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.