Unfathomable Sadness

I am shocked. I am horrified. But most of all, I am sad.

What happened in that Connecticut elementary school is beyond comprehension. As a parent, my heart aches for those families that lost their precious children. As a parent, I am angered that a cowardly young man took those precious lives away. And as others before him, he too took his own life. Why must these suicidal cowards decide they need to take innocent lives with them? How could one possibly inflict such horror on children?

But right now, this is not about those questions. Right now, I can only think about my children. I can only think about those parents who will not put their children to bed tonight. I think about the everyday life with my children that I often take for granted. I remember the mornings that Averey frustrates me as she's getting ready for school, and we snip at each other. I groan when she asks for a glass of orange juice, just as I sit down with my breakfast.

Was there some mother who had a morning such as this and sent her daughter off to school, never to return?

As Christmas is approaching, I'm not quite done with my shopping. I cringe at the thought of having more toys around the house. I constantly tell my girls to clean up their room, as the clutter is making me crazy.

I'm sure there are parents who weren't done with their shopping either, who grimaced at the thought of more toys. But now, the shrieks of their children opening gifts have been silenced.

My mind is racing with so many thoughts and questions. Right now, I can only pray for God's peace to be upon those families, their school, and their community. I pray that the murderer is not sensationalized like others before him. I pray that we learn about those children and teachers, we see their faces, and their all-too-brief lives are celebrated. I pray that their friends and families do not live in fear, but bring a positive light to this horrific tragedy.

For those of us on the outside, united only by the fact that we are parents, I pray that we all cherish our children, that we mellow out over those little things that drive us crazy, and most of all, that we let them know they are loved.

I know I'm ready for some tighter squeezes and sloppy kisses.

Just Another Crazy Monday

I can remember a certain Pepe Le Pew cartoon in which Pepe sashayed through the French countryside, singing "Tiptoe Through the Tulips." He greets a bored looking frog, and when the poor frog is stunned by Pepe's scent trail, his eyes bug out, he walks, and then jumps in the air, screaming, "YIIIIIEEEEE!!!"

That pretty much sums up how I felt today.

No matter how much I prepare for Monday, it always seems to get the best of me. Lately, it seems as if at least one, if not all three girls are up for whatever reason in the middle of the night. Jake and I made it through a restful night of sleep for once, but Kelsey managed to wake up bright and early sometime near the 6 o'clock hour this morning. She whined to daddy that she peed her Pull-Up, wanted to watch TV, and/or sleep in our bed. So much for some Wii Fit yoga, I groaned in my head.

As I readied myself, pulling my hair back into a ponytail, the simplest of hairdos for a crazy Monday morning, Averey had awakened. Both Averey and Kelsey have mild colds, so Averey seemed to think she may not be going to school this morning. No fever: school is in session, kid. It wasn't shocking to me that she said her tummy hurt a few times as I told her to get dressed. Brimming with sarcasm (I know, not  the most effective teaching tool), I told her she should probably come into the bathroom to throw up.

A few minutes later, she was miraculously cured and ready for Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Kelsey had decided earlier that she was going to eat breakfast at Grammy's house. I am happy to oblige, and besides, grammy makes pancakes in the morning. But upon seeing Averey eat, she said she wanted breakfast here. Figures. Then both girls wanted toast. Irritated, I told them that the bread is for sandwiches this week, not toast. (I know, I know, I'm starving them.)

While combing Kelsey's wild hair, Averey declares she would like pigtails. Sighing that I don't have time, I realize that's not the answer she wants to hear and tell her to get me two gumbands. I pull her hair up and she's giddy with excitement. (One thing right this morning. Phew.)

Averey successfully gets on the bus and it's time to feed Jacey. She gulps down her breakfast... and then spits it up in my bra and down my pant legs, dousing me with my usual perfume of sour milk.

I manage to make it to work on time even after misjudging the time I had to bring up the girls' laundry from the basement. I walk into the pharmacy and am warned that I probably don't want to be there as there were 99 refills pending, which is about 30-40 more than a usual Monday. Between the phone ringing non-stop and a steady stream of customers, I was more than ready to leave at 6, and counting down to Thursday, my long-awaited day off.

The hardest thing about being a working mom is not necessarily being at work. I know my children are being cared for at school, at my in-laws', or here with the baby-sitter.The toughest part is making sure everybody gets ready in the morning and that I don't lose my patience (or my sanity). I don't think I've been successful yet.

Getting home in the evening is a trial too, because usually Jacey is screaming for me. Tonight was no different. I grabbed her to nurse, Jake gets dinner on the table, and I start to feel peaceful. Then after having a glass of the hubby's homemade wine for dinner, I suddenly didn't care about the hectic day I had, or the fact I detest Mondays... at least until next Monday anyway.

Mom Confessions

"Mommy, can I just say one thing? Kids are more important than a computer!"

You have a point there, Miss Averey. Thanks for putting me in my place again.

But let me back up for a second. I was in the middle of paying some online bills, it's not like I was facebooking or anything. I told her to give me JUST ONE SECOND (which is never a second) and I would listen to her whine about being hungry for a snack.

Before I became a mom, I often thought to myself that I would never do or say certain things, I would handle all interactions with my children with love and patience. Once Averey turned three (because three is far worse than the "terrible twos", I don't care what anyone says), that went out the window. Having Kelsey in the house doesn't help matters either.

They say confession is good for the soul (or maybe it's chicken soup). I hope and pray I'm not alone in my bad mommy-ness, so I shall divulge some of those unsavory, less-than-stellar, hypocritical, screaming mom moments.

I have yelled at my kids... to stop yelling at each other.

I've told Averey to pick out her clothes, and then tell her to change because she doesn't match.

I tell poor Jacey, "Hang on!" when she's fussing for food while I throw a load of laundry in the wash... or finish updating my facebook status.

I have uttered the dreaded phrases, "Because I said so." and "There are starving people who would be happy to have that!" (None of which has EVER satisfied them for an answer, or made Averey clean her plate.)

Dinner at our house usually consists of Averey burping on command, Kelsey (naturally) burping in the middle of a sentence and getting up to either run around the table, or push her chair from the table and eat standing up, or scooping the food so close to her mouth that she's licking the table. Never mind the fact that I pass gas in the middle of a meal and have breastfed while drinking wine... (which, by the way, is not a pipeline directly to the babe, so by the time she'd nurse again, it would be through my system!) How is it that the only man in the house is the least hoggish of us all?

I've tried to tell Kelsey not to eat food off the floor only to perpetually be 10 seconds late every single time. Oh well, she'll have a strong immune system (?).

I've rolled my eyes when the girls insist they have to go potty as soon as we go out in public and asked if they can wait. (Which I realize is a huge risk. On rare occasions, they forget they've asked, but most times they're holding themselves as if their bladders will burst.)

I've turned the TV off because I'm sick of the girls loafing in front of it (and they receive more than their recommended dose of TV time), yet I don't suggest they do anything else.

I've gone out with them in public only to wish that I hadn't set foot out of the house only because Averey starts whining the moment I say we're leaving (today it was the library--never mind Kelsey was running down the bookcase aisles and Jacey was screaming) and Kelsey can escape faster than the speed of light. I really hate it when my stern mom voice comes out in a public place. I can almost feel they eyes of the other moms boring into the back of my head. (Oh, her children don't behave, she doesn't enjoy them, I would NEVER let my kid run down the aisles like that! That's what I thought too, until I had a Kelsey.)

I have covered my face as I'm busting with laughter when one of the girls gets overly dramatic about an issue and is in such a fit that it's just ridiculous. I've also laughed when they've done or said something naughty because it's just FUNNY!

Yet then there are those moments that I get kisses, hugs, and requests to snuggle. And I think for a fleeting moment that there's still hope my girls won't remember any of the above. (Except the dinner table, because of my 13-year-old-boy sense of humor... No wait, I do want them to have manners when they go eat at other people's houses!)

No One to Blame but Me

Okay, folks, I'm going to let you in on a little secret: just because I manage to get three kids ready whilst putting myself together in the morning and then head to my job outside of the home does not mean I have my $h!t together. (Pardon my French.)

A few weeks ago, a friend posted a status update on facebook about her frustration with no time in the evening to tend to her children's needs even though she's a stay-at-home mom, and she didn't know how two working parents could run a household. My solution? Time management.

As I once again spent too much time in one store this evening while I was supposed to be picking up groceries while Averey was at gymnastics, I realized I was a complete hypocrite for soliciting such advice.
Sure, I have my laundry duties down to a science (that's what happens when you don't own a dryer) and take a few minutes here and there to spruce up the house and can manage my time well (for the most part) when it comes to that stuff.

But send me on a shopping trip for anything other than necessities, and you'd think I don't own a watch.

Tonight, I got all wrapped up in crafty goodies at Michael's for about 15 minutes longer than planned. My indecisive mind took over, telling me I had plenty of time, and surely Jacey wasn't hungry yet.

But by 6:00, I knew I blew it again. I raced to the grocery store, power-walked through the aisles to pick up what was on my list (even though I left it in the car), and hightailed it out of there to call my hubby to ask if Jacey was hungry. (It was 6:15, and Averey's class ended at 6:30.)

"She was crying, but she's okay now."
"Well, do you want me to come home?"
"Well, I didn't think you'd be out this long. You didn't have much to pick up at the store."
(Feeling my face redden) "I went to Michael's." (Which I did mention before I left.)
"Ohh." I could see him roll his eyes. I could hear the annoyance in his voice. My husband, although never in the military, runs his schedule with military precision. His idea of being late is my version of being on time. (Hey, I'm not late if I'm supposed to be somewhere at 6:00 and show up right at 6:00! Anyone agree?) There have been a couple--few--no, many occasions where he's calling me to see where I'm at, when I'm coming home, because it's a bit--a lot later than I said I would be.

By the time I get home, I'm mad at myself for the both of us. I promise next time I'll be better (to myself), because surely I'll want to go out shopping again. Tonight was no different. I'm still annoyed with myself. I'm sure he's still annoyed with me too, but tonight is his night out, so I'm sure he's thankful for the escape.

Yet time and time again, he forgives me. And time and time again, God forgives me too. I'm grateful to have that model in our marriage, because let's face it, marriage isn't a piece of cake! (I should know from previous experience...)

This time management skill is clearly a fault of mine that I must pray about and work on continuously. But sometimes, when you're out of the house with no kids running through the aisles like banshees, asking for everything in sight, it isn't hard to lose track of time.

Oh, by the way dear--I got a LOFT gift card today, and I heard they're having good sales. Can I go shopping? I promise I won't take more than an hour!

Meltdowns and Nightmares

This is one of those weeks when I admit defeat and announce I am clueless about this parenting thing.

And yes, it's only Tuesday.

Perhaps I'm being a bit dramatic. I can handle Jacey in her infancy. To me, babies are easy. (I know some of you may be growling at me for that statement.) Their needs are pretty basic. Eat, sleep, poop, repeat. Got it.

In all honesty, I didn't think preschoolers were that difficult either, because Averey was such an agreeable easygoing child. Not that Kelsey isn't; she's sweet and affectionate and can make you laugh. Unfortunately, she's at the age where she does or doesn't need a nap, depending upon the day. If she takes a nap (note: falls asleep on the couch, never in her bed), unless she wakes up before 3 p.m., she's all right. However, her falling asleep on the couch usually occurs after 3 p.m., and then one of us has the pleasure of rousing the beast from her slumber.

Sunday was a little different though. She woke up on her own and seemed to be in a pleasant mood. She asked for help to go potty, and somewhere in between pulling down her tights and lifting her up on the seat, she vehemently decided I wasn't cut out for the job and requested daddy. (Story of my life!) Surprisingly, daddy was no good for the task either, so she proceeded to pitch a fit. A loud, screaming, pathetic fit. Time out followed, and at the very moment Jacey spit up on herself, my arm and the rug, Kelsey peed all over the time out chair and it spilled onto the dining room floor. It was an ugly mess, and she didn't calm down until nearly 10 minutes later, with much coaxing from Averey (the only one left who she didn't refuse!).

Last night we suffered another meltdown because she was overtired at bedtime. It's a lose-lose situation. Thankfully, Jake was able to talk to her calmly as she was hitting him, and she soon was ready for bed.

When she's not fighting sleep or waking up grouchy from a nap, she seems to call everything and everyone "poopy" or "poopyhead." It's a bit embarrassing when you ask her to repeat something she said that was actually funny or cute, and she responds with an enthusiastic "POOPYHEAD!" Sigh.

Averey, on the other hand, seems to have nightmares at least three times a week. (Twice so far this week! I attribute it to either snacking after 7:30--which I've been trying to watch--or an overactive imagination, or Disney Channel.) She doesn't wake up screaming, but she walks into our room and says, "I had a bad dream." I grumpily tell her to go back to bed, Jake thinks that, but for the sake of not arguing allows her to climb in our bed and he goes out on the couch. (Sometimes I think he also does it because he claims I'm such a bed hog.) It's getting ridiculous to me at this point, and as I tried to share a verse from Proverbs about lying down and sleeping in peace, I goofed the whole thing up and proved to be an ineffective lesson. (I'll just have to write it down for her instead.)

At this point, I'm continually praying for wisdom. I'm trying to exercise greater patience in those difficult moments. And I might be drinking a glass of wine at dinner every night this week.

Just One of Those Days

Yesterday was a good mom day. I kept calm in nearly all situations, I cleaned my kitchen and dining room floors (and they stayed clean for a record five hours), and I didn't wear one drop of baby barf on my shoulder for the first time since Jacey was born. I felt I deserved a little pat on the back. And I call myself "anything but supermom"?! Ha!

Well, today knocked me off my high horse. And most of it was my fault.

Jake and I had a late night after seeing the Zac Brown Band in concert (again), and I had a surprisingly restful night of sleep compared to the previous two nights (although I had some bizarre dream about being in a real-life "Hunger Games"). Since I didn't have to be to work until 1 p.m., I planned my morning out accordingly.
1. Do yoga on the Wii Fit. (Ahh, feel the stretch.)
2. Throw in a load of laundry (dish towels and washcloths, and in the meantime, snatching Kelsey's lovey blanket to throw in there too).
2 1/2. Oh yeah. I didn't pack Averey's lunch last night. Crap.
3. Turn my computer on to finish loading my mp3 player.
3 1/2. Whoops. I didn't get the girls' outfits out last night either.
4. Get Averey on the bus. Get Kelsey to preschool.
5. Go to the mall (Gymboree--the only reason to go to the Nittany Mall, besides the Gap. Well, that and to get my rings cleaned at Kay's).

I completed task 1. The rest of them melded together in a mess of whining, crying girls. It all started when Averey got out of bed and couldn't find her slippers. Panic ensued. Never mind that she picked out her shirt to wear but was upset with me for not bringing up the leggings to go with it. (I try and do an "I Dream of Jeannie" "blink" in the hopes I will magically have larger closets and bedrooms. It hasn't worked yet.) I run downstairs, sort through a dresser, grumbling, and find the leggings. By this time, Kelsey is fussing over the outfit I chose for her. (Really? You're THREE!) There was no satisfying either girl. I lost my temper, threw my hands in the air and said, "I'm done!" (And then remembered I had to empty the dishwasher.)

During this cacophony of girly whining (I know, it's only going to get worse), I somehow had to coerce Kelsey into giving up lovey so I could wash the black haze that now covered her. Ew. This kid could misplace lovey on her own accord and not care, but the moment you try and take lovey from her, fuggedaboutit! More crying ensued. Surprise, surprise.

After breakfast, the girls retreated to the sun room to play with the dollhouse, which can be a source of fighting. This morning was no different. And Kelsey purposely untied her shoes, crying that they were undone.

I often wrestle with the fact that I work outside of the home, but today, I seriously couldn't wait until 1:00.

Somehow, Averey got on the bus, Kelsey got to preschool, and I had some quiet time with Jacey. We headed to the mall. While I planned to get there as it opened at 10, I didn't leave the house until then. But that left me with close to an hour-and-a-half to shop. Surely I could get my in-laws an anniversary card, get my rings cleaned, pick out clothes for the girls at Gymboree, and shop for myself at Gap.

I dropped my jewelry off and headed to Gymboree. We have planned a **surprise** family photo session for my in-laws for their 40th anniversary (in lieu of going to Sears as my mother-in-law usually plans--and no, she doesn't read my blog. Nor does she know I write one. The secret is safe here). While I could match up clothes between Averey and Kelsey, Jacey's wardrobe is very limited. Good excuse to buy some clothes... not that I need a real excuse.

In coordinating colors, finding the right sizes, I spent waaaaay too much time there. (I know Jake is rolling his eyes already.) By the time I finally got in line, the three people ahead of me took waaaaay too long. As I finally had my turn, the prices were even lower than expected (Yay! Plus a 20% off coupon I got in the mail. Double yay!), but that meant I was $8 away from earning Gymbucks. Well, if I'm that close... back to shopping. Checking my watch. Realizing I'm going to be late picking up Kelsey from preschool... because of SHOPPING. (Stop rolling your eyes, Jake!)

I picked up my jewelry (but no anniversary card), hustled out of the mall (I'm just leisurely jogging with my stroller, folks), and decided to phone a friend to let the teachers know I'd be running a couple minutes late. Thankfully, Kelsey didn't even notice. She was just excited to tell me that her teacher chose her to open the door to go the playground.

Days like these can certainly humble me. Most of it was my fault (but the ladies in front of me at Gymboree were a little at fault too. Just trust me on this one.), and it just reminds me that this mom job is no easy task, even when one of my most favorite activities (shopping) is involved. But at the end of the day, my girls are still excited to see me even after my patience ran especially thin. Thank God for their sweetness.

Although, I'm not sure it's really all that fair that Jake gets to go out and have a beer with his friends tonight.

Little Moments

This week was my first full week of work: 32 hours. But the only reason I think I'm exhausted is because we need a new mattress.

Adjusting to my regular schedule with three kids has been a challenge, but I think I'm actually doing better than I did with two! Maybe Jacey was the little kick in the butt of motivation that I needed.

Yet this week, in the midst of work, MOPS (and handling a lot of money as I'm the finance lady), school, preschool, screeching girls, gymnastics and swiffering our ever-dusty floors, I've managed to take notice of some extra special little moments this week with my girls. For as much of a journal writer as I've been for nearly 25 years of my life, I find it hard to sit down and record those funny or sweet things the girls say and do. So I'm making a point of doing it on this rainy day while the girls are quiet... for now.

The little moments I've especially treasured this week...

...Averey being totally convinced that she can fly, flapping her arms and landing face-first on our bed (and I had to give it a whirl too).

... Both Averey and Kelsey joining me in the bathroom as I'm getting ready, using my make-up brushes to apply non-existent cosmetics.

...Jacey's gummy smiles.

...Kelsey singing "Jesus Loves Me" out of the blue.

...Kelsey asking to snuggle as we waited for Averey to get off the bus.

...The 10 times that Kelsey asks to see Jacey's eyes and responds with an expressive "AWWWW!!!"

...Averey dancing along to a TV program, thrusting herself backwards on the couch, throwing her legs over head and bouncing right back (completely clueless that Jake and I were watching her, chuckling).

...Averey getting up on the stage at church to sing and dance along during the designated kid's song.

...Averey and Kelsey doting on Jacey, prompting her to coo.

...Kelsey sitting on her knees next to Jacey in her papasan chair, grabbing her little hand and praying for her.

...All five of us laying on our bed last night, being silly, getting Jacey to coo, and her sisters holding her. Jake's and my eyes met, and I still find it amazing to believe that after meeting 18 years ago, we've made it to this point in our lives. Incredible.

Like being a pharmacy technician, motherhood is another thankless job. Yet I'm ever so thankful for little moments like those, because they can be greater than any "thank you" I could receive.

Some Final Thoughts on My Final Maternity Leave

(Okay, so technically, I have been back at work for a couple weeks now. I have been in a “transition” period of a couple five-hour days per week. Until I work the hours I did before, it really doesn’t count as far as “officially” being done with maternity leave.)

I know if I use the phrase “working mom” and only refer to what I do outside of the home, I’m sure I could stir up a few comments. I realize that being a mom, whether staying at home or working outside the home, is work regardless. Over the past six-and-a-half years, I have been all across the board. The only difference about me being a stay-at-home mom is that my stint has been paid, otherwise known as maternity leave.

And now it’s time to leave maternity leave behind. For good. Sigh.

Growing up, I wanted nothing more than to be a mother. I had no lofty career goals, other than that. Yet I never considered being a stay-at-home mom. My mom wasn’t (nor was Jake’s mom), and I (we) truly don’t feel that we missed out on anything by her working. She and my dad had flexible schedules, and someone was usually home with us. My grandparents lived right up the road, so I can only remember a couple non-relative baby-sitter stints that didn’t last very long. In retrospect, I am thankful my parents made such a sacrifice for us. God bless their 36-year marriage!

It seems ironic that a majority of my mom friends have Bachelor (Master’s, Doctorate) degrees and they stay-at-home, while I aspired to be a mother, have a (useless) Associate’s degree and I have a job. It’s been a source of some coveting in my life. I admit, I sometimes let my jealousies get the best of me. It can even be a source of contention for Jake and I, I’m not going to lie. Then he feels guilty that I can’t stay home… it’s a vicious circle. So by the grace of God, I’ve come to accept that my motherhood job comes along with an outside-of-the-home job.

I remind myself that my friends didn’t start off motherhood single. Not that it was a part of my plan either. Of all the ways I imagined my motherhood career beginning, being estranged from my (then) husband was never what I pictured. EVER. I look back upon that time that seems ages ago and think about all the crap I had to deal with on my first maternity leave: hiring an attorney to file for custody, filing for child support, dealing with my ex who was in a relationship with someone else and feeling ganged up on every time we had to speak… it was like my own personal episode of “The Jerry Springer Show.” Yet Averey brought so much joy into my life, and I am grateful to God that amidst the mess that I remember Averey’s first three months as a wonderful time to bond with my firstborn. Even though I had to return to work full-time, it was all worth it. We had to have a roof over our heads somehow!

My time off work with Kelsey was much different: I had a caring husband! The adjustment from one to two was more difficult than I expected though, and it was during a time I really had no friends in State College. When I returned to work, we decided I could go back part-time (up to 30 hours weekly). That’s when I got involved in a Bible study and found MOPS. That’s when I realized it seemed like everyone stayed home. So while I found friends, I also found that working outside the home was rarer than I thought. Back in Harrisburg, I worked with plenty of moms, so I never thought twice about it. Yet I reminded myself that some moms can’t cut their hours, and once upon a time, that was me. Thirty hours may seem like a lot to some people, but to me, it was a vacation!

And now I must say good-bye to my final maternity leave. While I thought I would cut my hours further, I believe God made it more apparent that I should be working with a servant’s heart (not an easy task as a pharmacy technician), and I should work more hours so we can achieve our financial goals of paying off our Jeep (so close), our car, and our home equity loan since we have a fixer-upper of a home. I follow Dave Ramsey who I consider to be financially wise, and he often comments about making sacrifices to get debts paid off. This is just one of those times that requires sacrifice. It also helps that my mother-in-law can watch our girls and be there to get Averey off the bus, along with a baby-sitter we hired in the spring who comes to our house. They are both wonderful blessings in our lives. I made a personal commitment never to have my children in a daycare setting, and thankfully, I (we) have been able to do that all along.

I’ve enjoyed being home this summer with my girls, but I’ll admit, it’s kind of nice to be back to a regular schedule too.

Maybe. We’ll see what I have to say in a couple months. ;)

Check My Brain

Since delivering Jacey, I thought for sure my forgetful pregnancy brain would vanish.

Today has proven me wrong. And it's only noon.

It started with remembering to send in a response card to a wedding that was due on September first. (And people who don't RSVP are a pet peeve of mine. I guess a late RSVP is better than none at all though.)

As I walked back into the house, my mind started working. "September fifth... why does that ring a bell?" I thought. Oh, because I had to send in Averey's signed 4B pledge today. (Be Prepared. Be Responsible. Be a Good Listener. Be Kind to Yourself and Others. Both the parents and student have to sign it. It has yet to even be signed. Oops.) Sure, I made her lunch last night, and even an extra PB&J for her lunch on Friday. We got her clothes ready for this morning. But I wasn't quite on the ball like I thought.

This morning, after Kelsey burned off some energy at open gym, we had to fill up my car with gas and get Pull-Ups at Target. (Oh, how I wish Kelsey stayed dry at night like she did before Jacey was born!)

Lately, I just go out and buy the small pack of Pull-Ups, which should technically last us about three weeks. Kelsey, on the other hand, makes the pack last less than two weeks. She decides once she gets one on before bedtime that she's free to pee in it... or worse. Gag me with a spoon.

This week, Target is running a special to buy two big packs of Pull-Ups and get a $10 gift card in return. I jump on these gift card deals when it's a good buy on something we really need. And I've come to face the fact that Kelsey will need Pull-Ups for at least the rest of this year. (Fingers crossed.) I printed off two $2 coupons for a single pack of Pull-Ups, and a Target $3 coupon for two packages of Pull-Ups. Score!

We walked into the store and Kelsey quickly pointed out she wanted the BIG cart. I'd tried to avoid using the behemoth before, but in the interest of Kelsey sticking close by me, I strapped her into the seat and put Jacey's car seat in the cart seat. It seemed a bit awkward to have Kelsey under me and Jacey so far away, and not to mention the thing barely fit through the racks of clothes. (Clothes? Wasn't I just going in for Pull-Ups?)

I grabbed the Pull-Ups, pushed the girls around the store, looking for some extra cheap good deals. ($1 for a bag of Utz Cheese Curls and $1.18 for a bag of honey roasted peanuts.) We wheeled to the register, checked out, and headed to the car. As I hauled the boxes of Pull-Ups in the trunk, I suddenly realized that I didn't receive my gift card. I browsed my receipt and saw one of the boxes was $25.99, not $19.79 like the gift card deal stated. (It wasn't my fault somebody put that box where the other was. Grrr.) So back into Target we went.

I explained the transaction to the lady at the return desk over Kelsey yelling, "Get me OUT OF HERE!" (Wait a minute, weren't you the one who wanted in it in the first place?!) We went back to the diapers, I grabbed another pack. And stupid me saw that I couldn't go through the automatic doors to get right back to the returns area, so I risked exiting the store to re-enter with an unpaid purchase. Gasp! As I entered the returns area again, I felt even dumber that she had been standing out in the open area, waiting for me.
"Of course I choose to do it the difficult way!" I had to redeem myself somehow as Kelsey was shaking the cart and Jacey was making her presence known.

A full exchange was made, and back to the car we went. But as I browsed the receipt, I noted that the coupons hadn't been deducted from this transaction. Sigh. Do I choose my sanity or saving $7? I chose the $7. I explained to Kelsey that mommy doesn't have her head screwed on straight and we had to go back into Target once again. By this time, I'm sure the lady at the register was thinking I'm a complete dunce, and Jacey was crying louder than ever. I told her about the coupons. She gave me $7 out of the register. She smiled as she heard Jacey wailing and said, "Somebody must be tired!" I was thankful for her empathy and promised her we would not be back again!

Phew.

As I've gotten older, I've found that while my photographic memory is still sharp (sometimes it can be a curse), my short term memory pretty much sucks. I make myself lists and try to stick to a single task, but even a list couldn't have prevented the Target ordeal today. As annoyed as I was at myself, I've recovered. And if anything, it provides a little blogging inspiration. Another (mis)adventure under my belt.

Making Muffins

I enjoy baking. I have a tremendous sweet tooth. My "For My Sweet Tooth" board on Pinterest has more pins than any other board. The three are a lethal combination. Fortunately, I have some willpower, and not often enough ingredients to whip up a goodie to satisfy a sugar fix.

In this final stretch of time before I go back to work after nearly 12 weeks of glorious maternity leave, I've been trying to squeeze in little snippets of "mommy and me" time with the girls. Now that Averey's gone back to school, I've added a few extra activities for Kelsey: open gym time, a couple mornings at Millbrook Marsh, and this afternoon, some time in the kitchen making muffins for this week's breakfasts now that they gobbled down the banana bread.

For as much as I enjoy baking and would love to have the girls be more involved in the kitchen (would it help Averey overcome her pickiness?), our kitchen is just too small. You think you have a small kitchen? Trust me, you don't. I guess Jake's gram spent a lot of time in the kitchen when she lived here. I just have to wonder why she didn't say to his grandfather, "Ira! Build me a bigger kitchen!" I know we would've appreciated that.

Anyway, since the mix came from a box, I could easily transport the minimal ingredients to the dining room table and work there. I thought that something as simple as pouring water, oil, eggs and blueberries would be great to instill a little instruction for Kelsey, and some patience for me.

Not that it worked out that way. It went a little something like this...

(My back turned to her.) "Mommy! Look at me!" Kelsey had placed the glass bowl on her head like a hat.
"Nooo Kelsey! We don't put clean bowls on our heads!" (Or any bowls for that matter. But I didn't bother washing out the bowl. Her hair had just been washed. Don't judge.)

"Mmm! This tastes yummy!" (Back turned to her once again. You think I'd learn by now.) There was a nice fingerprint indent in the dry muffin mix. "We don't eat that!" (Although I would totally scoop out a spoonful of the stuff and eat it. But whatever.)

"I crack this egg, and you crack this egg!" she exclaimed, grabbing the eggs out of the carton.
"Kelsey, put the eggs back!"

"Can I eat the blueberries?"
"No Kelsey, we need them for the muffins."

And so on and so forth. I decided by that time I'd had enough and I would scoop the muffin mix into the baking cups, because I could see her three-year-old carefree demeanor spreading the goop all over the table.

Not exactly a success, but I shouldn't expect that right now. She enjoyed her time helping, even with me raising my voice, admonishing her for every little thing. But for her, I'm guessing it's the little things, like making muffins with mommy, that matter the most.

Kelsey's Mystery Diagnosis--One Year Later

Kelsey is our middle child for sure--a little too adventurous for her own good, a sassy attitude, and the cuteness to get away with most of it. (At least, that's what I've heard about middle children. With Jake and I both growing up in two kid families, we don't exactly have experience with a middle sibling.) So leave it to her to end up with a medical anomaly.

For those of you not aware of this situation, and because I have a sleeping baby on my chest, I'll just add a link to the note I wrote on facebook last year about discovering her Atypical Mycobacterium lesion...

http://www.facebook.com/notes/heather-polk-gummo/kelseys-mystery-diagnosis-solved/10150293374829473

Post-surgery, she recovered quickly and much to our dismay, the anesthesia didn't even keep her tired for the rest of the day! The spot was covered for a couple days, and then we had to treat it with antibiotic ointment and a Zithromax regimen.

She's had periodic visits with the doctor that confirmed the diagnosis and performed the surgery. I think she'll continue to see him (or another ENT) for a while. There's a chance they could have to go in and scrape again, but it seems unlikely as long as it continues to heal the way it does. That includes, um, oozing, shall we say? Not that we see it ooze--it's not gross by any means. Some days she wakes up and you can see the scar exactly how it was surgically cut, and other days, it looks like there's a skin scab on top of it.

Prior to removal, Kelsey never cared if we touched it. Now, she flinches and squeals, "Don't touch it!" I'm not sure if it causes her pain, or it's just the awareness that something happened in that area on her face. If you ask her how she got it, she replies, "I ate dirt." If that keeps her dirty hands out of her mouth, then so be it! But so many kids eat dirt or play in stagnant water, and as far as we know, no other cases were reported in State College. Why and how Kelsey ended up with the infection? We'll probably never really know the answer. All that matters to us is that a diagnosis was made in the nick of time before things got ugly.

What I took away from this experience is that it is really handy to have a nurse in the family! All joking aside, I learned that it really does not hurt to have a second opinion and to ask questions. While my dad's discovery in the classroom seemed to piece the puzzles together, I had to take that bold step of making a phone call to the dentist/oral surgeon's office and giving them the information that I believed to be true of Kelsey's lump. Even though they brushed it aside, I was thankful that her pediatrician listened and got the ball rolling. Sure, he didn't figure it out the first time, but then again, it was basically a non-colored lump that was in the jawline. Those type of lesions generally appear on the neck, which added another curve.

(Funny thing: the day we were at Geisinger and Kelsey was in the OR, Jake, my mom and I ate lunch in the cafe, and Jake pointed out that the dentist who saw her was in there. The prideful side of me just wanted to say, "Ha! I was right, you were wrong! Nyah Nyah!")

Now it's already been a year since, and we have much to be thankful for since it hasn't affected her health in the least. She's our spunky silly girl, a doting big sister, and will likely keep us on our toes for years to come (and her medical paperwork file the thickest in our filing cabinet)!

I'm a Cool Mom, For Now...

Mark this one for the record books: I have been dubbed "cool" by Averey.

I decided to take the girls to the pool last night for some last minute summer fun. Since giving birth to Jacey in June, I missed out on a few weeks of swimming, so I've been trying to squeeze in as much pool time as I can. The girls can tread water and doggie paddle, but my goal of them swimming has fallen short once again. This is a slight source of stress for me, because quite honestly, I don't remember NOT knowing how to swim. We've done swimming lessons before and I had planned to this summer, but since being busy with the new baby, it sort of fell through the cracks. I could always put them in lessons in the winter in the State College High School pool. I'll be longing for that chlorine smell then anyway since I am especially dreading winter this year...

But alas, I am way off the subject.

I can trust Averey enough to watch her sister for a few minutes while I take a leap off the diving board to get wet. It always seems I'm in the company of teenage boys when I take a dive, but I don't care. It's still a thrill for me.

I returned to the girls and we swam around to the areas where their feet couldn't touch. They followed me around, doggie paddling with their floaties on. We swam under the buoy rope (okay, I lifted the girls over), and I proved to them I couldn't touch the bottom. (Up until then, they thought I was at least seven feet tall.) I rolled around, doing underwater front and back flips.

"Wow, you are so cool mommy!" exclaimed Averey.

I told Averey I used to do front flips off the diving board, but haven't tried it in years. I told her I could go off the board again if she and Kelsey would sit on the edge of the pool.

I climbed out of the pool and got in the line for the board. I planned on just diving, but as I bounced into the air, I quickly changed my mind and rotated into a front flip. I felt the water smack my bottom, but I still did it! I felt like a teenager again. (And today, I'm not even hurting like a grown up!)

"That was so cool!" Averey said excitedly.

I know I won't being hearing that phrase during much of my parenting years. Give her a few more years and she'll be saying, "Mom, stop trying to be cool by doing flips off the diving board!" I'll treasure this moment while I can, because I forgot that I failed at teaching them to swim. And as they paddled back to the shallow end, I'm pretty sure they didn't even care.

And by the way, shortly after that, Averey jumped into the pool with no floaties on and even went under the water. She was ecstatic. And go figure I missed her moment of "cool."

Ohhh, Back to School!

Averey started first grade today. She was excited, but did comment that she'll be shy around her new teacher and new classmates. (For those who know her would probably find this to be a surprising statement. I know I did.) After all, she will be one of four kids in her class that were in the same Kindergarten class last year. I was quite surprised by that; there were only three Kindergarten classes with less than 20 kids per class. 

I know that some people tend to get emotional on the first day of their children going back to school, but that has not been me. Sure, I can remember Averey being a sweet baby and toddler, but my life was so different at that time, that to me, it does not seem like yesterday. It seems ages ago, unlike me being in first grade, which sometimes does feel like yesterday. I don't recall my first day, but I do remember Mrs. Sullivan's classroom, writing exercises, and my poodle-curly permed hair. (Gotta love 1985. Lucky for Averey she won't face that same fate of hideous hair.)

The anticipation and excitement of the new experience of first grade may be similar for us both, but a lot has changed in 27 years. Averey gets to use an iPad for some learning exercises; I don't think I saw a computer in my school until the end of 4th grade in 1989 (and I'm pretty sure it was wheeled around between the three 4th grade classes). There's a peanut-free table in the lunchroom to shield the allergic kids from kids like Averey, who lives on peanut butter and jelly; I never heard of a peanut allergy until much later in life. During reading time, our class was divided into three groups by how well you could read; now the lines are blurred, and there's ADD, ADHD, Autism and classroom assistants. And we now have to buy Averey school supplies including markers, Clorox wipes and tissues, while we received a box of (sometimes used) crayons on our first day of school and minty-smelling paste.

And yet, some things will never change. Averey carried her backpack on both shoulders as she hopped on the bus, dressed in a colorful new Gap dress and cardigan (okay, there was no Gap Kids at our mall, so I doubt I was as trendy), and she gushed about how awesome her first day was. The rules may have changed a bit, but the game is still the same. 

In the meantime, Kelsey's preschool teacher stopped by for an introductory visit today. She yammered away and was convinced that the teacher was taking her to school today. As she insisted, "Today is FALL!" This should be an interesting year for her too.

So here's to new adventures for our bubbly girls (and hopes that I can be a little more organized in the mornings as I soon head back to work)!

Five Years in Happy Valley

Saturday, August 18 marks the exact date and day that I relocated here to State College five years ago. To me, it is simply a God-story, because there is no other way that this would’ve worked out by my own plan.

Being here for five years marks the longest I’ve lived anywhere (other than growing up in Montoursville), and the longest I’ve stayed at any job. My life is (somewhat) normal now that I often forget the life I had prior to moving here.

Jake and I had our first “adult” date 364 days prior to that: August 19, 2006. Who knew what a whirlwind that year would be (and the next couple of years after that)? After our first date, I had a good feeling about us. Two weeks later, he came to visit me again in Harrisburg. I tripped over Averey’s baby gate, and since he still wanted to see me after that, I knew there was a future for us! It was in October that Averey and I made the venture to State College. I’d made several trips over the years to State College, some in pursuit of Jake, and others not. I always thought it was such a nice area, and when Jake and I dated briefly in 1998, I momentarily considered trying to find an internship in the area when I would finish college. (Just for a nanosecond, because that’s probably news to Jake!) As our adult relationship progressed and marriage seemed to be in our future, moving to State College seemed like a real possibility. I loved living in Harrisburg, had a decent job and great friends (and awesome shopping all around), but I was a divorced single mother renting an apartment. Jake was living under his parents’ roof, waiting to (hopefully) buy his grandparents’ house, and therefore had decided not to waste money on rent. Having worked at Penn State since age 18, he had more roots planted in State College than I had in Harrisburg. It only made sense for me to be the one to relocate.

I realized that while I could look for a job, a place to rent and a baby-sitter for Averey, it was going to take a lot for things to work out just right. Having a failed marriage under my belt brought me to the understanding that if my relationship with Jake was meant to work out, that I was ultimately going to have to trust God that the pieces would fall into place. I ignored red flags before; I made sure that I would be paying closer attention this time.

When Jake called me and told me his friends had been in the pharmacy at one of the local Geisinger clinics and saw a “help wanted” sign, I could scarcely believe it. I called the pharmacy, but the manager there directed me to call the other pharmacy across town since they would actually be the ones looking for help. There would even be an opportunity for me to mix chemotherapy. Mixing IVs is my absolute favorite aspect of being a pharmacy technician (if I could mix IVs and compound all day, I’d be a super happy camper). Knowing that I’d be back in retail, this was a bright light for me. It just so happened that I was the only person that applied for the job, so upon salary negotiation and taking an eensy-weensy manageable pay cut, I had landed a job. (And I was sure that would be the most difficult thing!)

Those same friends owned a house and rented out their basement as an apartment. Their current tenants would be leaving in July. I would be moving up in August. While it was a smaller space, it was enough for me and Averey. To sweeten the pot, I wouldn’t be surrounded by college kids, had no lease to sign and had super cheap rent (three things nearly impossible to find in State College).

I found Averey an in-home sitter through the local newspaper, and her rate was even less than what I paid in Harrisburg.

Huge answers to prayer, I say! (And no red flags.)

Leaving Harrisburg was bittersweet. One of my BFFs threw me a surprise going-away party with my co-workers. I felt very loved since so many of my co-workers showed up, they had done all of this behind my back (and I just thought I was being purposely ignored!), and the fact that my brother had come down to watch Averey was all part of the plan was just incredible to me. While some of that night is a… little foggy, shall we say, I at least have some fun photos! I remember bawling as Jake and I pulled out of the parking lot of the restaurant. (And he probably thought, she’s moving to State College for me?!)

The night before I left, I wanted to go out to Zembie’s, a little bar downtown, and sing karaoke one last time. A group of co-workers and Jake and I went to eat, and then we headed to Zembie’s. I sang my “signature” song, “Killing Me Softly” by the Fugees. (Jake heard me sing karaoke when we went on a cruise a couple months prior, but it was one of my worst karaoke appearances. I was a bit nervous to sing in front of him again. Not that it would've changed his mind about anything.) When I finished that song, I think he said that he would’ve thrown his underwear on the stage for me. Or some un-Jake-like comment like that. Two of my other karaoke-loving friends sang too, and it was a blast for my last night in the ‘burg. I kind of forgot about packing up the truck and moving to State College the next day.

Waking up the next morning with Jake and my parents in my apartment quickly reminded me that it was moving day. Some of my closest friends stopped by to help and say good-bye. I stared at my empty apartment. A little sad, but excited for new beginnings.

I got settled in my new apartment, started my new job, and life in State College was underway. When Jake proposed to me two months later, we were in the throes of wedding planning. Six months later, we were married, in our new home, and shortly thereafter, pregnant with Kelsey.

Life was so crazy that once Kelsey was born, I realized I didn’t really have any friends here. I missed my Harrisburg friends, and while people said that would come and visit, company was few and far between. Even with facebook connections, I still felt a bit lonely and somewhat forgotten. I knew my roots were being planted in this town, and with me being more extroverted than Jake (and I don’t think I’m much of an extrovert to begin with), I had to take steps to change that. We (finally) started attending church and we’d found somewhere to worship that felt at home. I attended some play groups before I went back to work after maternity leave and made some little connections and conversation. I joined a Bible study at church, I found MOPS, and we joined a small group Bible study in our church. All of these were answers to prayer, and friendships were (finally) formed.

Five years have passed. We’ve made his grandparents’ house our own (and that’s always a work in progress!), we’ve found new friendships and in the meantime had two more children. Life has actually turned out pretty much like I dreamed—the loving husband, the noisy kids, a home to call our own. We’ve planted our roots, which isn’t exactly commonplace in a transient town like State College. For awhile, I thought Selinsgrove would’ve been my home (even though it never truly felt like home to me), and then Harrisburg actually did feel like home. Although getting to this point was never the way I imagined, reaching this point has made me appreciate the journey that much more. 

A Losing Battle

I love my kids, but man, oh man, do I loathe the toys that come with them.

Back in the spring, I pinned a “Bored Jar” on Pinterest. Taking a Ball jar and filling it with tongue depressors with activities listed on them, I figured it would come in handy while I would be on maternity leave. I marked the sticks with many different activities, including chores that I think Averey can handle at age six. So today, Averey asked to pick a popsicle stick. I could hear her and Kelsey going through them (while the idea is to do the first one you pick, Averey reads through them all until one piques her interest), and finally they chose the golden one: “Go through old toys and books. Decide which ones you’d like to donate and bag them up.” Averey had great enthusiasm for the project, and so I felt it would go really well as I nursed Jacey.

When the task was complete and Averey came to me with four grocery bags full of stuff, I was hopeful that all the little toys that annoy me would be gone. I asked her to show me what was in the bags. A coloring book… already colored in. Used lip gloss. Random markers and crayons. Itty-bitty stamps, probably near dry. Three Sandra Boynton books that are oh-so-adorable (which Averey blamed on Kelsey and immediately removed them). A couple McDonald’s toys (just one of the many reasons I despise dining at McD’s). Some puzzles. Learning cards with a ripped box. Every single pair of sunglasses they own. I tried not to show my annoyance, as it was my fault for not laying down guidelines on what should or should not be donated. I explained to Averey and Kelsey (who really wasn’t listening anyway) that they can’t donate things like used lip gloss and coloring books, incomplete puzzles, stuff with ripped packages, or items that they actually use, like sunglasses. The sorting of junk ended up on the floor, and in the end, four bags turned into one. An item Averey chose to donate was a cute Melissa & Doug dress-up bear set with laces to attach different outfits to it. It was something that “Santa” brought her for Christmas a couple years ago. And so I mentally swore that we are never buying toys AGAIN. And Averey made it known that she never wanted to choose that stick AGAIN.

Here’s the thing: I love my parents and my in-laws. I totally appreciate that they are very involved in our girls’ lives and help us out tremendously. Most of my friends’ families live out of town, out of state, halfway across the country. I know of some people whose parents don’t enjoy their grandchildren and would perhaps only see them once a year, or whose parents are elderly and can’t keep up with their grandchildren. The fact that Jake’s parents live 10 minutes away and my parents live less than 80 miles away is a huge blessing, and they’ve come to the rescue on more than one occasion. I understand they want to spoil their grandchildren and have the means to do it. But OH. MY. GOSH. Most of these toys do not come from us. I do not enjoy the toys, especially in our size house. While we have several rooms to host a basket or two of toys, not to mention the finished basement, but their bedroom is not big by today’s standards. Averey’s American Girl doll, the horse, clothes, bed and wheelchair are crammed in a corner by the closet. On more than one occasion I haven’t been able to open their closet because of the stuff on either side. And their closet is rapidly running out of space for their clothes and shoes, let alone toys and boxes for school and other assorted memoirs. I’ve explained this to my mother on several occasions, and I know she understands. I’m not sure my mother-in-law completely gets it. Nothing personal, of course. Like I said, I do love my in-laws too. But it doesn’t help that she grew up in this same house with two siblings, so she seems to think we should have plenty of room. However, I’m certain that in the 1950s and ‘60s that they did not own even one-fourth of the toys and clothes that the girls have today. Both mothers remind us that we have the basement. But now the basement is so cluttered with toys and doesn’t help the cause one little bit.

Did I mention that I hate toys?

When we’re invited to fellow kid birthday parties, I refuse to ever buy anyone toys. (Just as I will never buy anyone blankets for a baby shower. I can’t even begin to count how many baby blankets we have!) I would much prefer to give clothes or money, or a gift I wouldn’t mind being in my house. Not as exciting to the kid, of course, but I believe in practicality, especially since I am a parent. I will welcome books (both coloring and reading), clothes (even though I am guilty for buying them probably more than they need), puzzles and “quiet” activity goodies in our house until I’m blue in the face. But bring in toys that (a)make noise, (b)have more than two pieces and (c)have anything to do with Barbies or American Girl dolls, and I think I might lose my mind. While I recite, “please clean up” like I’m a broken record, a Barbie shoe or magnet or some miniscule piece of who knows what and where it belongs will inevitably end up in the garbage if I see fit. It may be a small victory, but I will continually lose the war against these playthings.

We sometimes get frustrated with the size of our house and small closets and cluttered basement (not quite as extreme as an episode of “Hoarders”, but sometimes it feels that way). We’re not sure what we’ll do with the extra space if we ever move into a bigger house. We hope it will happen sooner rather than later, but at the end of the day, we are thankful to have this roof over our heads. But I highly doubt a bigger roof will constitute a greater tolerance for toys.  

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In One Month...

Jacey is one month old today. Already! It seems the month prior to her birth felt so slow (mainly because I had no idea what day she would be arriving, and we had yet to know if we were having a boy or girl), and now the time has flown by. I know one month goes fast, as well as 3 years, and 6 years... Here's just some random thoughts of mine as we celebrate the first month of Jacey Johna's life!


In one month, I have...
gotten over my fear of having 3 children in our house.
been trying to resist buying matching outfits for all the girls.
watched 2 sisters welcome a third, and dote on her every minute they can.
heard the sisters tell me every single time she cries, as if I'm completely unaware of the fact.
watched my husband embrace another daddy's girl.
remembered how breastfeeding relaxes me (and helps take off the baby weight).
remembered how potent those baby poops are, especially when it explodes out of a diaper.
forgotten how much it hurt to labor and give birth with no epidural (eh, not really).
forgotten what it was like to sleep through the night.
enjoyed waking up to that little crying baby at 2 a.m. (seriously, I do).
loved just watching her sleep, gaze around, and flail as she figures out her body parts.
loved taking naps with that little warm body on my chest.
realized that I better eat up every second with her, as she is our third and final child (unless God has other plans)!

Forever Changed in the Blink of an Eye

Over the years, I have written and spoken a great deal on one of my life's most pivotal events. When I worked for Pinnacle Health, they had a publication called "Art and Soul", to which employees could submit artwork, photography, essays and poems. I chose to submit a story on my experience with Flight 800 that was published in the summer of 2005. Instead of writing something new, I've chosen to blog this story for today.

It’s amazing how quickly your life can change. Just when everything seems to be absolutely perfect, the unthinkable occurs, and your illusion of immortality is shattered.

            It was the summer of 1996, the summer before I would begin my senior year of high school. All was right in my little world. Hanging out with friends and my new boyfriend were the exciting events at the time, and since it was the first summer I was driving with a license, I volunteered to chauffeur everyone around in my mother’s car. I had reached the apex of independence in my 17 years. Little did I know my life would take a rapid course down from that peak.

            On the night of Wednesday, July 17, around 11:30 p.m., I arrived home to find my mom and brother waiting for me at the front door. I immediately sensed something was wrong because no one ever greeted me at the door even if I came in a little past my curfew. They said they had something to tell me and I was to follow them downstairs. I think it was my dad who spoke the words, but looking back, it’s all a blur. All I knew was that the worst imaginable tragedy had settled over my hometown.

            Many members of my high school’s French Club were planning a journey to France. I heard about it through several of the 16 people who were going on this excursion, including one of my best friends, Monica Weaver. I saw her two days before she was to leave, and she talked excitedly about the new clothes she bought for the trip, and the francs she had received from the bank. On the morning that she left, we talked on the phone for 45 minutes, chatting about our boyfriends and of course, her trip. She didn’t seem the least bit hesitant about going, and who would be? It was an amazing opportunity for them since the French Club didn’t venture overseas every year. At the end of our conversation, we decided that she would call me when she got back (while she recovered from her jet lag), and we said our good-byes, unknowingly for the last time.

            The 16 members of the French Club, their five chaperones, and 209 other passengers boarded TWA Flight 800 at JFK Airport, and within minutes after taking off, vanished into the night after the plane exploded in midair and fell to the sea below.

            It was instantly all over the news. By the next morning when I went to my high school, the mob of reporters was unbelievable. How could this happen to my hometown of Montoursville? With a population just over 5,000 and nestled next to Williamsport, it was just your average sleepy hamlet, relatively unknown to anyone living outside of Lycoming County. Then suddenly overnight, our small town became the focal point of Pennsylvania, America, even the world. It was too much to bear. I realized that this was a life-changing event, and I had to face it no matter how impossible it seemed.

            Within the week after the crash, funeral services began, some with or without the deceased, depending on whether their body had been found in the waters. In the space of four days, I attended five viewings and four funerals, more than I had been to in all of my 17 years, and more than I hope I ever have to attend for the rest of my life.

            The school year approached quickly, and I was a mix of emotions. How could I face my senior year without Monica? The last day I saw her, we talked about how we would have so much to write about in each other’s yearbooks, and also our plans for the upcoming year: mall trips, bowling, and just driving around and being teenage girls. I couldn’t comprehend why that had been taken away from her. She had so much going for her! She planned to go to school to be a nurse or a physical therapist, and I was clueless about my future. The 16 students that perished were vibrant, very involved in the school and extracurricular activities, and knew what they wanted to achieve in life. I tried to make sense of the tragedy in my own mind, piecing together specific Bible verses and trying to remember that God has a plan for everyone, but even now it’s still hard to grasp why so many young lives were taken away much too soon.

            I went through much of my senior year as I did any other school year, enjoying the dances, football games, parties with friends, and being a part of the school musical, but a lot of times I felt very sad and lonely. I looked forward to graduation and moving on in my life.

            As time ticked on, the pain I felt from the death of my friends lost some of its sting. There were weeks that would go by where I wouldn’t even cry, but yet not a day would pass when I didn’t think of Monica or my other friends that I lost, or the tragedy itself. Nearly nine years has passed, and it still crosses my mind every day, whether it’s a brief moment when I see the pictures of my friends that I’ve displayed in my hallway, or if I hear of a tragic event and it reminds me of what I lived through at such a young age.

            Visiting her gravesite was probably the most difficult thing in dealing with her death. It made the incident all too real, and many times I left crying. But there was a time I spent there when I felt very comforted.

            In late December of 1998, I went up to the cemetery around 11 p.m. Earlier that evening, I visited with Monica’s family, and in between going out to eat and meeting up with friends, I felt the need to stop at the cemetery.

            It was a beautiful night. There was crisp snow on the ground, the moon was shining brightly, and the stars were twinkling. I approached the area where many of the Flight 800 victims are buried. Their wind chimes swayed musically in the light breeze, and I knelt by Monica’s decorated headstone and for some reason felt at ease to talk to her out loud, even though I had always visited the site in silence. After a couple minutes, I said, “I have never done this before. This is a little different for me. I just wish I could know if you can hear me. I wish I could have some sort of sign!” I drifted off into regular conversation again, and a couple minutes later, I noticed something. All of the wind chimes had silenced. There was still a breeze, but there wasn’t a sound. Right then and there, I felt Monica’s presence, listening to me talk as she had done so many times before.

            Living through the tragedy of Flight 800 has changed me in so many ways. I’ve learned a lot about life, love and death. Being 17 at the time, they were lessons I never expected to learn so early in life. Never taking anyone or anything for granted, realizing how short and meaningful life really is, and how to make the most of what you have are just a few of the key lessons I’ve come to understand. I’ve heard that God will take a negative situation and come out with something positive. As I’m living my life now, I’d definitely have to agree. 

...And Then There Were 3

“A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world.” –John 16:21

I just happened to stumble upon this verse during my pregnancy on a day I was feeling discouraged about my sciatic pain, and it made me feel much better. (Well, when it comes to God, there is no "stumbling upon verses.") Also, since I had decided I was not going to use an epidural during this delivery, it also served as a reminder that I could go without pain relief. Don’t get me wrong, I have used epidurals for my other two deliveries. I have told others to get an epidural if they can. I’m not trying to be a hero of any sort. So why would I choose differently this time? During my labor and subsequent epidural with Averey, I experienced a drop in blood pressure that needed shots of ephedrine, an oxygen mask, and me turning on my side in order to stabilize it. It made for a long uncomfortable night. And when push came to… well, push, the numbing effect of the epidural left me with minimal pressure for motivation to push. However, there wasn’t much pain, so the drugs did their job. Kelsey’s birth was a different story. Since my water had been broken for awhile and I was Group B Strep positive, and the laps I did around the maternity floor didn’t progress things far enough, I was dosed up with pitocin. It eventually made me reach the point where I had to request the epidural. Unfortunately, my blood pressure didn’t stabilize and reached scary low levels, so they had to turn it off. When it was time to push, I could feel EVERYTHING. While it was painful, I realized that if I would have another child, I wasn’t going to mess with the epidural. After all, I knew what it was like to give birth without one. I also figured that since Averey’s labor was 30 hours, Kelsey’s was 11 ½, that the third labor should just be a few hours. Right?

Much to my excitement, at my 37 week checkup on Friday June 22^nd, the doctor pronounced me 70% effaced and 1 cm dilated. I was officially full-term, and therefore could really go at anytime. Since Kelsey arrived at 38 weeks on the dot, I was hoping for another early baby. (Even Averey was born one day before her due date.) Both Jake and I knew that I most likely wouldn’t make it until July. I’d been having random contractions for a week, and I was feeling my stomach could not stretch any further. However, Jake’s uncle had passed away just a couple days earlier. With the services being held the coming Monday, Jake’s only request of Baby G was that he or she stay in until Monday was over. Oh, and not to mention our front and side doors were being replaced that day also. Thankfully, Baby G obliged.

Tuesday was another day off work for me, so Averey got to have a friend over. Kelsey and I went to the pool later on, and then I went to a Pampered Chef party in the evening. I knew I’d head back to work in the morning, but in the back of my mind I thought perhaps my four day weekend may turn into maternity leave…

1:15 a.m. Wednesday. Another random contraction. A bit more painful than before. Then another. Then another. Hmm.  Could this be it? It was enough to get me out of bed and walking, enough to get Jake out of bed, and then not enough to make me go back to bed. I might have fallen back asleep until another random contraction about an hour and a half later. Finally, at 4:15, they seemed to come about every 5 minutes. Jake convinced me that I should probably call the doctor. The OB on call told me to come in and they would check me out. After Jake’s mom arrived at our house, we headed for the hospital. We arrived bright and early at 5:30 a.m. The nurses hooked me up to the monitors, and I was glad to see that my contractions weren’t just figments of my imagination.

And thus began one of the longest days EVER.

My pre-admission questioning had been completed, just in case they decided to keep me. I said I would feel like an idiot if they sent me home for false labor with my third child. The nurse assured me that I wouldn’t be the first one to do so. I don’t think I had the pleasure of being checked to see how far dilated I was until about two hours later. I was a bit disappointed to hear I was only at 3 cm. Then they told me to walk for about an hour. The L & D/Maternity floor at Mount Nittany isn’t exactly a large scenic track, and I had déjà vu from the laps we made as I tried to move Kelsey down the birthing canal three years earlier. At least Jake and I were getting some exercise, although since I hadn’t eaten since 8:00 the night before, it didn’t help my growing hunger. One of the nurses told us that 15 laps was a mile. I’m guessing when it was all said and done that we walked about two miles. And it didn’t do wonders in getting me further dilated.

Jake went down to the snack bar and ate breakfast. I tried to ignore the food, not to mention all of the commercials on TV for restaurants and all sorts of tasty treats. The ice chips just weren’t doing much for me other than making me have to pee quite often which is no picnic when you’re in labor. I was finally able to drink some ginger ale, but those sips did little to satisfy me.

I think somewhere around lunch time, I had progressed to 3.5 or 4 cm. Woo hoo. The doctor said they could send me home and I could be dilated like that for a couple weeks (say whaaat?), or since I had tested positive for Group B strep yet again, they could start me on the antibiotic, kick on the pitocin and get things into gear. Since I delivered Kelsey at 38 weeks, and I was only two days away from 38 weeks, they decided I could stay and get things moving. Not thrilled about the idea of pitocin since it put me over the edge the last time, but my nurse was fantastic. She respected my wishes and understood my reasoning for not wanting an epidural, and while she reassured me that they could do things to prevent the drop in my blood pressure if I chose the epidural, she also said that if I did not want the drugs that she would do what she could to help me achieve that goal.

Even though Jake and I had the TV on, I still lost track of time. The hours (and minutes) seemed to drag, and reading became boring, playing Angry Birds on Jake’s Kindle Fire just became frustrating, and sleeping was out of the question. The pitocin started to amp up the contractions, but they were still tolerable… for awhile. I was so glad to get some Jell-o in the meantime. I savored every slurp. By mid-afternoon, I was up to 5 whopping cm, but then the doctor broke my water so I figured things would really kick into gear!

Not so much. The pain got a little worse, and I got irritated with sitting in bed, so I asked the nurse for a change in position. I decided to be adventurous (?) and go for the birthing ball. I could picture all sorts of clumsy scenarios by sitting on a ball while contracting, but it helped at least move some things along. While I thought that most of my water had surely leaked out, I was proven wrong when I sat on that ball. Holy gushing. Surely I would be close to 10 cm now! But when I learned I was still at just 5 cm, I cried. Both Jake and the nurse assured me that it was all right. She told me that her shift ended at 7:15, and I would have the baby before her shift ended. (Maybe this was after 5 p.m.? I don’t remember…) She suggested that I try the rocking chair, and at that point, I could have stood on my head if it meant the baby would pop out. Well, I think the rocking chair did the trick. The contractions were frequent and ferocious, and I can’t remember the last time (if ever) I screamed like that in my life. I’m sure I scared some first-timer out in the hall. I just didn’t care at that point, and when the doctor came in, she told me that I was ready to push.

Leaving out any gory details, the surprisingly long labor I endured with baby number three turned into the quickest delivery I’ve had. It happened so fast: Jake looking at me and telling me that it was a GIRL, seeing her for the first time, and then Jake’s phone ringing with my mom on the other end, anxiously awaiting any news. (It was a long day for all parties involved.)

Jacey Johna (feminizing Jake's middle name John) Gummo arrived (17 hours after my first contraction began) at 6:38 p.m. on Wednesday, June 27th. She weighed in at 6 lbs. and 12 oz. and measured 20 ¾ inches long (although I wonder how exact a science it is, measuring a newborn who’s just spent 9 months scrunched up in utero). She came out with a nice head of light brown hair, and looked almost identical to Kelsey at birth. It was another amazing experience to give birth to another healthy beautiful girl. And while poor Jake is severely outnumbered, he contends that God knows that he should be able to handle four females under his roof. After all, he was certain we were having another girl anyway (well, he claims that at least up until the last month—then he wasn’t so sure). He referred to Baby G as a “she” every time he touched my belly and was met with a kick. He’s got a better intuition than I do--he's two for two now! I really had no clue; but what a wonderful surprise it was.

I’d forgotten how wonderful and cozy newborn babies are. I said during my last sleepless month of pregnancy that I would rather be up with a crying baby than to be awake and uncomfortable. She wakes us from our slumber, but to nurse her in the middle of the night is incredibly relaxing. And since we’ve pretty much decided that three is our magic number, I might as well cherish this time since it will probably be my last time to enjoy my own infant. Even though she is my tiniest baby and can barely fit into the closet of sisterly hand-me-downs she has, I love her itty-bitty body. While I wonder what her personality will be like—if she’ll be a nurturer mother hen like Averey, or a comical busybody like Kelsey, (or something entirely different) I just want to take this time day by day and soak up the moment. As Averey and Kelsey (especially Kelsey) seem SO big to me now, the time with Jacey seems even more precious because the evidence that babies grow up so fast is staring me in the face (even when I shut that bathroom door).

Nine months feels like such a long time when you only get glimpses of that baby moving and grooving and hiccupping inside, when you’re trying to decide on names, when you feel so exhausted that you wonder how you can function daily. You wonder what this baby is going to look like, what their cry will sound like… and then they arrive, nine months has flown by, and upon seeing that baby, it all falls into place, and you wonder what you ever did without them.

Some Pregnancy "Final Thoughts"

I have reached the “finish line”, so to speak, in my third pregnancy. When you think about it, 36 weeks technically equals 9 months anyway. I have enjoyed my pregnancies, for the most part. Each one has had its bumps in the road, but I’ve never hated being pregnant like some people I know. Usually they have good reason to despise the condition: morning sickness, bad acne, large weight gain, bed rest. I have been fortunate enough not to experience those side effects. So while you could say I’m a seasoned pro when it comes to pregnancy, I am no expert, and I realize that everyone’s experiences are different.

During three pregnancies, people have dispensed advice and opinions at their leisure, telling you what to expect (while you’re expecting). I’ll admit, I like talking to people about being pregnant, and it is something that truly resonates with women in conversation as we each have our own experiences to share. While it is deeply personal, I have been in a room full of moms, and there are no holds barred when it comes to sharing those birthing stories! Talking to strangers about pregnancy can be interesting too, and while gory details are spared, I’ve had some nice conversations with some customers in the pharmacy I work at, comparing pregnancy notes and chatting about our little ones.

I find that most people are pretty joyous when it comes to discussing the prospect of a new baby on the horizon. I have been surprised with this pregnancy that I did not gain weight right away and my belly is just kind of like a basketball. I would’ve thought with the third I’d be as big as a house. This time, nearly on a daily basis, I am told how cute, great, gorgeous I look. That is not to boast, because obviously I don’t often feel that way, especially when I think my stomach can’t stretch any further. But it is so nice to hear considering that when I was carrying Kelsey and a customer actually said, “Hi chubby!” I gave her a Look and laughed it off with an obvious sarcastic growl undertone. I don’t even know how she would’ve thought that would’ve been remotely funny to say, and I still don’t care for that customer to this day! (No words have been spoken of my body size this pregnancy.)

I find that the older population thinks it’s pretty neat that we don’t know the gender of our child. “How wonderful!” “What a nice surprise!” It’s often my friends who comment, “How can you not find out? That would drive me crazy! I have to be able to plan!” Quite frankly, I think anybody who is pregnant more than once should NOT find out at least one time. I’ve had the experience of knowing that Averey was a girl, and I was thankful to have that knowledge, even though it’s not how I would’ve chosen originally. But with Kelsey and this one as a surprise, well, it’s pretty amazing. How often in life do we have good surprises? How often in life do we just sit back and NOT have everything planned? We have enough gender neutral onesies, and if we have to paint the bedroom again, it won’t be that difficult a task since the baby will be in our room with us for a couple weeks anyway. Jake and I have both come to the realization that either gender will be a wonderful addition to our family. Considering the miracle of conception to birth, I can rest in the fact that not knowing the gender will give me good reason to push even harder! Besides, when the child arrives, that is when you meet him or her for the very first time. Sure, you see the ultrasound photos and the movements rocking your belly in the weirdest motions and you’ve had time getting acquainted, but the delivery is the moment of truth. Does it really matter that you knew their gender four months ahead of time?

There are some things I won’t miss about being pregnant. Discomfort in sleep, pressure on the bladder, sciatic pain, a desperate need for an overload of fiber… and annoying comments. This goes beyond “Hi chubby!” This is the your-pregnancy-is-exactly-like-mine-and-I-know-exactly-what-I’m-talking-about type remarks. Honestly, I think most people mean well, but I think it’s the pregnancy myths that people believe that clearly must be true… and make no sense whatsoever.

Case in point, a conversation I had yesterday with a customer.

Customer: Are you having a boy?

Me: I don’t know!

Customer: You’re carrying out front like you’re having a boy!

Me: I actually carried the same way with both of my girls, so who knows?

Me (what I really wanted to say): And how am I supposed to carry a girl? Off to my side? In my rear?

This drives me BONKERS! I apologize if there are any of you that are convinced gender determines how you carry, but personally, I think it’s a bunch of hogwash. During my pregnancy with Averey, I was working in a hospital. While waiting for an elevator, another employee says, “Oh, you’re having a boy because I carried just like that with mine.” Having the knowledge of my ultrasound actually came in handy so I could curtly say, “Actually, I’m having a girl.” Come to think of it, anytime someone makes a remark on how I’ve carried in ALL of my pregnancies, they always determine that I’m having a boy! This time, they could be right, but the track record isn’t so great thus far. And how, may I ask, does a baby’s genitalia establish the positioning in one’s uterus anyway? I have never once looked at a pregnant woman and felt compelled to say the baby’s gender based on the position of her bulge.

Then there’s the heartburn/baby hair myth. I had heartburn and some disgusting reflux with Averey, and while she had some hair at birth, it was hardly enough to comb after a bath. Kelsey came out with a decent crop of spiky blond hair, but not once did I have heartburn with her. It also could be due to the fact that I chomped down Tums every night before bed, but still. This one has given me some heartburn, but we’ll see about the hair. I’m just not sure how hair (encased inside amniotic fluid nonetheless) could actually cause the heartburn. Yet I’ve heard fervent discussions over this matter as if it has some merit.

Then there’s the gender determining tests: the string test, the Chinese birth calendar, peeing in a toilet full of Drano… you’ve heard them all. While they can be fun (or funny), I’ve found only one test determines the gender: birth!

As I head into my final four weeks (or less) of pregnancy, I anticipate the compliments and brace myself for more doozies as I will continue to carry this baby out front (because I’m not sure where else to put it), and people learn that this is my third pregnancy (Wow, your hands will be full!). While we’re entering uncharted territory, I am eagerly awaiting to meet this karate-chopping baby who thinks my bladder is a trampoline. And hopefully someday, I won’t be dispensing unwanted opinions on others’ pregnancies, but sharing in the joy and miracle that bringing a child into this world really is.  

It's So Hard to Say Good-bye to Yesterday

It was 15 years ago today that I entered the Montoursville High School gymnasium in my royal blue cap and gown, ready to move on to the next phase of my life. After my senior year, I was a mix of emotions, and graduating symbolized a lot more than just getting a diploma.

I remember being so excited about being a senior after watching the previous classes leave. It seemed that being part of the senior class would be fun and full of activity. Each class had their Class Day: all the seniors wore white, performed in skits poking fun at their time at MHS, showcased a slide show and then sung their class song. While it could bring tears and the reminder that the graduating class was really leaving Montoursville, I still looked forward to the event. When the class of ’96 graduated, it was our time to shine.

And then Flight 800 happened.

Summer trips to Mexico for the Spanish Club were routine, but the French Club hadn’t travelled to France during our time at the high school. On July 17, 1996, 16 students and their 5 adult chaperones left for Paris aboard TWA Flight 800 from JFK Airport. A few of my friends were part of this trip, and to say they were excited was an understatement. But the plane crashed minutes after takeoff, killing all 230 passengers. Some say this is how the “real world” came to Montoursville: a rude awakening for a town of 5,000. We lost six members of our class, and words can’t even explain the profound loss of so many youth. As one of my closest friends, Monica Weaver, perished in that horrific incident, I was extremely saddened that someone I had grown very close to over our junior year would not be around for the fun senior year we were anticipating. My cousin (and one of my best friends) graduated in June and would head off to college in the fall, and while a couple of my other best friends and my boyfriend were still in school, they were in classes below me. Monica was that one friend I was going to spend so much time with, and she was gone. This inevitably changed the course of my senior year.

The first day of school was unlike any other, and while the events of the summer were still fresh in everyone’s mind, it seemed to me that people were moving on. I ended up taking a step back as this was the day that Monica’s body was identified—the last of the Montoursville group. As we got further into the year, I felt as if people were forgetting. A foolish assessment, but I was sad a lot more than I let on, and I just didn’t feel that anyone felt the same. My friend Erin (a junior) and I grew close over the year because we had both lost very close friends, and she originally was supposed to go on that fateful trip. That friendship was positive for the both of us, and while we are in different phases of our lives and live far apart, we can pick up the phone after a couple months and ease into conversation to this day. I think the bond developed out of the loss of friends truly cemented our friendship.

In Psychology class, we had to complete a project, and a lot of people sent surveys around the school to collect data on a certain subject. I chose to do my report on Flight 800 and how the student population was affected by the tragedy. I saw that the effect on a lot of people, whether they were friends with someone or not, was greater than I expected. However, my report went missing from the blackboard in the Psych room. I have no clue what happened to it, and I was disappointed not to have that piece. But being the pack rat I was (am), I saved the surveys with all of my other Flight 800 memorabilia.

My senior year still had some bright spots, and I tried to make the most of it by spending time with friends, my boyfriend, participating in “Guys and Dolls”, and enjoying the school dances and prom. I do believe people seemed a bit friendlier that year, and that was a positive result of such a terrible tragedy.

I would have to say that the happiest and saddest day was Class Day. It was a little strange to see all the members of my class dressed in white, but as we waited outside the auditorium that beautiful June day, a rainbow formed around the sun. Was it a sign? We liked to think it was. We all carried white roses tied with blue and gold ribbon, and as we entered the auditorium to Rusted Root’s “Send Me on My Way”, each of us made our way to the stage to drop off our roses in memoriam of our classmates lost. This was mentioned at the introduction of Class Day, and after a brief moment of silence, the show was underway. With two hilarious sketches, “wills” from the seniors to other classmates or people in other classes, people named “most likely to…” or “class (ditz, yuppie, mooch, fill in the blank)”, we got to the good part: the slide show. Set to music, a majority of kids in my class had a specific snippet of a song played for them, describing their personality, or name. (For instance, some Jeremys in my class had “Jeremy” by Pearl Jam. Obviously.) Some were flattering, others not so much. Mine was “Supermodel” by Jill Sobule… and to this day I’m still not sure why, since it should’ve been the “Hokey Pokey”, referencing my maiden name Polk.

After lots of photos of our class, the screen flashed blue with the words “In Memory of Flight 800.” The auditorium grew silent. A photo montage of the six members of our class, Jessica Aikey, Jordan Bower, Amanda Karschner, Kim Rogers, Monica Weaver and Wendy Wolfson, was set to “One Sweet Day” by Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men. To see their baby and childhood pictures on the screen immediately set me off in tears. Near the end, I was surprised to see myself in a photo with Jess and Kim from about 8^th grade, and then when a photo of Monica and I flashed on the screen from the last day of our junior year, I could hardly take it. After the slide show ended, you could have heard a pin drop (if it weren’t for those of us crying) until loud, clear applause broke through the silence.

Then it was time to take the stage to sing our class song, “These Are Days” by 10,000 Maniacs (which I hated before that… but now hold dear for sentimental reasons). I was a wreck but pulled myself together to enjoy the moment. The juniors sang us the Beatles’ version of “With a Little Help From My Friends” (and adding on “Hit the Road Jack” at the end—we poked some fun at their class that day as we thought they were a little more favored by the faculty).

I heard some people from my class were going to take the roses up to the cemetery where our classmates were laid to rest. I knew I couldn’t go up there as I rarely visited the cemetery that year. But as I drove out of the high school parking lot and saw my classmates up on the hill, I turned up the road towards them. Arriving up there, seeing my classmates arm in arm, each group of friends by the headstone of their dearest friend, crying… I realized I was not alone in my grief nearly 11 months after the incident. I sat in front of Monica’s grave, sobbing, while a couple of my friends consoled me. We started talking about Flight 800, our friends lost, our senior year, saying good-bye, and before we knew it, there were only five of us left up on that hill. One of my friends commented that he never realized how hard it would be to say good-bye.

Two days later would be our final farewell to MHS at graduation. We were stuck indoors as we were told the football field had just been re-sodded (or whatever you do to keep football fields nice), but we were all pretty much convinced that the administration did not want us outside due to a media frenzy over our class being the first to graduate after Flight 800. We didn’t think it was going to be a big deal for the media. But wouldn’t you know it? When we pulled in to the parking lot, there were cameras lined up the street. I heard one classmate went as far to unplug some of them.

It was a fitting ceremony; the top three guys in our class spoke about our time at MHS, Flight 800 was not forgotten, but yet the living were much celebrated. Soon we were lined up to receive our diplomas. When my name was called, I learned I was also receiving the Monica M. Weaver Memorial Award. It seemed surreal to be receiving an award in honor of the friend who I expected would be receiving her diploma with me, so it was a bittersweet moment. After our row got their diplomas, I looked inside the shell and nearly panicked when I did not see my diploma. My friend next to me whispered that we would get them after we turned in our caps and gowns, remember? Must not have been paying attention to that one. Alas I had to have one more stupid moment before I left school.

The six in our class that died on Flight 800 received their diplomas posthumously. I could not imagine being in our class president’s shoes as she had to read those six names, each responded to with thunderous applause.

Thirteen years from the time (most of us) started Kindergarten in 1984, and it was over just like that. And now 15 years have flown by! I find it hard to swallow that so much time has passed, and yet sometimes, I don’t feel any different than I did back then. I would like to think I’m a little bit cooler than I was, but in reality, probably not. While I had no serious career ambitions (and that is how one ends up a pharmacy technician!), I knew more than anything I wanted to get married and be a mom. Well, I certainly filled in that blank, just not in a way I ever expected.

Some people look back on their high school days with pain, some look back in laughter, some look back in regret, and some look back to reminisce. I can say that I do all of those. My senior year truly encompassed all of those emotions. In some aspects, I was glad to leave, but for awhile, I did have a hard time letting go. I figured someday I would settle back in Montoursville, but it was not meant to be. I view that as a good thing for me—I needed to get away and move on. While the path I traveled was a bit crooked and unconventional, I am grateful to be living in State College now. Far enough away, but close enough that we can still enjoy a visit (and that my parents can come and see their grandchildren). I am thankful for the life I had in Montoursville, but even more so that my narrow teenage eyes have been able to see greater things than I imagined possible as I left Montoursville High School for the last time.