Guys in my pocket.

Walking Caden to school has been the sweetest part of my days since he started Kindergarten last week. After dealing with sleepy-eyed, surly teens, barely masking their demands as requests, his smiling little face and chatty good humor are a refreshing turn in the morning road. Every morning, he asks the same thing "Can we be guys on the way to school?"

This activity of making inanimate hunks of plastic come to life with voice and movement isn't a totally foreign concept. When the plastic was in Barbie form, I could do it for hours in my early years. Having my mother's afternoon soap operas to provide lots of dramatic scenario ideas, these dolls lived on the brink of ecstasy or disaster every moment. Plastic in Transformer, Lego, Power Ranger or other boyishly masculine form is a lot more challenging. Power Rangers don't go on dates, or find out they have a terminal illness. Nor do they fight over who gets the man. They pretty much just defend the citizens with any means necessary while they are on patrol of the 4 blocks between here and Washington Elementary School. There is a bit of drama when the enemy is the next block over, but the evil 'Don't Walk' sign is mockingly preventing us from destroying him. These adventures are a real 'think outside the box' activity for me.

After he's marched in a line to Mrs. Haught's classroom, I am left holding 'the guys'. They become symbolic, a precious reminder of our brief time together on the trek to school. They are very carefully deposited deep into my pocket, so I can place them on his bureau, and he can smile a little, too, when he comes home and remembers the morning.

violated

After 6+ months of hip pain during walking/cycling, I decided that is wasn't going to jusst go away. Diagnosis: Bursitis. Great. I've just turned 40 and my body is failing already. Exploration of treatment options landed me in the quick-fix first; a shot of cortisone directly into the joint. The very thought of it was nauseating, but with a trek around the Ohio State Fair looming just days ahead, it seemed the best route.

This morning, injection day, the queasiness hit. Why in the world was I being SUCH a baby? I was in tears thinking of what was to come. Sitting in the doctor's office, and wishing I'd had a valium margarita for breakfast, my heart was pounding out of my chest. Where was this fear coming from? The utter dread of this needle was not typical; not for me.

After a few OH MY GOD!!s, the procedure was over. On the drive home, it hit me. I hadn't had a needle in my body since Caden was born. Caden's birth was traumatic, and I'm still healing from it. I had a total flashback to this time. The violations to my body were numerous, and , some, without consent. I was so angry and scared that my beautiful homebirth had turned into this medically managed freak show that I have forever scars on my heart...and, sometimes, an unrelated event will irritate them.

Thankfully, my loving Jon was there, to talk and make it all better with lunch at the Levy House . The blessing of a sweet, supportive family is mine, and I thank God for their healing and His in my life.

mean girls

I would rather have my wonderful group of friends suddenly turn their backs and disown me, than to watch my little girl see the people who she thought were her friends turn their cold nasty little backs on her. She's not a perfect girl, but truly has a servant's heart, and a giving spirit. This makes her an easy target. These girls know if they need to exclude, to have a target, to gossip, that she is one who will forgive, forget, and go to the movies with them the next weekend.

Social networking makes it even worse. Seeing pictures posted of fun times, sleepovers and parties that she didn't get invited to make her withdrawn, sullen and wondering what is wrong with her. No matter how many times we do the mall, paint our toenails or walk downtown to check out the newest Troll beads, a mom is no substitute for girlfriends. I'm too old, and she knows I'm just trying to make things up to her..things I didn't do; things she didn't cause.

The pain of middle school mean girl syndrome shows up as blue eyes that don't sparkle, a perfectly bowed mouth with corners pointing down and hours of endlessly watching TV. She thinks her belly is too big, her clothes aren't good enough, her house not in the right location. My sweet girl never had problems making or keeping friends until this year. Deciding to homeschool for the first time was probably a major cause; not only would she not defend herself in the first place, but, she isn't someone they have to face each day, knowing how cruel they've been. This is the girl that, in kindergarten, had to have the teacher draw names from a coffee cup to see whose turn it was to sit beside her, or they'd all push and shove in a 5 year old mosh pit to secure the coveted spot.

I'd give anything..anything at all for this pain to be taken from her. I remember it well myself, and am sure these little girls who are being mean to her have learned it well from another. Why is it this way? Is there a way to end it? Am I the only mother that teaches The Golden Rule?

Then Along Came Caden

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning" (psalm 30:5). Clinging to this promise, and many others was truly the only way we managed to move onto another attempt at bringing a new person into our lives. The loss of Keaton, followed closely by an earlier 'miscarriage' left us scared, bewildered and longing even more for a baby. Having lost all faith in my body's ability to produce a living, breathing, full term infant, I tossed aside any hope of a home birth, and went full medical model.

Once the pregnancy was acheived, I became strangely excited and peaceful. Acknowledging my lack of control over anything, my mantra became : I am living in this moment, thankful for the last, and hopeful for the next. The new being growing underneath my heart was not guaranteed to be there for any length of time, so I enjoyed it fully every moment, and didn't think about the next very much. This strategy worked for about 15 weeks.

One morning, the sheets felt strangely wet. Throwing back the covers, my eyes fell upon the bright red stains on the bed, and my heart fell into my stomache...not again..please, God, not again. Jon managed to get me to the doctor's office, and he grimaced, led me down the hallway to the dreaded ultrasound machine. His words were "Let's see what we still have to deal with". I didn't even look at the screen, unable to bear the image of one more still baby. "Look, Crysta.".

"No."

"Look!"

The perfect little baby was turning, waving and had a gloriously bleeping heart! The scare wasn't over, but, I was thankful, once again, for that moment, and lived right there. I was sent home on bedrest, hoping for the best...and not preparing for anything.

Life on the couch with a 5 and 9 year old was difficult at best. Jon came home as often as he could, and women from church took my children to and picked them up from school, ballet, karate, etc. My mother drove to Marietta once weekly and did grocery shopping and cleaned. It was so difficult to not care for my other children. I hated it what this pregnancy was doing to them. So many sentences began with "If this baby doesn't die...." Somehow, we made it through.

Around 37 weeks, bloodwork and other tests indicated that my body was going into pre eclampsia. With the recommendation of labor induction, Caden was on his way. In the hospital, as the water was broken, pit drip started, I cried uncontrollably for the loss of my other babies, the loss of the lovely, gentle birth I had once envisioned. I knew it was going to be cruel and against all that I beleived, but, maybe, just maybe, I would leave the hospital with a live baby. I kept his monitor turned up full blast the entire time, the booming of his heartbeat mixed with my sobs as I accepted an epidural. It did little to ease the pain .. the emotional pain was much more severe than the forced labor. Finally, it was time to push, and his heart rate went down with each push..once it was in the single digits. I gave up, and stopped. I was sure this baby would not survive this final step. He was vacuum extracted from my body, and whisked to the warmer. He was floppy, blue, and silent.

Then, he cried. He cried! They finally brought him back, burritoed up, and I didnt even remember to unwrap him and put him on my skin. He was so beautiful, and looked nothing like me. It was as if Jon Bourdon had cloned himself. My heart opened, and all of the love I'd been reserving, holding back, protecting, spilled into this baby boy. I finally unwrapped him, cuddled him , nursed him, and held him all night. There was probably a rule against that, but the nurses said nothing. The next morning, he was still there, alive and breathing..and the next, and the next..

Five years later, he's still here. My curly-headed little boy, quirky and laid back. He's sweet and cuddly, not really your typical 'boy'. I've been overly protective, fiercely loving, and have tried to remember to live in the moment with all three of my children. I still am thankful for the last moment, hopeful for the next, but living in the present one (most of the time).

How much stuff do we really need, anyway?

Our local parenting group had a mom ask this question: How many clothing items does a child need? In the beginning, my only answer is: A LOT. fluids spew and leak out of every opening in a new baby ~ poop, pee, spitup, drool..you name it, it gets on their clothes (and yours). Changing my new baby's clothing occurred about as frequently as a cuckoo visits on some days. Those baby showers that resulted in endless onesies and stretchies were a blessing, for sure!

Once a child gets past that stage of uncontrollable sliminess, (what, around 3? 5?), how many clothing items do you need, exactly? One mama confessed to 40 dresses! I used to collect every cute new outfit, in each bright color. Why not dress them in cute clothes, isn't that why we had them in the first place? ;) soon, though, you realize that more clothing = more laundry. Only keep what you want to wash. So, how much do you enjoy laundry?

Here's what we do:

3 pairs of PJs (we rewear them unless they get food or other messiness on them)
enough of everything else to last one week, with a few (and I mean very few) extras thrown in for the sheer sake of variety. 2 swimsuits are enough for anyone ~ one to wear, one to wash/dry.

Kids seem to go through phases of clothing preferrences. Kensley would only wear dresses and dance leotards when she was three. By age four, she was open to other clothing choices...as long as leopard or zebra print was involved. Sometimes, it's only jeans, only sweatsuits, only PJs ( I did draw the line at school and church ~ they had to wear actually clothing) If your kids won't wear it, get rid of it. Don't pay full retail for anything, and it's not a huge loss. Plus, donating makees you feel good :)

The decluttering of drawers and closets makes it easier for even a young child to put away their own laundry. Bonus! Our old house has very few closets, and those we do have a miniscuole compared to modern ones. When the house was constructed, the people who lived here only needed three changes ~ one to wear, one to wash, one to go to church. We don't need to go to that extreme, but, we could take a lesson.

The Cleaning People are coming ~ The Cleaning People are coming!

Hiring professionals to do the job that really just irks me ~ cleaning the house ~ really is a blessing. We do not have fancy cars, and our house is a rumbly, tumbly victorian, 103 years old, in need of a paint job and a garage door. Caviar, family jaunts to Europe, and purses that cost more than $20 are out of the question under the Bourdon-Lowther family management. If it's not on clearance sale, or at least qualifies for a coupon discount, it is not purchased. But, cleaning people are about as essential as bread and socks, in my humble opinion. Knowing they are coming every couple of weeks gives us a chance to run around like crazy people, organizing, picking up and de-cluttering. We would probably drown in our own filth if it weren't for these special days.

I am such a believer, I've become a sales associate for Precision Cleaning. As usual, I don't do anything *just* for the money, although, I enjoy money, and take it any time someone wants to give it to me (usually to just give it away to a kid who needs lunch money or new guitar strings). Truly, this is a mission to free the masses from the domestic drudgery that plagues our society. Yes, I have several missions in life, including childbirth choices for all, and freeing the world of rude, mean kids. Don't worry. I have enough passion to spread it around a little.

What are YOU doing this evening? Dusting the blinds? Scrubbing the floors? Cleaning the TOILET?! Seriously? Time is money, folks, especially when you have children. Some people beleive you cannot buy time. That is not true; not at all. By paying professionals to do it, and do it right, you've bought yourself precious hours to take a walk, put together a puzzle, and/or bond over a game of Scrabble ~ or go to bed pissed because you lost. Either way, your day didn't include pulling the microwave out to clean all the stuff that has accumlated behind it.

You should free yourself. Call me. I'll give you the 4-1-1!

Keaton

Unless you and I are intimately close, you may not know that, in that 6 year space between Kensley and Caden, another little boy carved his way into my heart. Sharing him with everyone really isn't comfortable in casual conversation, and bringing it up later really isn't, either. Because I am hypersensitive to another being inhabiting my body, I knew even before the stick revealed its heart (no plus sign test for me..I found one with a heart!) that there was yet another soul dancing under mine. After months of 'trying' (which is fun ;) ) we were at 'Mission Accomplished' status. I was having a baby with the love of my life, and couldn't wait to share him with my two little loves, Alex and Kensley.

The pregnancy was bumpy from the start ~ bleeding, cramping, horrible nausea and exhaustion. Chalking it up to being in my 30s, rather than 20s, like my first two, I still never imagined what was to come. After a day or two of nonspecific sickness and dread that I couldn't put my finger on, I went to a routine OB visit, which already had an ultrasound scheduled.

On the table, with the cold gel on my belly, the lab tech ran the transducer over my abdomen. Being almost 19 weeks pregnant, maybe she could tell me the sex of the baby. For some unknown and odd reason, they like you to come back alone first, then they bring your husband/partner/family back with you. Alone, on the table, waiting to hear 'boy or girl', the tech called another person from the office back, and they looked at each other, nodding. They had still not let me see the screen, so I twisted myself to get a look. It was terrible~no bleeping heart; in fact, no movement at all. The words that followed echo to this day in the empty part of my heart: "I'm so sorry. Your baby did not survive the pregnancy".

Peering at the screen, hoping to see something different, I saw my poor, sweet baby, curled at the bottom of my uterus, unmoving. The tech said she would go get my family. NO! The pain was excruciating; I didn't want to share it. To Jon, and 4 year old Kensley, the baby was still alive, still growing. The hope and promise of it was still in their hearts, where the stabbing pain now inhabited mine. Although I refused, thinking I would just sit on that table forever and never allow them to know, someone watched Kensley while Jon joined me. His face was so pale; he didn't know what was wrong yet, and I found it impossible to speak the words. "What's wrong with our baby?", he asked. I have a huge blank after this; someone must have told him. I remember pieces of time as snapshots in an album. Kensley asked "Will we ever stop crying, because it's too sad to ever stop?". Alex drew me pictures of Pokemon that had word bubbles saying "cheer up, mom".

Since my body was still clinging to this lifeless little body, an induction was scheduled. The medicine made me so sick, I felt like the worst flu ever had invaded. Vomiting, diarrhea and the worst cramping and aching, along with a heart that had shattered were my new reality for the next few hours. Finally, in the early hours of the next morning, my body finally released. I'd refused pain medicine, wanting to be awake to at least hold him, and being afraid of it making me sleep. Jon somehow convinced them to give me something anyway. It took that drug, I beleive, to make my body relax enough to give the baby up. Physically, I didn't know he'd died. It wasn't time for him to come, and my body was holding tight to him.

The tiny, perfect boy was the most precious person I'd ever had the privilege of holding. His eyes were still fused shut, so he looked just like he was sleeping. His translucent skin was hairy everywhere. I remember being amazed at his fingernails; they were barbie-doll sized. The tiniest little body, this boy was perfect and complete. Weighing in at only 12 ounces, and measuring a mere 8 inches long, he looked like the baby dolls I'd played with so long ago. I was actually enjoying looking at him, holding him, being his mama.

Then, I realized that he wouldn't be with me, that he was dead, and, the part of him that would have made his eyes sparkle, his voice laugh was already gone. The grief from that moment on was too much to bear. I held him, told him how much I loved him, and how sorry I was that he couldn't stay. After a while, my body was exhausted, and fell into a fitful rest, with baby Keaton Nicholas (My favorite name and Jon's favorite name on the 'boy' list we'd made) 'resting' in a little wooden box on the stand. When I woke after a few hours, I asked Jon to give him to me. After peering into his little bed, Jon shook his head, and, with more courage than any man I'd even seen, covered him with a tiny blanket, and put the lid onto it. Keaton's body had not fared well apart from mine, and Jon wanted to protect me from what was inside.

A few hours later, as I was wheeled out of the labor and delivery floor, it seemed all I heard was crying babies and, even louder, fetal heart tones. Tears streamed down my cheeks for my little boy in his wooden box, whose heart was still. We brought him to my parent's farm, and buried him, not far from my Grandad Bart. I had brought roses from the grocery store, and a balloon stating "It's a Boy". Jon had tucked a tiny stuffed Snoopy in with him. My dad dug his grandson a resting place, put him inside, and covered him. It's all so precious to me, so horrifyingly precious, these snapshots of memories that come through the fog.

Now, as I type these words, tears stream. and I'm swallowing sobs. I miss that baby boy.

The love in my heart multiplied itself by two!

At a funeral home, bidding goodbye to a dear old soul, a ripping, SEARING pain tears across my lower abdomen. The baby inside seems active enough, but, I'm scared. An emergency trip to the OB ward at the local hospital reveals a healthy baby, and a torn ligament ~ not stretched, torn! How does that happen? The nurses are even stumped. Also revealed: the healthy baby does not have a penis.

It's a GIRL! My heart poured fourth again, into the tiny soul, dancing under my own ~ my daughter. Up until now, it had been fairly owned by the tow-headed two year old Alex. Upon finding out I was pregnant again, I loved the little being, but was too busy to give it as much thought and attention as my first little fetus. Laying in the dark room, tears streamed down my cheeks as I realized that I'd have the honor of tea parties and Easter dresses, Prom pictures and Wedding cakes. Pink!! My favorite color!

Fast forward two months. I tried a different hospital this time, a female OB. Surely she would understand what birth was supposed to be. I had been naive my first time around, but, this time, I had read, educated myself, attended independent childbirth classes! She perused my birth plan (big stuff, 12 years ago!) and said the words they all say "As long as everything goes well, you can do anything you'd like." I believed her. She was even a red-head. We were practically soul mates!

HA! Laying in a bed, realizing that the doctor was only coming for the last five minutes, I gripped the bar, and pushed my (first) husband away. No pain medicine was my goal, and I fought my way through each wave that slammed into me alone. No one understood, no one supported me. I wondered what the hell I was thinking! Why did I even want another baby? What would this do to poor little Alex, being displaced as my only love?

Blessedly, the labor was fast, and pushing felt SO good. I tried an alternative position, and was slammed onto my back by the nurse, as the doctor yelled "I can't deliver your baby like THIS!" My little girl slid from my body as my legs were restrained from kicking her red head into the wall. It felt so good! Reminding the nurses that I wanted her immediately did no good. They whisked her lustily wailing little body over to the warmer, and proceeded to wipe her, inject her and suction her with the blue bulb. Finally, she was burritoed up and handed back. Angrily glaring, I unwrapped her, and put her on my naked belly, guiding her lips to my nipple. Then, the intense moment melted away. Once again, there were only two people, only one need: this precious girl . I drank every detail of her in, as she greedily nursed.

She weighed 6 pounds, but was only 17 inches long, so she was chubby! She was also the most beautiful girl ever to bless the Earth with her presence. Loud. My stars, was she loud! For those of you that gave birth in hospitals, you'll know that on every floor, at every birth, there is that one baby that you hear and say "Man, I'm glad I'm not taking THAT one home". 'That one' was mine ~ and I loved her spirit. She was born into an angry, fighting environment, and I spent the next hours making sure all was calm and peaceful for her, even if it meant being the laughingstock of the maternity ward.

Kensley's birthday isn't until June; she'll be twelve then. She's always been so sweet, so caring. The littlest one in any class, the one everyone wanted to sit beside. Her kindergarten teacher actually kept a cup of student names, and drew from it each day to see who got to sit beside Kensley for circle time. My tiny dancer, aggressive soccer player, creator of masterpieces and second mother to her baby brother. My daughter. My heart, multiplied :)

My heart

There is no sweeter pleasure in life, in my opinion, than a newly born babe in your arms. Newborns are my very favorite people; slimy, cheesy, sometimes bloody, fresh from the vagina newborns. I have been blessed to find my path in life that brings me to many of them. People just a few seconds old have passed into my hands, however briefly, for their mamas to resituate, to recover, to learn to pass them to dad.

Tomorrow, my Alex is turning 15, at precisely 1:59 pm. As if it were yesterday, I can see his milky blue eyes looking into mine as if to say "WTH??!! What's up with this? I didn't ask for this!" Being a first time mom, I didn't question the doctor who said "They'll take him to the nursery, clean him up, warm him, and bring him back". It was as if someone had taken my heart to the nursery. Dragging my leaky, exhausted body out of the bed, I trudged down the hall, leaving quite the messy trail, to reclaim 'my heart'. "He's not breathing well, we need to keep him" the nurse stated, fully expecting me to retreat. I pushed past her, and positioned myself by the warmer. Eventually, they gave up, put a towel under my feet, and left me alone. After they were satisfied that he would inhale and exhale, they were glad to be rid of the pair of us.

Back in the room, a little delayed, I put his skin to mine and drank his presence into my soul. Never had I loved anyone like I loved this 6 pounds of boy. My heart tore open, and love reserved for just Alex poured into his being. We were the only people on the planet...in the universe. Only we existed. Air and water took on secondary importance in my life. The nurses were unable to remove him from my body, no matter what policies they stated. I was a mom; I was Alex's mommy.

I am still Alex's mom, even though he resents my position rather than delights in it. I am learning to let go of this amazing person a little at a time, and pull him back when necessary. Sometimes, at night, when I go into his room and check on him (to be sure he hasn't snuck out to TP the principal's house, more than to be sure he's covered and breathing), I can still catch a glimpse of that tiny baby who, alone, ruled my heart so many years ago.

Happy birthday, Alex. I am proud of the young man you are becoming, and still love you with all of my heart ~