it, then decided just to go for it, buy 5 (to save 15%) and hope for the best.

First things first: Sizing. Their website says, "You may have heard to size up, but our sizing now runs true to the size chart!" So I looked at their sizing chart. In real life, I wear a size 14, which would be XL. But I also measured myself, and according to that, I would be an XXXL! I waffled on which to do, and ended up ordering my actual, real-life size, measurements be darned.

I'm glad I did! So order your pant size and you'll be fine. Oh, and yay to them for sizing according to something that makes sense, as opposed to other women's underpants, in which I wear a 7 or 8, which roughly corresponds to... nothing else. Why?

Just Sunday, I had gotten dressed and left for church, ran to the restroom as soon as I got there, and had a disheartening, "Really?! ALREADY?!" reaction. Fortunately, I guess, I'd already gotten my dress dirty on some mystery substance in my car, so it wasn't like I didn't already need to change clothes. Sigh.

A day or two later, in the space of about half an hour, something happened so that a leak made it through the unattractive thick cotton underwear I'd strategically chosen, and through the thick denim seam at the crotch of my shorts! UGH!

Then, like a miracle, this package arrived this week! They didn't send me a notice of shipping, so I wasn't sure when to expect them. I was glad they got here during my period, but was kind of disappointed that it seemed to be on its way out. But silly me! It's only Day 5, and it's returned with a vengeance, so I'm getting a very solid chance to try them out.

Okay, first, here is what they look like lying on the floor and not on a cool model:

These are the "heavy flow" (2 tampon) hip-huggers. I didn't even notice until today that the lining of the nude pair is still black. That's nice. You don't have to see... you know. Stuff. But it's flawless on the outside; you can't see through to the black.

These are my favorite, the lighter day (1 tampon) boy shorts. I am still using my Diva Cup, so only want these as a backup. I pick boy shorts because I am a middle-aged woman who does not enjoy trying to manage wedgies or the roll-down that happens when I wear stuff that hits me under my natural waist. So, it's boy shorts. And there was much rejoicing.

First thing: These are seriously-engineered underpants. They look sturdy, and they're not bulky, but they're substantial. Kind of like I'd expect a girdle to be put together, except that when you put them on, they're very comfortable. I could tell instantly that I was going to enjoy wearing them.

The inner core part goes up fairly high in both the front (pictured) and the back. You can look on the website to see exactly how these are put together, but basically, the inner layer is some moisture-wicking tech (like your running shirts, for those of you who are into that sort of thing), then an anti-microbial, an absorbent layer, and then a leak guard layer.

So far, here is my experience: I know I've had a couple of pretty productive days, but they've been flawless. It hasn't even gotten through to the outside layer of the drawers, much less my pants.

But here's where I was really looking forward to a change: Overnight.

Remember that toddler I have? The one who still breastfeeds? He wakes up multiple times a night, and he flails. He also just sits up and starts randomly crawling around, occasionally falling off of the bed.

So at night, I literally wrestle a toddler. And all of that activity, plus usually an eight- to ten-hour time spread during which I can't empty out and start over has led to my having to do emergency sheet washes, and it's been truly embarrassing and stupid and pointless. I AM ALMOST 44 YEARS OLD. I NEED MY DIGNITY.

Anyway, they work! Not a drop.

Finally, I live in Austin, Texas. It is summer. Nothing, and I mean nothing "feel(s) dry!" Not here. Not now. Well, friends, I feel drier than usual. I mean  drier than even when I'm not having my period and an wearing normal underthings.

Also, I've read about the"stank," and maybe you have, too. I think this might only be a deal if you free flow with them. Using the Diva Cup, there has been no discernable odor being what one unfortunately expects.

And now you know. 

After the Fact (a sort of follow-up to my last post)

As I mentioned last time, I had some pretty intense postpartum depression after Daphne was born. What I'm about to talk about, the ideas I had after the fact and the plans I have this time around, likely would not and will not avoid an incidence of the mood disorder. I just noticed some things that I could have handled better the first time around.

Over the years, people have mentioned to me my "strength." I don't know what that means, but in practice, it apparently means that people assume I am very tough, very brave, and can handle a lot on my own. Which is true, to an extent, but after Daphne was born, I was terribly lonely.

I didn't aspire to my office job I had before she was born, but the fact was that for five years of my life, I'd been around a peer group for 40 hours a week. I was happy to be home, but I had no social contacts at all. I had incorrectly assumed that after you have a baby, all of your people - friends, acquaintances, former co-workers, people from church - show up at your house, dropping in and maybe sometimes even being super pesky. Gosh, there are so many, "If you come visit me after the baby's born, here's how to do it right..." lists online, it seems like this is an epidemic.

Perhaps, in the same way I apparently put out the "don't you dare touch my belly" vibe that successfully repels all but the most intentionally obnoxious people (yes, I'm talking about you, Jennifer and Sarah), I also accidentally put out the "we just want to be alone" vibe... which was definitely not the case.

After Daphne was born, no one who was not related to me came to my house. Literally no one. I felt isolated and lost. I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing or feeling, and I was unprepared for the deep sadness (wasn't this what the last months had been expectantly leading up to?) and loneliness (there's literally always a little person *right here* every moment of the day... and night!) I experienced.

Daphne's dad was out of his element, too; a first-time parent, he had no idea how to support me and was probably just trying his best to get used to his new role. When, about a week in, he walked in on my crying over Daphne, who'd just started her first bout with hiccups, his response was, "You have to pull yourself together."

Note for new dads: This is not an effective cheering strategy.

The bright spots in my days were when my pregnant sister and her almost-two-year-old daughter visited, when I got out among people in the "real world" (as opposed to my black hole of a home where all I could feel was sleep deprivation and hopelessness), and when my not-too-close friend Janice would call and share the dark thoughts she had after the birth of her only child. These were the times when I felt "normal."

Now, of course, I realize that I could have called people and asked them to come over. They would have. But I was new at the whole thing, and I wasn't used to asking for care for myself. I wasn't "strong." I was inexperienced and stupid.

I realize that part of this is that I don't have a wide circle of close friends in real life. I worry that I come across as standoffish or preoccupied, when I'm actually just socially awkward. I suck at small talk, and I do find it exhausting getting to know new people through most of the layers and walls we put up early into relationships. In fact, this weekend, I found a video that pretty much explains how I feel in most social situations:




I understand, too, that some people really want to be home for a week or three or six with "just" their core family, both to bond and to avoid germs. This is totally not me. Today, at our birthing class, the instructor mentioned that they prefer mothers to stay in bed (basically, allowing for showers and some walking around for circulation) for three days... and this sounds like a nightmare. Daphne was born at around 2 AM on a Friday; I went to church Saturday night and out to dinner on Sunday evening. And, again, those were the better moments of those first days home.

So, if you're in Austin, be prepared for me to call or text or Facebook message you and ask you to come over for an hour or so, just to see the baby and chat for a while. I will need it. And I'm old enough and wise enough now to know to ask for help. If you definitely want to be on the "call list," email me and I'll be sure to add your name with a big old star beside it.

The Size of the Matter

This week, when I went to my 5 month midwife appointment, I couldn't make the scale work (it's one of those fancy high-tech ones, so, of course, it's prone to fail) and didn't get a weigh-in. When I went in to a CVS Minute Clinic to get an Albuterol prescription, I was weighed... and found that I've gained more in the past month than I have in the remainder of my pregnancy all together! I know a lot of that is fluid retention, because by the evenings, the tops of my feet look hammy already. But I'm not worried about any of it; I'm still well within (and maybe even a bit under) "norms" for 25 weeks.

Still, that whole thing has me a bit on edge.

What "whole thing,"? you ask. I'll tell you...

When I've been to see the midwife, my pulse and blood pressure has been pretty consistent, with my pulse ranging from 64 in March to 76 in January and April (the earlier they take it, the higher it is because the walk to the center is extremely uphill) and my blood pressure from a systolic low of 98 in February to a high of 110 in March and a diastolic low of 64 in January to a high of 74 in February.

(P.S. All of this is online for my perusal; I kind of love the future.)

Throughout my pregnancy, I have ridden my bike and walked, typically covering a minimum of 14 miles per week, mostly on bike because that's easier for me... but I get more company when I walk, so I'll do that, too. I continue my chores and have spent the last two weeks moving things, deep cleaning, and building furniture. I don't feel like taking it easy nor do I think that'd be particularly healthy for me.

Plus, today, the errands I ran would have taken longer in the car. I needed to get my Albuterol and called at 4:21 to see if the pharmacy was open. They were, but when I asked if it were normal hours (open until 9 PM), the tech said no. "We close in 38 minutes and 38 seconds." So I jumped on my bike and rode 1.2 miles, most of it up a Guadalupe alternate and if you've ever driven up the Drag or its surrounds, you know it's plagued with stop lights and stop signs and pedestrians and it takes FOREVER. I got my medicine and went a couple of blocks to Breed and Company for Soda Stream supplies, then headed back, getting home by 4:45.

When I'm at the midwife's, they're always pleased about my robust health, but at the clinic it was different... The nurse practitioner was obviously extremely surprised that my numbers would look so good, and the only reason I can think of as to why would be because I am a big old pregnant lady. I'm guessing she took a look at me and figured I was one too-high-curb-climb away from a heart attack, or maybe one brownie away from a diabetic coma. Or perhaps because I don't have insurance (a financial choice at this point, rather than a financial necessity), she assumed that I probably don't take my health seriously.

Now let's forward to today when I was using a 20% off coupon on the Bed, Bath, and Beyond website. I need a belly support band because if I walk more than about two miles, it really starts to stretch the skin at the base of my stomach. My back feels fine, and I have NO pressure when I'm on the bike. But I remember the same thing happening with Daphne, and it got intensely painful, to the point that once I was afraid I'd somehow hurt her.

While I was on the site looking for "belly band" and "belly support," I saw a number of items that really made me frustrated. There were more products for postpartum "reshaping" than maternity support. I don't mean belts you might wear if you'd had a C-section and required support. I mean "sucks you in so no one can see what a flabby stomach you have, you gooey disgusting tub of lard." Literally, one of the nursing tanks is called "Mother Tucker."

Discussing this with James, he told me about a friend of his who had gotten back into bikini shape within 6 weeks of having her baby, and who was very proud of this, loving to shock other new moms when they learned how young her child was. Discussing all of THIS with my sister brought up this picture that made the rounds last year (I think even Dr. Laura posted it, recommending it as motivation and that everyone has time for fitness).

Well.

Here's the deal: I weighed 190 before I got pregnant with Daphne and guess what? I could run five miles. I couldn't run five miles when I was in college and weighed 148 (which is the least I can remember weighing ever; I think I was at about 170 when I graduated high school). I have weighed a lot, and I have weighed a lot less, and I have never looked like the lady in this picture. I have never worn a bikini because it's just not my style, but even if I had, I'd never have been able to pull off the look to a "you oughta be in a magazine!" extent.

Looks are all about looks. You cannot tell whether someone is fit based solely on their looks, or how much they weigh. When I was at my lowest weight, I was the least healthy I've ever been in my life. I was obsessed with every calorie; I wrote down everything I ate including the calorie and fat content. I would not eat more than 7 grams of fat per day. Many of my calories came from fat free things like jelly beans and candy corn. I ate a lot of processed disgusting par-foods like fake butter and Pringles fried in Olean. I had what I would come to learn was exercise bulimia, meaning that if I realized I'd somehow eaten more calories than I'd intended, I would have to work out or walk or do something to even it out or I'd be incapacitated with panic and self-hate. I exercised every other day, and if I was at someone's house and it seemed like I wouldn't have time to exercise at home, I'd exercise there. Like in their living room. While we were talking. I did not eat after 6:00 PM. I was a wreck.

Old pictures are difficult to look at, sort of, because I think that there are times in my life when I looked "better" (read: skinnier) than I did, say, when James and I got married. They're even harder to have shared on Facebook, because when people comment about how awesome I look (because they don't realize how old the picture is), I am very tempted to feel bad about myself. But the truth is, when I lost a bunch of weight when Daphne was a year to two years old, I did it because I was told to. It made me self-conscious about having people look at me. It made me feel like I was not worthy of love because I was disgusting. And when I lost more weight a few years later, it was because my weight was creeping back up and I wanted to address it before it was brought to my attention. Physically, I was a lot healthier than when I was at my lowest weight, but emotionally, I was a wreck.

At some point, I came to peace with the fact that (excepting the ruptured disc), my body does what I want it to. It moves where I want it to go, and it does so without much protest. It's functional. It's borne a lot over time. It is not my enemy.

Being pregnant is awesome for me. I get to be a lot less self-conscious about the shape I'm in (I mean literal shape, not fitness level) because I know how adorable pregnancy is. Especially at 41, I'll take all of the "adorable" that I can generate.

But here's the deal: In the fall, I'll have a newborn. I'll be re-acclimating to that wonderful and terrible world of having another human being completely dependent on me (and my husband) for survival. It's overwhelming. I will not be bullied into obsessing over whether the skin around my middle is unattractively bouncy. I have some choice words for marketers and other moms (please, ladies! We should SUPPORT each other) who would shame me into it, but my mom reads this blog, so I'll just say that the phrase begins with an "f" and it ends with a "u." Or an exclamation point. But you get the idea.

Daphne didn't sleep through the night until she was more than 9 months old. It took me until she was just over a year before I was physically and emotionally ready to address the fact that I was eating as much as I had been when I was expecting, and I hadn't been able to nurse, so I was not doing my body any favors.

The fact that I was still carrying "baby" weight, meaning I was overweight even MORE than usual, after all of that time makes me no worse a person or a woman than James' friend who was back to her fighting weight after 6 weeks. It just means that we had different paths, and different priorities. I don't assume mine were any better or more noble than hers, and I'd appreciate the return courtesy.

Also, my weight was not an indicator that I was lazy or letting myself go. I lived with six teenage boys from the time Daphne was 2 months old until she was 8 months old. I promise you, I was doing plenty. When I could get away from the house to push D in a stroller for half an hour, it felt like a release from prison. I'd have loved to keep up some regular fitness regime; it just was not feasible for those months.

One of the many things I love about going to see the midwife is that, in addition to not treating me like a freak because of my age, the only reason they care about my weight is that they want to make sure there aren't sudden spikes or drops, indicating a problem. If I were sedentary, I'm sure they'd encourage me to move it. If my diet were an issue, they'd tell me. But they don't assume that "big" means I'm doing something wrong, or that I need to fit into some norm that someone has on paper or in a picture of what the "ideal" anything looks like.

Do you know what I did when Daphne was an infant? I wrote a novel. Seriously. You can buy it here, I don't know that it's very awesome, but it's a real thing. You know what I didn't do? I didn't post a link to it on social media and ask, "What's Your Excuse?" You know why? Because I can only assume that, as much as I love writing, that's not everyone's forte, and what's the point of being a jerk about it?

I read this once and love it: "People who choose exercise activities, meaning various types of movement or fitness, as a hobby are no more praiseworthy than people who choose anything else as a hobby."

So, you ladies who have been pregnant in the past and now have washboard abs, good for you! That's your thing, and you go do it and be happy. I wrote a lot of stuff that moved a lot of people during the years between my daughter's birth and when she turned three. If you can agree not to try to make me feel ashamed for being "fat," I won't try to make you feel ashamed for being "less articulate" or "dumber" or whatever. Actually, I won't do that, anyway.

Companies, if you're really mom-friendly, then help me be a good mom without giving me MORE things to have to worry about, like "being fierce" and "reclaiming my pre-baby body!"

Public at large, don't look at me and make assumptions about my health, fitness, or lifestyle based on the fact that I'm a certain age or a certain size.

Tomorrow morning, a lot of ladies will get up early and go to the gym. I'll get an equal amount of pleasure from baking, consuming, and watching my family eat the cinnamon rolls I just prepared. As far as I'm concerned, some food *does* taste as good as (or better than) being thin feels, and that's totally okay.

What Not to (Under)Wear

(In case you're wondering: Yes, this post is about drawers for pregnant ladies. If that doesn't interest you, you should come back another day... though I can't promise it will be much better.)

As I've mentioned before, this pregnancy is very different from the one I experienced 13 years ago. Not because I'm older, no; actually, I'm in better shape at 41 than I was at 28, believe that or don't. I actually LOVE being pregnant (until the last week or so) and my body responds really well to it. Also, this time I have access to much more attractive clothing than I did before. It seems like maybe 2 years after I was expecting Daphne, maternity clothes got super cute. While I do still prefer the more loose, forgiving stuff over the uber-body-conscious curve-hugging stuff, I appreciate the variety that's available now. (I also appreciate my husband, who hasn't flinched at the many Zulily packages we've received over the past couple of months.)

However.

One of the first things I noticed, when realizing it was time to bust out the maternity clothes, was that my normal undergarments -- the lower installment -- had no waist around which to rally and therefore were prone to slide off of my hips and disappear forever.

This led to my first (unsuccessful) venturing online to locate some comfortable underpants. If you look at Motherhood Maternity's underwear selection (and I don't recommend that you do, because, frankly, I am moderately disturbed by out-of-context pregnancy bellies in varying degrees of expectancy), you will notice that they have precisely ZERO over-belly selections. They have "high cut" and "fold over" and bikini and hipster (the hipster underpants do not flatter any of the models, by the way), but no over-belly "these definitely won't fall off and if you're really worried, you can tuck them up under your bra" underpants.

I found a few pair on Zulily and Amazon, but they're all in the $20+ range, and it's difficult to break out of my cheapskate propensity to justify paying $5+ a month to rent a pair of underwear.

Not much better.

Thus far, I've bought nothing of this ilk, but I have learned a lot. One thing I've learned is that there are some products that should just not exist. For instance:

What? Why? NO.

Dude, I like to look cute... but I can't imagine any scenario in which I would want to be messing with a thong right now.

Note that these maternity thongs are unavailable for men. Sorry, friends.

You might think that wearing a thong would be... uh, invasive enough. But wait! There's more!

I can't. Um, let's say only that the models in these pictures are definitely *not* pregnant. Speaking of which:

Hot Milk doesn't seem to understand what pregnant women look like. A) I don't look like this when I'm not pregnant. B) As much as I don't like seeing other women's naked prego bumps, there are mannequins for the below-belly stuff, and like actual baby-incubators for the rest of the stuff.

Besides, I don't get the French Kicker thing... You know who is seeing my underwear right now? NO ONE. Not even James. It's not that I don't feel attractive when I'm pregnant, because I do! But I can't even see my own underpants, so I can't be sure I have them on, say, right side out or correct side front or any of that, so no one else is looking, either. I'm playing to my strengths.

Oh, and here's something else that super frustrates me that's available for those of us whose bodies are hosting increasingly sentient other beings.

Ugh. No. Just. NO.

"Support" is one thing. "Control" and "slimming" is another. I'm freaking pregnant. My body is changing. It's kind of awesome. I don't owe it to anyone to look particularly "slim" or in "control." This is a utilitarian weight gain, and I have enough to think about without wondering if this pregnancy makes my thighs look meaty.

Yeah. Spanx has a maternity line, too. Just be grateful I didn't show you the big picture.

Speaking of which, I saw this picture (or one of the many taken on this occasion) in a popular weekly gossip magazine. Don't judge. I was stuck in a waiting room.

This is actress Kate Winslet posing by her brand-spanking new star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Do you know what the headline said? "'Divergent' star Kate Winslet flaunts her post-baby body for Hollywood Walk of Fame Ceremony." REALLY? She just had her vocation's accomplishments acknowledged, and you have to draw attention to the fact that she doesn't look like a frumpy milk factory? And so what if she did? It's bad enough to assume that "fat" means "ugly" or "unhealthy" or "lazy" or "unmotivated." It's even WORSE to pressure women who have spent 9 months with their bodies changing to care for a child to "look" a certain way in the few weeks after delivery. For what it's worth, I have friends who can "bounce back" right after having a kid (or two or three) and others whose meat hangs on a while. In my experience, a LOT of it is genetics. But either way, what the heck? Kate Winslet was being feted for her ACTING. Way to strip the meaning out of that whole thing!

I wouldn't buy these because they look exactly like "normal" drawers, and, besides, all of the models look uncomfortably bound at the "waist." You know how usually underwear models have no rolls or pulls or even mini-muffin tops? Not so with these.

Two more products you didn't know you needed, but you... don't.

Apparently, this is for those times you might carry your cell phone in your pants pocket. Upon further inspection, I found that there is actually a whole market of maternity anti-radiation clothing. I'm filing this under "I have exorbitant amounts of cash sitting around in piles, and not nearly enough baby stuff to purchase. TAKE MY MONEY!!"

And, finally...

I think this might be for new mothers. If you're expecting your first, then I need to tell you something: Nursing only affects the top half of your undergarment-clad areas. I mean, true, you might be sitting down. But these briefs don't have a cushion or anything, so probably not strictly a true "nursing" item.

The whole thing is an education, isn't it? You're welcome.

Road Trip Mini-Update 1.5 - KOA quirks and how I'm kind of Macguyver

Yesterday, except for some probably fake tea (read: reconstituted, not brewed), I had almost no caffeine. Between that and the weird dust storm stuff plus my allergies, I got a couple of visual migraines which, if you have to have a migraine, they're the best ones because you can't feel them at all; they're just freaky. Anyway, here at the KOA, I had bought a 20-ounce Diet Coke in the store, and barely had time to take a swig before we went to dinner - where I didn't buy soda because I knew we had cheaper soda at "home."

However, once we got back, I realized that I probably needed not to drink anything else the rest of the night if I didn't want to have to get up and go to the restroom. It's not too far from our cabin; it's probably 100 yards, maybe a little more. But, as I mentioned, the wind got *worse* once we got back. The porch swing hit the cabin several times. I did *not* want to have to run over there.

Fortunately, my strategery worked and I made it until 5:36 this morning. Since it was practically morning morning, I decided to go ahead and get my shower, then I'd fix my hair while Daphne was over getting cleaned up this morning... later.

If you've ever stayed at a KOA "kamping kabin" (I hope that's not a racist thing), you know that you have to bring your own linens. Except here we had the option to rent them for $20 for the night, and since we already had to bring jackets and coats and shorts and clothing options that ranged from the high-70s to the mid-30s, I didn't want to haul any more than we needed to, especially for just one night.

Consequently, we had bed coverings... just not towels. I didn't think of those. Oh well, we can make do, right?

So this morning, in the cabin in the dark (little man by the window stood-- oh, wait, wrong story), I grabbed my clothes for today (which I'd put on the handy peg last night; three pegs, three people's clothes) as well as the "bathroom bag" I'd packed for D and me to tote over there. I threw my ugly plaid overshirt on over my nightgown, pulled on a pair of leggings, and came outside to find it in the high-40s, yes, but not windy. It was actually not cold at all. It felt lovely, and the air was cleared out of all of the grit we were chewing on yesterday.

First thing about the bathroom is that the lights are on a 30-minute timer. During the day, there is enough ambient light from the windows that you don't really need them. That's one interesting way to keep people from standing in the hot showers all morning. Oh, and, yes, the water (after three minutes of my being concerned) gets wonderfully scalding.

The facilities at every KOA I have visited have been consistently clean and nice. However, in a bathroom for women, I can't believe there is nowhere to prop a foot in case you want to, you know, shave. Well, we made that work.

Drying off sans towel would be no big deal; my plan was to use my yesterday clothes for that. But then it hit me that Saturday afternoon, after I'd showered and towel-dried my hair, when it drip-dried, I ended up with orange spots down the back of a yellow t-shirt. I know, I should rinse my color out better. But that was the THIRD wash since I'd colored, and I can't stay in the shower for two hours!

Anyway, I didn't want to mess up my pretties; I'm kind of in love with my maternity clothes. Then it hit me: Leggings! I turned them inside out, flipped my head over, put the waist part around my hairline, and then pulled each "leg" around my head in an opposite direction so that I ended up with a Jemima-esque bow in the middle of my forehead. Ridiculous? Maybe. But problem solved.

Also, I forgot my shoes, so had to slip sandals back on over my socks. Oh well.

Back at the cabin now, waiting for the others to wake up. We have some more driving to do today, then will arrive at our destination. Grateful for the milder weather so I can sit out here on the porch updating and watching the sun rise without bothering James and Daphne too much. I can sleep, but on vacations, I guess my body doesn't want to miss a minute of anything.

Here are the pictures from yesterday!

Toddlers are more time-consuming, but at least it's pretty black and white...

You know how sometimes you just get hammered with the same message over and over again, like someone upstairs knows just what you're needing to hear?

Mine started with coming across this excerpt from an article in "People" magazine that Ellen Degeneres wrote.

Now, I realize that she probably had a more traumatic childhood than a lot of kids, but it struck me because I know there have been times when I've been annoyed with Daphne for her not being cheerful. Which isn't a big deal, unless I let myself love her less when she's not a constant ray of sunshine.

When I was Daphne's age, I was a lot like her. I remember going shopping with my mom, trying on an article of clothing and having it work, and wanting to *go home*. My mom wanted to look around. Every time. I did not. And apparently, according to her, I'd be miserable and spread the misery around, until she'd finally get fed up and we'd leave. I remember several times her getting on to me for "ruining" an outing because I was done.

What I don't remember is feeling particularly bad, penitent, or guilty about "ruining" her time. I was probably just relieved to get home.

I was a selfish kid. Most kids are. And they need to be trained to recognize selfishness and combat it, but not to "act" a certain way necessarily because I find that preferable.

Today, The Libertarian Homeschooler posted this:

There have been times that I have "mom-sensed" an "attitude" rolling off of Daphne, and have snapped at her to get over herself, only to have her cry, not understanding what "attitude" I mean.

One day, when she sat down to do school, I was insisting that she focus on a certain thing, and a couple of minutes later, she had tears in her eyes. I was torn between being baffled about what had just happened, and being frustrated that Daphne was so lazy that my forcing her to get to work made her shed enraged tears. Instead of talking to her about it in that moment, I let it go and we went on with school. Later that night, I approached her and said, "Whatever I said or did when you were starting school, I'm sorry that I made you cry." She thought about it for a moment and said, "Oh! I almost didn't know what you were talking about... but I had just listened to a sad song, and I was picturing a video for it with some characters, so it kind of made me cry."

This was a wake-up call to me not to assume that I know what is going on in my child's head because of her outward appearance.

Daphne is a good kid, and while I can't say I "enjoy" her all of the time, I'm proud of her and I'm glad she's mine. I'm fairly certain that she'd tell you she doesn't "enjoy" me all of the time, either. She doesn't like it when I sing with a song she's trying to listen to on the radio. I don't like it when I'm talking and she turns up the radio because a song she likes is on. There are things about everyone we know that we don't adore, but typically, we don't exert direct pressure to change those things in anyone but our kids (or maybe our spouses, if we're being especially dense). I think one of the most difficult tasks of parenting an older child is determining what is a character flaw that needs attention and what is a behavior that isn't necessarily my favorite, but might just be an indication of where they "are" at the time?

Actually, this *does* happen with smaller kids, but, again, the stakes don't "feel" as high. When your kid is tiny and they've been humming the same three notes all day, you still do need to check yourself before angrily sending them to their room just because you're annoyed. You can always say, "Sweetie, you've been humming that tune a long time, and I'm kind of tired of it, so can you please give my ears a rest?" Then if they keep doing it, you have to decide if it's a habit and they're just a forgetful kid or if it's purposefully to spite you and to go from there.

It feels like a whole other thing when you have a near-teenager at a restaurant with a bunch of people and the kid lays her head down on the table as though sleeping, which you then interpret at being rude because 1) eww, head oil on the table and 2) passive-aggressive "I wish we were anywhere else but here!" much? and 3) OMG, what are these people thinking about me because of what my kid's doing?---

Ouch.

There is where I have to check myself.

There are a lot of things that "irritate" me that I realize have everything to do with me, and little to do with my child. For instance, a year ago, Daphne would hold hands with me or lean on my shoulder during church. Would she now? Heck, no! She'd be mortified! But my "attitude" when she flinches away from my rubbing her back is more about my wanting to feel affirmed and accepted than it has to do with her necessarily being "rude." Thoughtless? Possibly. But I'm the adult, and I can't get offended and therefore mad and therefore act out just because my little baby doesn't want to kiss mommy goodnight like she used to.

I wish Daphne were more excited about hanging out with me. When I ask her if she wants to go to the grocery store with me, I wish she still jumped at the chance. And, yes, sometimes I don't give her a choice, and I expect her to be respectful and helpful, even if she's not skipping down the aisles... But I do miss the times when she was eager to go wherever I was. Sort of. I think I've forgotten how tiring it was never ever having a moment alone.

I wish Daphne weren't so enthusiastic about giving James and me a "date night," because, come on, who wouldn't want to go out and have dinner with us when we're so awesome?!

Would I tweak Daphne's outlook/behavior if I would? Ehh... I don't know. Would she still be "Daphne" if I could control her behavior? Because the fact is that I love Daphne, and I even love the stuff about her that gets on my nerves (which is probably all stuff that I do/have done coming back to bite me in the butt).

I can't control her and, ultimately, wouldn't want do. I do want to help her become her best self. But her best self may be so different from what I'd have have sculpted if I'd fashioned her out of my own brain that it might include pieces that I don't understand or fully appreciate. That is one of the wonders of her being her own person.

Maybe I err sometimes on the side of letting her be, but I know there are also times when I err on the side of being unreasonably terse and demanding.

There are difficult moments, but we have breakthroughs and grace. I'm working on more grace. I hope my daughter has some for me, too.

One night toward the end of SXSW, the three of us walked down to 6th Street for dinner. Daphne insisted that she wasn't hungry, she wasn't feeling well, and she wished we hadn't made her go. On the walk down, I felt like she was being a downer, asking how long the walk was, how long we'd be at dinner, etc. It's my nature to snap at that, because, good grief, buck up and enjoy your life, man.

Instead, after a while of listening to her, I explained to her that I understood that she didn't feel good. I wasn't telling her to feel better. I wasn't insisting that she feel better, or even lie about how great she felt. But I told her that the issues she was experiencing were common both to me and to most women. I mentally calculated one week every month for a potential fertility period of thirty years and realized that a "typical" woman will spend seven years of her life in a situation she can use to excuse bad behavior if she wants, but do you really want to waste that much of your life being put-upon by everything? I told her that even in feeling less-than-100%, she can choose her attitude, and then choose what words come out of her mouth and how she helps the environment around herself and others. (And let's all pray that I remember these words of wisdom.)

Later, sitting at dinner (we shared a steak and she didn't eat 1/2 of her 1/2, so she wasn't kidding about not being hungry, because usually that girl is all about the meat), Daphne said, "I'm sorry for being such a douchebag--" Yes, that's what she said. I'm sorry if that's offensive to anyone. I, for one, really appreciated it. She then explained that she wasn't feeling awesome but that she was trying to have a better attitude.

It would have been just as easy for me to explode in the frustration I felt and even make her cry a little bit, which I know I can do when I'm forceful enough... but that's pretty much bullying, and I desperately want to avoid it.

It's taken me a lot of time to start noticing things and to learn to be okay with them. For instance, I don't want Daphne to be rude, but I have accepted that she just doesn't do well in group conversations. It used to frustrate me when she'd try to have a sidebar with me if we were at dinner with a bunch of other people, because I felt like it looked rude to the other people at the table... until I started to realize that she doesn't command a room. If she's alone with me, she might talk to me for forty-five minutes straight about a topic she's interested in. But she doesn't hang out and chat with half a dozen people. That's just not how she works. 

It's a process, but I'm praying that time and persistence for us to work through the next few years with respect and our relationship intact. I genuinely don't wan to force Daphne to put a face forward that is not hers. I do love her for the alien being she is. She is of me, but she's not me, and that's a great thing. So I walk that razor's edge between expecting her to act like a decent human being, and giving her the space to become someone I wouldn't choose to become... because she's not me.

Then today in church, Jacob was teaching from Colossians 3, specifically the whole "provoke not your children to wrath" part (my mom used to accuse me of doing this when Daphne was little, but I used the excuse that she didn't have siblings to teach her to share, or to lord it over her when she lost a game, so someone had to expose her to these life realities). He said, "Nothing will exasperate a child faster than forcing them to be something they are not."

Just as I was writing that down as a reminder to myself, he paraphrased Bruce Wesley, who said something to the extent of: "Know the difference between rebellion and a kid just trying to figure out who they are."

Wow.

Let that sink in.

So, before I unleash the righteous indignation at the unmitigated gall of my child to do a certain thing, I need to look at it more closely. I don't want her to shut down who she is to be complaint. Actually, this probably isn't a risk for Daphne. She's more likely to hide that part of herself than to change it, and I want to know her fully, so I need to choose my battles wisely.

I remember as a young person being criticized variously for my speech patterns (this was during the Valley Girl days, and while I don't think we were doing that, we were doing something weird), for the clothes I wore to church, for not wanting to participate in certain events, and for wanting to participate in certain things, for chewing on my fingers, for my posture, and for a whole lot of things that, ultimately, don't matter. It was exhausting to try to manage people's expectations while still trying to grow up and address genuine areas of concern. I hope that I can discern the things worth working toward, and the things worth letting go... just like I used to take an Aleve and let her bang on a pot with a spoon long after it had ceased to be "fun." 

A Girl and Her Maillot

Today, Daphne and I (and her two female cousins) went to the mall to try to accomplish a dreaded springtime task: Purchasing bathing suits.

Daphne found two suits she liked at Macy's. She tried them on, but they didn't work, so we headed into the mall to look elsewhere.

Daphne is a lot like I was at that age (and am a little bit now): She doesn't like to shop, she isn't happy to be there, and she doesn't try very hard to make the experience enjoyable for anyone else. Now, I will say I was 100% like that as a kid (just ask my mom!). I don't love shopping to this day, but I am pleasant, for the most part. Anyway, she was ticked off that we were looking around in the mall when we had not exhausted the Macy's suits. I had been under the impression that she'd tried on the two that she liked and that was it.

While we were in another store, I found a bathing suit that would work for me. I actually took two suits into the dressing room, but only tried the first one on. Another thing you can ask my mom about, because this is another thing about me that goes way back, is that if I try on an article of clothing and it fits and works, I'm not interested in looking further to see if there is anything that I like better. Because you know what I like better? Being finished shopping.

The first suit I tried on had a racer-back, and it looked reasonably good... so when I glanced at the other suit I'd chosen and really thought about the fact that it was a halter, I decided not even to bother. Halters are an annoyance to me because I tend to tie them into the hair on the nape of my neck. Then I either get it too tight so that it strains my neck or too loose so that the girls don't look very happy.

After my purchase, I told Daphne we'd stop back by Macy's on the way out and she could look again, then if she didn't find anything, we'd hit Kohl's before we dropped her cousins off at their house.

Back at Macy's, Daphne did find one suit that she liked and of which I could approve. It was a one-piece, it was modest, and she thought it was fun. She went to try it on, and came out of the dressing room grinning. Her cousin said that it looked really good on her, and she loved it, so I told Daphne we'd get it.

Then it occurred to me: I hadn't even looked at the price of this particular swimsuit. I turned the tag over... and the suit cost almost 3 times what I'd paid for mine! I saw Daphne's face when I said the price aloud, and immediately I said, "No, that's okay. We'll get it."

Here's why: (If you're a mom with a pre-teen or teenaged daughter, you will understand this) The fact that my self-conscious girl came out of the dressing room with a bathing suit feeling good about how she looked in it was worth it. It was worth it not to have to try on more and more suits. If you're a woman and you've ever unsuccessfully tried on clothes for an extended period of time, you know that every new failure makes you doubt yourself that much more... Which is stupid, but it's a real thing.

So we bought her the first thing I've ever bought from Macy's, and the most expensive bathing suit that's likely ever to be under our roof. But if she can swim all summer (and maybe next) without feeling doubtful about how she looks, without yanking up or down on ill-fitting, poorly-supported swimwear... Totally worth it. Some things just are.

Adventures in Family Planning

A warning: This is not going to be a pretty blog post. It covers some pretty personal stuff, and I'm certain that my feelings on the matter are not flattering. I'm just thinking about it, and decided to write it down. Feel free to proceed or to go away; I won't be offended if you won't. :)

A couple of weeks ago, I did something that is possibly illegal. I ordered drugs online without a prescription. Specifically, I ordered birth control pills. In the end, I sent them back because they were advertised as ortho tri-cyclen, and when I got them, the two hormones weren't the ones in that specific type of pill. Plus, they were manufactured in and sent from India, as Class H drugs. These drugs aren't as closely monitored as Class X drugs, and I did not want to end up growing a third arm or anything.

So now I'm back where I started.

First of all, you might be tempted to tell me, "Just go to a doctor and get a prescription like a normal person!" Are you new? I don't like going to the doctor unless I'm sick. Also, when you're uninsured, this kind of thing is ridiculously expensive.

When I was very young, in high school and still living at home, I was put on birth control pills by my doctor (and an elder at our church! SO embarrassing!) because I had some excruciating pain, stimuli over-sensitivity, fainting, digestive issues, etc. at "that time" of the month. Until I got married, I never used birth control as... well, birth control. But I was on it from the time I was 16 until I was 28. Yikes! 12 years of hormone regulation!

Anyway, when I was on my parents' insurance, I had no idea what birth control cost. When I went to college, before I understood what Planned Parenthood was about, I went there because I could get the pills for $12 a month. Fast forward to 2013, and they're at least $50 a month; more than I pay for my rescue inhaler, which actually saves my life.

Yes, this is how I think about things. Aren't you glad you don't have to live with me?

Still, it seems crazy to have to pay  more than $1 a day not to get pregnant when these drugs have been around for decades and cannot possibly cost that much to manufacture. I guess you're paying somewhat for peace of mind, as I saw with the "I cannot possibly take these" recoiling I experienced from my overseas drugs.

James has talked about taking permanent measures not to produce a baby, and this is where we (or at least I) run into a little bit of internal push-back. Because it's permanent. Are we really sure that we don't want to have a kid together?

Okay, first of all, the worst part of this is that the reason I don't want to get pregnant RIGHT NOW is that I have booked a cruise for D's 13th birthday. I would take her if I had an at-least-two-month-old baby and my mom would watch the baby for a week. However, you can't get on a ship if you're more than 24 weeks pregnant (you have to have a note from the doctor), so between right now and the end of May, I don't want to get pregnant! This is an important rite of passage which I promised my daughter, and I really, really want us to be able to make the trip as a family.

Now, two years ago, I would have told you that I never wanted to have any more kids. Actually, twenty minutes after Daphne was born, I would have told you the same thing. I was glad I'd had her, but I felt like that was it. I was a basket case with a newborn, and I never ever wanted to go through that again. (I am a GREAT toddler, preschool, and elementary mom, though!)

Then I met James. He never had kids, he explained to me the first weekend we reconnected, because he felt like (and this is a very novel idea) children need two parents, and he'd never met anyone he'd want to spend the rest of his life with, which was necessary for raising a kid together. When we started dating, I jokingly said that if he ever did want kids, he should probably break up with me, but then, as time passed, I softened my stance on that whole thing. James is such a sweet father-figure to Daphne that I know he'd be a nurturing dad and parenting partner. I decided that, if I could give him that, then that'd be awesome.

Two weeks after we got married, I got pregnant. It was unexpected, but I got used to the idea... and then I miscarried. Here's something important I want to explain: I don't feel like I "lost as baby" as much as I had a failed pregnancy. I don't know if it was the short duration of the whole thing, or the fact that it was so developmentally un-human-like, or just that we had the Haiti trip so I didn't experience a focused period of grief. But that's how it feels now: That I was pregnant, but didn't have a baby. What I lost, what I did grieve briefly, was the idea that I was going to be able to do something for James that no one else had ever done for him. (I might be a tad competitive in that way. And other ways. But I digress.) The loss of the idea of having and raising a child with James was what hurt. But only mildly, and very quickly.

But that reality is another thing that plays into this "What to do now?" decision-making. The older we get, the higher the chances are of having a baby with genetic mutations or special needs; Downs Syndrome, schizophrenia, and Autism, specifically. And, like I said, our first shot was not remotely viable.

In other words: the longer we wait, the higher the risks. Also, the longer we wait, the older we will be when our child(ren) is finally an adult(s). I look forward to having a belated honeymoon with James in 6 years or so when my dear daughter sees fit to leave her mother and seek her fortunes. Having a child now, or two years from now, would push that back another decade and a half (and that assumes it is a completely healthy baby). But right now is not a good time, either!

So, what to do? Do we make a permanent decision? Do we intervene at all or just leave it in God's hands? I'm not asking you for your advice; I'm just saying that these are the questions with which I wrestle.

(P.S. There are other options I have not discussed because the internet and this blog are public, and some of that is none of anyone else's business. ;) )

The Girl I Mean to Be versus My Life as a Reality Show

Everyone has a self-concept, right? Here's how I see myself: I am a young-at-heart middle-aged rabid writer, authority-resistant libertarian, creative wanna-be nerd without any math skills, keen sense of humor, tending toward bouts of selfishness but trying to do better, clever planner, socially sort of awkward but hopefully affable enough to make up for it, woman who really does want to love Jesus a lot more than I do. There are probably other facets, like, of course, that I'm a mom who loves my kid... but I don't think that one's up for a lot of debate. Same thing about the fact that I am a wife who is absolutely devoted to my man.

Tonight, I was having a conversation with that man about my lingering self-consciousness from the complete mental/physical freak-out storm that I tossed the weekend before our wedding... when his brother and sister-in-law were here. I am ashamed of that whole episode, and want to protest, "But it's not fair to judge me by that! I hadn't slept more than 2-3 hours at a time in nearly two months! I was in chronic pain, I was sleep deprived, and I was losing it! But that's not *me*."

I like to think that the loss of control was an outlier. That's not who I am. I am a pretty calm chick who isn't genuinely thrown by much. Right?

And then I think back to my screaming on the phone at someone who had been my closest friend for a couple of years, because I was so angry and hurt at our situation, and there was no one to blame except maybe myself, but you can't holler and swear at yourself, or else people look at you like you have a screw loose.

I like to think that I don't abuse my friends, but I did this multiple times to this person, and I used the stress of our situation, which was actually *my* stress within the confines of it, as my excuse to indulge in my worst impulses to lash out, to hurt as badly as I was hurting.

But that's not my norm. Is it?

When I think about it, I'm not even sure... I consider my inability to make and maintain friendships (especially with women), about people who have told me that they've blocked me in their Facebook feed because it's "too much," or have unfriended me outright and I don't know why. I think about all of the relationships that have fallen away over the years, and have wondered why I haven't really made many of those "lifelong" alliances. I remember the fits, and the near- and outright-hysterics. I ponder angry tears, and easy jealousies, and conclusions jumped to without much examination.

I realize that I fail as a human being so frequently that this failure literally defines me. And I thank God for my husband and my daughter, who love me not just in spite of but even including these screw-ups. Because, if I take a cold, hard look at myself, I am forced to the conclusion that I alone am responsible for people who have flown from my life, for any negative reputations I might have (and the nature of that negativity varies depending on the crowd).

In truth, I want to be hurt and righteously indignant at the slights, the snubs, and the outright dumpings. But, in fact, all I can do is strive toward the person I want to be, this still-flawed but better version of who I am now, and hope to avoid any more collateral damage.

This is a struggle. Because, honestly, I'm emotionally exhausted already. I'd much prefer to stay home, with my two loves, where I'm accepted and comfortable. I want not to care what anyone else thinks. I want to know so much that they're wrong, that even the haters don't bother me. But I'm not there. I don't think I'll ever be there. So I have to do better. I have to be better. And I will be. So please hang on.

An average weekend for Team Dave's

This weekend, nothing hugely amazing happened. It was just a quiet weekend at and around the Nuthaus. What does that look like? Like this:

Friday afternoon, James got off work at a decent hour and came home, still full from the lunch we'd had at Flying Saucer (a shop). We all snacked around for dinner and were working on various projects, then after the sun started to set, we all went to walk some errands.

First, we went to Tyler's on the Drag to see if we could find a new pair of flip-flops for Daphne. She didn't like anything that was available and in her size, so we continued our journey up to Wheatsville Food Co-op to get coffee for James and to pick up some Dr. Bonner's Magic Organic Peppermint Hair Creme. I'd wanted it because it's a leave-in conditioner that pretty much smells like candy canes, but realized when I read the label that it's also for "light styling." Since my hair hasn't been holding curl well but I've been hesitant to use straight-up gel or hair spray or mousse or other potentially sticky hair product, I was interested to see how this would play out.

On the way back, we also stopped at CVS for some stuff, then walked home, totally forgetting, as we passed campus, that it was the night for free telescope viewing. Oh well. Saturday, it was going to be happening, too.

Saturday, Daphne was supposed to go to a friend's house, but her friend got sick. Instead, we all got a slow start then went out to lunch (a shop) at The Third Base. We brought James home after that and Daphne and I went to: 1) Half Price Books to sell another box of James' stuff. 2) Bed, Bath, and Beyond to use a 20% off coupon... I was planning to get a CO2 charger for the Soda Stream, but they're double at BBB what they cost at Breed and Company, so I ended up just getting two more bottles, since ours "expire" in January. Also, we found Diet Dr. Pete there, and Breed and Co. hasn't had that for weeks, and maybe even months. Daphne got creme soda, and I also got a diet Mt. Dew knock-off, which I hadn't seen before! Woo hoo! 3) Khols, to use a "$10 off of any $30 purchase in intimate apparel" coupon. We did, but we realized that we really need to buy a tape measure because the hit-or-miss trying on of foundational garments, especially the weekend before school starts when there is a line for the fitting rooms, is not a fun task. I did find two pair of shorts that were on major sale, and though the receipt said I saved over $80 when I spent just under $80, I'm 100% certain that we did not purchase $160 worth of clothes.

By the time we headed home, I was so ready. I used to love getting out and running errands with Daphne when she was tiny, but I think we've both changed a lot. Also, we both just really love the Nuthaus and love being here.

That night, we had family movie night, and watched a 1987 film James recommended that I'd somehow missed called "Hiding Out," which featured the amazing Jon Cryer of "Ducky" fame (I don't acknowledge his more recent, and surely lucrative, work).

Once again, after that movie, I looked at my phone and had received a notice for the telescope viewing at UT. We'd missed it again!

Sunday, D and I went to church, then came home and she was ready to play online with her friends since we'd had such a busy run-around day on Saturday. James and I went to a different Third Base for lunch (a job) and enjoyed a nice, quiet meal with the place almost to ourselves. We watched motorcycle racing and talked through some domestic things. I love having a partner with whom I can share things and get feedback and we can actually say true things that are a little "owie" and still be extremely affirming and loving.

The afternoon was awesome. Daphne used up all of her computer time while James and I read and then napped. Then I finished writing a radio-drama-style script I'd been working on. It was pretty cool... I'd informally committed to writing this, and just had a skeleton of an idea. I'd started on it last weekend, determined to write, even if I didn't know where it was going. Then yesterday morning in the shower, I had a nugget of an idea that forced me to go back and change part of what I'd already written to make it work, but then the rest of the script pretty much wrote itself.

Last night ended with all three of us lying on the bed, reading together. Then two of us kind of fell asleep, but I won't narc on those people specifically.

So, that's it. No major adventures, no changing the world. Just a nice weekend to regroup and relax, and now we're ready to hit the world again. :) It's fun watching all of the "first day of school" pictures scroll through my Facebook feed today. It's 8:20 and Daphne is still in bed, though I have a longer list for her on the "to do" board than I have since she's been back from her dad's.

We've structured school a little differently, now that she's getting older. I've always walked the border between unschooling and some structured stuff, but now I'm loosening the reigns even more. She does have a page of math (either algebra or general math, she can choose) to do because math skills are worth developing and she wouldn't do it on her own. But then the rest of the day is pretty nebulous. Her computer time is limited (read: it shuts down) to three hours. Then she has some Khan Academy, laundry, making cookies, and she has to create something whether it's writing, drawing, or building... just producing something. Tomorrow, she might work on computer programming. She's been trying to figure out how to install a very stubborn Minecraft mod on her computer, and has come to the conclusion that the .jar file is corrupted. These are important life skills, even if, for now, she's "just" trying to play a game.

James just went back to bed for a short nap before work. I think it's probably good that none of us has to get up and ready for the first day of school! Now it's time for me to work! (And, yes, I'm still in my pajamas.)

A Moment of Brokenness

I mentioned at one point some old pictures that my mom had brought when she'd culled her photo collection. I said she could throw them away, but she didn't. She brought them. I thumbed through them briefly and set them on a shelf. I should throw them away. I don't have anything to do with them, and most are repeats.

But I feel like that stack of pictures is a living, breathing animal that threatens me if I get too close to it. I don't want to pick it up to throw it away. I don't want to do anything with it. I hate it.

And I think that I just realized why.

I don't want James to see those pictures. I don't want him to see all of the years condensed like that: when I was carrying so much weight after having Daphne and not being able to breast-feed, but still being in the "pregnancy appetite" mode. But mostly, I don't want him to see the pictures of me when I was much trimmer. I'm scared to death that he'll look at those pictures and think, if only for a moment, "Wow. She looked great." And he'll wish he'd known me then. Or maybe he'll wish I still looked like that. So I place myself of today in competition with a me of the past.

The worst part is that, in the pictures where I look so amazing, I was dying inside. In my early/mid-20s, I had a full-blown eating disorder. I weighed less than I had since grade school, and because the scale at GNC told me that I was still 8 pounds overweight, I felt like a monster.

In my mid-30s, I lost weight more "healthily," consumption-wise; meaning that I ate food that was balanced and I exercised regularly but not as desperately as I did in my 20s. But I was still sick. I thought about food and how to ration it and how to prepare it and what I could have next every second of every day. I knew that if I didn't maintain a certain appearance, I would lose what affection I had from the person whose opinion mattered the most.

Still, when I look at the exterior of that young woman, I'm very tempted to wish that I could be the 40-year-old me on the inside and look like the "extreme weight loss" version of me. I hate myself for that impulse, and it breaks my heart to think that my husband would have it, as well.

I'm sharing because, if you're someone who struggles with this kind of body image issue, I want you to know that you're not alone. I do not want anyone to comment about how, if I would do a) or b) then I could lose weight. I don't want to lose weight. I am fit. I ride my bike or walk all of the time. My body does whatever I want it to do, subject to some limitations from my back injury. I am investing exactly as much time and effort into physical fitness as I want, and I am happy with myself... I am confident that my husband is pretty happy with me, also.

It's just that old hurts, habits, and hang-ups die hard. And I'm sometimes pretty sad for that girl who looks fabulous but was clawing at something solid to hold to.

The other night, my daughter texted me, having found a scale at her dad's and weighed herself. She wanted to know how much I weighed. I know she wanted to compare it to her own weight. Thing is, unless I go to the doctor's office, I don't know how much I weigh. I'm so grieved by the fact that she's being tempted to define herself by those numbers.

When I was younger, I worked with a bunch of women who were in their late 50s, and they were always trying a new eating plan or exercise, comparing notes, talking about weight loss, etc. And they always seemed to be in the exact same place. I didn't want to live my life like that, and I think of it often. I want more for my kid than this. I want more for her than the me of junior high, when I'd stand in front of my parents' mirror sideways, stick my belly out as far as it would go, and say out loud, "I hate you. You're so ugly. You're so fat."

I can tell her over and over that who she is is so much more than having a flat front panel on your jeans, whether or not your breasts are larger than your waist. I can assure her that her identity and worth come from other places, from the God who created her and loved her enough to pursue her, from who she is as a person, and all of that... But what is it about "us" that allows a size to make us forget who we are and see ourselves as these monstrous caricatures?

What is it about me that makes me jealous of my husband gazing on my younger self and perhaps desiring her more than he desires me?

What is wrong with us?

Rebel Without... Well, Tact, I Suppose

Read at your own risk. This is more of the TMI stuff, but, again, I like to chronicle everything.

By Wednesday evening, my "spotting" was getting heavy enough to qualify as a "light period," so I picked up, for the first time in well over a dozen years, a box of pantyliners. Yuck. Yuck yuck yuck.

In high school, I had "issues" with my monthlies. I actually had black-out, sensory aggravated, body-wrecking episodes that would leave me curled in a fetal position, eyes closed, blocking my ears, and cold-sweating until they passed. This was in addition to cramps and very long, very heavy, very irregular periods.

For whatever reason, I guess because my mom didn't use them so it never came up, tampons were not introduced as an option. I used pads. The heaviest pads you could get. And very often, despite my feeling like I was walking around with a pillow crammed into the crotch of my pants, they would leak, and I'd end up with blood on my pants, enough to show through.

At least one week (and sometimes as many as ten days) of every month (or six) of my late teens and early twenties was spent walking around constantly glancing into reflective surfaces to check for tell-tale shocks of red. I stopped at every bathroom possible to make sure it was still business as usual. I had to wash my sheets a lot. I had to change clothes a lot. It was awful.

This changed quite a bit when I discovered tampons, so that was good. But it wasn't ideal. I mean, a period isn't ideal. Period.

But then, three years ago, I discovered an absolute miracle: The Diva Cup! (Cue angelic heralding.) No waste, no leaks, no running to the store at the last minute because I forgot to stock up. Brilliant!

So, now... yesterday and last night were both very much how I remembered high school. Squishy. Potentially embarrassing. But you know what I forgot? The smell. I won't try to explain it. If you're a girl with this same experience, you get it. Ugh. Oh, and getting up in the middle of the night, even though I didn't *have* to, just to make sure I wasn't going to mess up the bed.

Everything I have read says that you're not supposed to use a tampon (or any insert), nor are you supposed to have sex for two weeks after a miscarriage. What I've read says that you're open to infection because the cervix is dilated and all of these blood vessels are open, and everything needs to come out or you can get infected. This morning, though, I found something on an Australian website that said: "Many authorities advise avoiding tampon use during or after a miscarriage. This is because of a possible risk of infection although tampons have not been proven to cause infection in this situation."

Well.

If you know me, you know that was practically a green light for recalling the Diva Cup.

The more I read, the more I see that the risk of infection is if all of the tissue doesn't pass. But they usually clock that at two weeks, and it will be exactly two weeks from the time this started when we get back.

I cannot spend our travel day tomorrow going to the bathroom every fifteen minutes. I can't pack enough liners or pads to change every single hour, or even every four hours or so, for the next week. The house where we're staying? We can't even flush the toilet paper, so I really do not want to create a mountain of tissue of which the hosts will have to dispose.

The Diva Cup is the most convenient answer.

I am now treating this like a "normal" period unless something else happens. I think we're going to be just fine.