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wRong Religion and New Life

November 22, 2016
by Cry and Nurse On

When I was going through the process of having my own ADHD diagnosed, (let’s just say when my daughter was diagnosed I realized that “she’s just like me!” meant a lot of things.) I went back through all my old report cards looking for comments about what I was like back then. Turns out I was a lot like Tristyn. Anyone who knows my girl in real life knows when I say bubbly and outgoing it’s an understatement. According to my elementary report cards, I was very similar.

Turns out I was a lot like my daughter. Anyone who knows my girl in real life knows when I say bubbly and outgoing, it’s an understatement. According to my elementary report cards, I was very similar.

I don’t know when it changed.

Maybe when my world gently started rocking off of its access. We moved multiple times in my parent’s pursuit to be missionaries. My dad had a dream, a calling to translate the bible in the unreached jungles of Mozambique.

We moved 6 times between grade 4 and grade 9. While my parent’s marriage fell apart, I was left torn between the God who had somehow called my family to this mess and the God of the people who were there to hold me and love me when my world was crumbling.

What I thought was shyness, looking back I now think was the beginnings of anxiety. When I sat in church recently and had a full blown internal anxiety attack it was because we were praying. Suddenly I was taken back to every stage I’ve ever had to stand on while elders and pastors stood around us and laid hands on us. I remember feeling claustrophobic and trapped. Uncomfortable, all in the name of prayer, over and over.

I now know that I’m a very sensitive person. My sensory processing system fires differently. It’s how I’m wired. Maybe it’s ADHD, maybe it’s just being a Highly Sensitive Person. Either way too much of anything is bad. Noise, lights, and definitely strangers touching me. This is where who I am gets tangled with how I was raised.

I’m reading a book right now called After The Tears. It’s about adult children of alcoholics. In this book, under ‘female oldest child in a high functioning alcoholic household”, it’s listing my exact personality traits and I’m left wondering. What is me? How much of me is caused by my circumstances? What do we get to choose?

Somehow my life experiences have left me with a passionate bleeding heart and an overly sensitive, intuitive nature. I’m scattered and anxious, but love like crazy and have a way with words. I see my brave friends speaking against injustice in their writing on facebook, or in books and blogs and I’m left wondering what is my place? I want to be brave. I want to write about the things I see, but I’m conflict averse. I don’t like loud. I don’t like arguing.

I think the world needs a little loud and angry right now. We need people to speak out. I fully support them when it’s done with grace and truth, but anytime I push myself to “be like them” I can’t.

I was lamenting to my sister that I’m too quiet. That I don’t know what to say or how to say it. That I’m scared. During our conversation an old friend messaged me. A pastor who led a small coffee house gathering church that came into my life at a time when I was feeling very hurt and frustrated by church. I felt like my kids weren’t welcome in the way I wanted them to be.

He offered me the gift of a listening ear and even began involving the kids in the service in small ways. I saw it as all the ways he helped me, yet, he messaged me yesterday to tell me how much my words meant to him. How he learned so much from the things I had told him.

When I told him his message was very timely. That I was feeling like my quiet words didn’t matter he offered me this;

“And, as for your “too quiet” words, I think softly, spoken, but deeply lived words are ones that endure far, far longer than the angry tirades we so often see in social media. You’ve got more authority and are changing the world more than you’ll ever know.”

Just as I’ve reckoned with the fact that the picture I had of “a good nurse” and my inability to live up to that, had more to do with the picture than me, I’m now seeing that pattern in every area of my life.

In parenting, in our work, in our callings, we create a picture of how we think it should be. When reality doesn’t live up to that expectation we have two choices. We can cling tightly to that picture of how things should be, often holding to that belief so strongly that we have to see anything opposite as wrong, or…we can begin to realize everyone is different. We all have different skills, gifts, and talents. The world needs more than one type of nurse. It needs more than one type of love warrior. It needs people of all types and personalities, colour and culture.

I invested a lot of time trying to be the type of mom, nurse, wife, person I thought I should be. Maybe it’s because I’m in my 30s now, but I just don’t have time for that anymore. This is the life I’ve got. I’m the person I am. Some of it is genetics, some of it’s upbringing. It’s still always changing, always growing, but there are certain parts of me that are what they are.

I offer something to the world no one else can. We each do. Maybe our job is to start discovering what we do best and doing it, even when it scares us, even when it’s not as glamorous as what other people seem to be doing. We can do it even when it seems like it’s not enough. Even if it seems too quiet. Sometimes all we can do is put our work, our art, our love out into the world even though we may never know where the wind takes it.

So once you’ve taken the time to sit with yourself in quiet, to discern where your convictions meet your passion, then go light a fire, or be a gentle wind. Trickle through the mountain like a stream or roar like an ocean wave. God is in the heated colours of the sunset and the cold hues of a full moon.

There is awe at the power of a thunderstorm and beauty in the quiet, colorful swirls of the northern lights. His peace can be felt in the calm of a meadow with warm sun on your back. Just as ice and snow bring with it death and brittle branches, so do sticky green buds in the spring bring the promise of new life to bloom again.

Just as the season pass from death to life and back again, beauty in the stark, cold death as well as in blooming colour of life, so are the seasons of our life. As the world outside slowly dies and the bleak canvas of snow makes an appearance, in my heart, struggling valiantly, are tiny buds pushing up through the snow.

#MOTHERHOOD

Dear NICU Parent I See You

November 18, 2016November 17, 2017
by Cry and Nurse On

This is for all the NICU parents,

I remember when my babies were born. They were the opposite of premature. All of them 41 weeks plus. It still felt like a wall of crashing bricks when I realized I was now responsible for keeping a small human alive and fed.

But you,

When your wall of bricks came crashing down, you handed your baby over to me, to the NICU team. You watched as we whisked your baby away. Tears ran down your cheeks as you said “go” to your husband when you couldn’t come with us. Your heart pounded faster in your chest as you were forced to choose between your baby and your wife. Or maybe you were both told to wait. We promised to update you as soon as we could.

When we got to the NICU it was a flurry of activity. If you came along you probably watched, stunned. Either all this was happening way earlier than you planned, or maybe NICU wasn’t supposed to be part of your story at all but complications arose.

I see you standing there to the side, or lying in the labor bed as we walk away. I see the cascading emotions pouring over you. Fear. Joy. Terror. Worry. Helplessness. The elation of delivering your awaited for baby is a wave going the wrong direction….the waves of gut wrenching fear going the opposite way seems stronger as they clash and swirl together.

I see you the next day, doing everything you can to squeeze a few drops of colostrum from your breast. I see you looking lost and confused at the desk syringes of breast milk in your hand, the ones you brought so the mother of your baby can recover in bed. I see how desperately you want to hold your baby but how much pain you are still in, or how worried are that you’ll pull out a tube or a wire, but you hold them anyway because we told you that doing skin to skin will help them.

I see you as the weeks creep on. Tired, juggling life and multiple trips to the hospital. Sleeping in chairs or on cots at bedside. Pumping around the clock. Going to work when you’d rather be at the hospital. I see your feet dragging a little bit slower and feel your frustration when time after time you offer a breast or a bottle only to be met with sleepy eyes and a closed mouth.

I hear your tears as you kiss them goodbye at the end of the day leaving them in my care. I see you scrub and scrub again at the sink. Dispelling all germs like it’s your job to protect your sweet baby, because it is. I see you come night after night for the night shift because mom was here all day and needs to sleep. We pull out the extra cot or the colouring books when you have to drag along a twin, or siblings.

I offer you to get you water, or warm a scone from Made by Momma because I see how hard you are working and I wish I could do more for you. I answer your questions over and over because I know that you desperately want to hear a different answer.

To those parents that are with us for months, I see you the most. I see how guilty you feel when you take our advice and go on one more date night before your baby comes home. I see your disappointment with every setback, every new brady. I feel your anticipation mixed with nerves that home is going to be way different than hospital. I see you glance at the monitor wishing you could take it home with you. I laugh as you joke that you wish you could take a nurse with you too, but deep down I know you aren’t really kidding. I remind you that you’ve got this…because you do.

To all the NICU parents I’ve had the honour of working with, of partnering with, to give your babies the best start we can, I want you to know I see you. Even when I’m busy and I seem rushed. Even on the days where I’m tired and answer questions with bare basics. I see your tears. I cuddle your babies when you aren’t here, I hold them and tell them how much their parents love them. To those parents who have had to say goodbye too early and forever, I remember your babies too. I cry for them in the quiet of the night sometimes wondering how you hold your heartbreak. I see. I remember.

I know walking away is sometimes the hardest thing you have to do. I’ll smile and joke and downplay it, but know, I see your heart. I see how much you love your NICU baby and how torn you are. Thank you for teaching me what sacrificial love looks like. I have learned so much about the human spirit from your resiliency, from your ability to keep going even when it seems like nothing’s going right and no one is listening to you. You encourage me with your gratitude and trust for the work I do and you make me want to alway be a better nurse and a better mom.

So to you and your little warriors Happy World Prematurity Day. I know this world seems like something few people truly understand and it’s true, many of us have not walked your path, but the challenges and joys of a NICU baby’s journey are something that everybody can learn from.

Love,

Your NICU Nurse.

#SPIRITUALITY

Accidental Saints and Safe Places

November 14, 2016
by Cry and Nurse On

I used to go to church.

I grew up in church really. Little by little it felt less safe and then it just felt less relevant. It didn’t reflect me or who I was. All the communities I’ve been a part of offered me something different, and as is life, each one hurt me in different ways too.

This is the inevitable part of life. No relationship with a person or a church will leave us untouched. Some people and some churches will bless us and heal us long after the relationship has moved on. Others will harm. Some will do both. Churches are merely gatherings of fallible people.

One day it just didn’t make sense anymore to drag my kids and my husband out the door and into any form of a church when nobody, including me, wanted to be there.

So I stopped. I stopped trying so hard to fit in. To find the right church. I stopped obsessively googling different churches and reading belief statements online. I stopped, well mostly stopped, feeling guilty that my kids weren’t getting some of the same good memories I have of growing up in church.

We continued to read The Jesus Storybook Bible. I listened to podcasts like Rob Bell and read posts by Sarah Bessey. People who love deeply and despite being accused of misinterpreting the bible and having controversial beliefs, still embrace their faith, openly and with deep conviction and passion.

Then a church fell in my lap. I’m not sure how it even happened. A friend wanted to go back too. We both wanted our kids to experience Sunday school. She had a friend from high school who went and designs the bulletin. So we went. Our first Sunday we walked in the YYC Pride Parade.

We both laughed because the buttons we had to hand out were God loves Queers. We were both ok with the Queer part of it, a little more unsure of the God part.

Since then, slowly, sometimes awkwardly, we’ve gotten more and more involved. I don’t feel the tendrils of panic around my throat now every time someone prays. When I was worried about my ADHD kids having a hard time sitting through the first part of the service, they were welcomed to play downstairs. When we joked about sermons being hard to sit through because of ADHD a doodle page appeared on the back of the bulletin. Not only did I feel like my quirks were accepted there, they seemed welcomed, even celebrated.

Glennon Doyle Melton posted this on her facebook the other day after the American elections:

“And so today- if Jesus followers asked the same questions their leader asked with his life.. If we looked hard at our own communities, in our own countries today and asked:

Who is power forgetting?

Who is religion oppressing?

And then we gathered those people. And ate with them. And listened to them…we’d find ourselves listening to black kids. Black women. Black men. Brown people. Muslims. Addicts. The mentally ill. Children. Gay kids. Transgender kids. Refugees. Immigrants. Widows. The financially poor…. And if we look around our churches and we do not see those faces…then we can be certain we are not doing the work that Jesus did.”

And I realized somehow, without even really meaning to, I had found a church where I could say when I look around the pews beside me, I see those faces. I found myself not having to apologize for my kids kicking benches and being loud in the service. A place where I could pull out colouring during the service to help me concentrate and nobody cared.

Maybe nobody cared anywhere else I went either, but when a church intentionally cultivates acceptance of the least of these everyone feels more welcome. When you see love poured out and programs geared towards the LGBTQ community, First Nations, Homeless, Refugees you can’t help but feel you will be accepted for who you are.

Radical Hospitality. It is what they stand for and what my kids are learning in Sunday school. Gratitude. Breathe in breathe out. Love. God is Love. Peace be with you. Also with you.

It’s a place that is safe. A place that me and my children would feel safe if they were gay or transgender, where they could bring friends who are. It’s a place that my brown husband doesn’t stand out. It’s a place where women lead and speak and are valued as equals. Where people are encouraged to share their gifts as art rather than obligation.

Is it perfect? Of course not. That’s the beauty. It’s not perfect. It’s a place where imperfection is welcomed. It’s different enough than the churches I grew up in that all my real or imagined expectations of perfection can be laid to rest.

I still cringe when a baby cries because I remember feeling like my baby’s noises weren’t welcomed in church. I worry that my girls being fidgety will draw dirty looks or that someone is frowning at my colouring and maybe they are, but between a church that strives to be a safe place for everyone and my personal realization that it’s ok to be who we are; I think we’ve found a soft spot to land for a bit.

#AMWRITING

Gratitude A Year In the Making

September 4, 2016October 26, 2016
by Cry and Nurse On

Dear Last Year Me,

I see you there. You’ve scrambled to get the kids off to school. I know you are doubting your ability to make this transition from homeschooling to public schools. You are doubting your ability to make lunches, sign form and weather this transition. You are worried and stress and tired.

You are worried about your kids making friends and doing well. You daily question your decision to have your oldest repeat grade 2 despite the fact that she has no misgivings.

You are stressed because you question every decision you make, never feeling quite confident in them. You haven’t read much yet about being an Enneagram 2 but you will. It will give a lot of insight into your ever-present “need to be needed”. It’s a gift and a curse. You love to help people, but deep down you struggle with believing your worth outside of this gift. Would everyone still love you if you weren’t there to help and support? Would they be there if it was you who needed help?

I wish I could tell you that in a year you’ll have all that figured out. You won’t, but you’ll be working on it. You’ll be less scared to admit how you are feeling.

You are tired because this is the summer that you had a couple extra kids hanging out once a week. Last week you drove those kids to camp with yours and then one evening you dropped them off at the hospice to have family time with their dad. That last day of camp you brought your daughters in for one last goodbye to their favorite “uncle” Byron. He smiled from the bed barely able to move, clearly in pain, yet making every effort to show he was listening to their crazy excited chatter about camp.

Remember? You pulled them down off chairs and hustled them and their noise out of the too quiet hallways. A quick goodbye even while knowing that time was running out. Under the noise and the face paint, the high-pitched shouts of kids on way too much sugar, death was lurking.

Today your phone will ring. The minute you see the caller id you’ll know what the message is. It’s not a surprise. It’s been a long time coming but it will hit you hard all the same. You’ll cry. Your awesome babysitter will come and you’ll take a day off work. Eventually, you’ll sleep and write. That post is the one that will get you writing again.

If I could whisper in your ear I would tell you that everything will be ok. Most of your worries about school were for nothing. Your kids will process losing Byron with beautiful grace. They will keep his memory alive in your home and every time you see his kids you’ll know that even though his life seemed too short that his enthusiasm and kindness touched everyone he came in contact with and lives on in them.

I would tell you to focus on gratitude. Byron was passionate about gratitude. It was the legacy he wanted to leave. I would remind you to be grateful that you got to not only meet Byron, but raise your kids alongside each other. I would tell you how fast a year goes by and that on the dark darks or the difficult week to know that better days always seem to come.

I would tell you to get ready for a year of deep self disvocery. There is something about brushing up against death that reminds you of your own mortality. It challenges you to consider how you would feel about your life if you found yourself immobilized in a hospice bed a year from now. What memories would people have of you? What would they say at your funeral? What handprints would you leave behind on people’s hearts?

You don’t know this now, but those fears and insecurities your drowning in? They are your fire. Right now you don’t know how to control them but give it a year. You’ll be on the right track. In a year you’ll have learned how to be grateful just as much for the hard things as the easy. So in honor of Byron here are my 10 days of gratitude:

The little kindnesses that remind us we are connected. The small things people do and say that quietly say I see you and I value you.
Friends that I can be open and honest and vulnerable with without judgment.
My Family. My kid who have taught me more than I could have ever dreamed or imagined and my husband who is always willing to figure it out together.
Sisters and a friend who will make the time this year to create a little, sacred place to learn about being imperfect.
Discovering honesty and vulnerability and realizing that when we are vulnerable we invite that in others, resulting in realizing we aren’t as alone as we thought.
A school where the teachers and principals and parents really seem to care. For friends; for mommy and the girls. Both girls made special friends whose amazing parents came along with the package.
A job where I not only get to cuddle babies and do cool medical stuff but really feel like I’m connecting with people. Where I can be there for mom’s (and dads!) who are struggling. Where I can learn more and more about how people function in the world and for awesome co-workers who share not just the lunchroom, but their own personal struggles as well.
I’m grateful that I get to live this life. That for whatever reason the universe or God, has entrusted me with this unique set of genes, set in this familial experience, in this place and time. To have met this man and had these kids. Of course, there are things I sometimes wish were different, but deep down I know that maybe those things are part of what makes me me.
Good coffee, and chocolate and wine. Food and TV shows, movies and good books. Hot bubble baths and massages. All the things that help us cope with a messy world.
Sun on my back, the strength of the mountains, the vastness of the stars, the roaring calm of the oceans. All these things that remind me that life is bigger than just me. That when I feel alone I only need to look at the vastness of nature to remind me that there is something bigger at work.

Written in memory of Byron. This past year has had a hole in it without you here, yet in so many ways your memory lives strong.

*Blogging along with Make Blogging Fun Again with a letter to myself a year ago.

#AMWRITING

The Childhood Memories That Make Us

August 31, 2016October 26, 2016
by Cry and Nurse On

Photo Credit: Jamie Taylor

A first childhood memory is of me playing on the playground. Kindergarten or grade 1. The older girls had taken my tiny fuzzy hard bear. Pink maybe? They were taunting me with it. Eventually, it was returned. I remember a friend walking alongside me. Comforting me.

It was there I learned that the world is cruel, but having good friends around for afterward makes a big difference.

I remember moving. New school, new town. My mom doing what moms do and finding me a friend. I remember being annoyed and embarrassed in the way only an 8-year-old can. She introduced me to her selection, a girl who lived down the street. We became fast friends and walking buddies.

It was their learned that sometimes moms do know best and that they are trying to help.

I remember going to that same girl’s birthday party. My mom sewed me a new skirt and vest. Pink and black checked. The sight of those pictures makes me shudder now! While I was waiting on the porch the wind blew my skirt up and I felt embarrassed even though nobody saw. We ate cake and our teeth hit the solid tinfoil wrapped coins hidden inside the chocolate crumbs. Frantic embarrassment, feeling warm and safe, the joy of friendship and maybe a bit of jealous. My home was starting not to feel that way.

It was there I learned I have strong physical reactions to emotions and that I always remember how I feel.

I remember when that girl moved away. She moved to Japan to be a missionary. My parents were planning the same. Africa maybe. We were pen pals for awhile, our paths crossed again but it was never the same, that first friend and me.

It was there I learned that life is sometimes about saying goodbye.

I made a new friend. We were inseparable. Her parents scared me little. They were so strict but I never felt jealous. We played for hours and were inseparable her and I. It was I who comforted her one sleepover after she was punished behind a closed door. We would draw pictures on each other’s back to guess. It’s now my daughter’s favorite bedtime game.

It was there I learned that all families have their closed doors.

When we moved overseas it was her who gifted me a pocket of love. A tiny pink construction paper pocket stuffed with kleenex. We were older and wiser and it was a tearful goodbye, both clinging to the hope that this wouldn’t be the end. It was. We wrote letters for a while and I slept with that pocket of love for over a year rubbing it thin in the dark shadows of the night.

It was there I learned that life can be sad and lonely.

I spend a friendless year never quite connecting with the other missionary kids around me. My sisters were my constant companions. We explored the parks around our apartment while my parents studied languages and 100 ways to ignore each other.

We moved again and there I found another friend. We dove in deep, living together in a tent for weeks on the Kenya Savanna. We went to school together. Her parents scared me a little too. They were so strict, but it was a welcome relief from the storm brewing in my home.

It was there I learned that friends always come with time.

We moved back to Canada. My parents divorced. I made and lost many friends along the way. Today I parent. I go to sleep at night reading books about parenting and ADHD and spirituality because I want my kids to feel warm and safe when they sit around our dinner table.

I don’t want them to be scared, I don’t want their friends to be scared. Pain is inevitable in this world, I know that, but I hope that my home and my heart is always a protected, loving place for them to land.

It is here that I’ve learned that the things we do and say matter. They make a difference and they are remembered.

*Writing Prompt #5 from Make Blogging Fun Again.

#AMWRITING

Nail-biting, Laundry, Yoga, and Other Habits.

August 29, 2016October 26, 2016
by Cry and Nurse On

Photo Credit: Unplash.com

When I was little had the habit of biting my nails. My mom tried every and nothing worked. I’m not sure when I finally stopped, but now I bite my cheeks instead. Another bad habit I guess. I do it when I’m stressed or distracted. My daughter does it now too. I guess bad habits are as easy to pass along as they are to fall into.

Why are good habits the opposite? So hard to implement and when I do the minute I stop it’s as if it never was a habit. Things that should be habitual like eating breakfast, cooking dinner, flossing every day just aren’t.

Last year for a few months I started a new habit. It was great. I learned it on The Sorta Awesome Show and had a big sign on my kitchen whiteboard. The 3 Ds. Dishes, Dinner, Dirty Laundry. Every morning I woke up, did one load of laundry, emptied the clean dishwasher and defrosted or planned something for dinner. It was magic, pure brilliance. For once, I was caught up with laundry and not caught off guard every evening at 4:30. Dishes went straight into the dishwasher and I could see my sink.

They say positive consequences are motivating but I guess not motivating enough? Christmas happened, and extra shifts and the “did you do your three Ds?” reminder haunts me every day. It’s been 8 months and I have not done it one day since.

Recently I started doing yoga again. I discovered Yoga with Adriene, again another Sorta Awesome find! I connected with her style of teaching and for the first time since being pregnant was doing yoga every day. I signed up for her 30-day challenge and minus a day or two here or there have practiced every day. It’s become a habit. As I’m ending the challenge I wonder “Will the habit stick?” I don’t know. I hope so.

Here’s the thing I have learned about good habits. It makes thing smaller and more easily managed. Doing a little every day keeps me in a place of balance. I feel less like I’m catching up. Catching up on laundry, and exercise, and eating healthy. A tiny bit of yoga every day has subtle but amazing results. I can touch my toes, easily. I was near my knees a month ago. My heels almost touch the floor in downward dog, I think about my breath every day. I’m calmer (most days). A little bit of maintenance goes a long way.

It’s not my nature, though. It takes me approximately 1-2 weeks to read the first chapter of a book (or a year, who’s counting?) Once I’m into it I basically read the rest of the book in one night. I don’t bake for months and then I spend one week filling my freezer when the urge arises. For a long time, I’ve been a slave to my whims. Unable to bite off chunk sized pieces each day. Papers were written the night before, always. Payments were right before the due date, or late. I ignore the mess until it makes me so crazy I clean for hours straight in an anxious rage.

When my daughter got diagnosed with ADHD I read about all her tendencies to be like me. I cried because I didn’t know how to teach her things I didn’t know how to do myself. I learned to love her for her quirky unique self and to have self-compassion for myself. To speak kindly to myself around the things I wished I could change.

Something funny happened when I started accepting the smart and scattered nature of our family. When I learned to love that part of us, even while it drove me crazy and made me feel inadequate. When I stopped futilely fighting it and welcomed it in, it lost it’s power.

I still have trouble implementing new habits and even keeping the old good ones but there is less shame attached to the missed days. When that shame is gone and my grip is loosened a little I can let it go. I can see each new day as another opportunity to get it right and love myself based on my worth, not my ability to keep up good habits.

Good habits are tools, they are tools to help me and heal me, they bring me peace and functionality, but they are not me. I am me, the good habits and the bad. When I hate the bad habits but love myself I have the motivation to change.

The desire to care for myself because I deserve to be healthy and my family deserves to be healthy is far more motivating than the self-recrimination of being a failure. The habit of speaking kindly to myself, with compassion and grace? The one where I walk in courage and show up to be seen in my vulnerability? Those life-giving habits mean more to me that how clean my house is. Ironically, when I feel good inside from loving myself, my physical world tends to follow naturally.

*Prompt #4 in Make Blogging Fun was to write about HABITS.

#AMWRITING

The Waiting Place – A Poem

August 22, 2016October 26, 2016
by Cry and Nurse On

Prompt number 3 for Make Blogging Fun again was to write a poem about an object. I chose instead to write a poem about feeder/grower babies. I spent the weekend with three of them. Three babies in the so close/not quite stage of going home from the NICU.

As Dr. Seuss would say, babies in “the waiting place.” It’s a hard place for parents to be and while I love taking care of these babies as a nurse because they are so healthy and cuddly, it’s hard knowing that everything I’m doing could be done by parents. That we’re just waiting out those last little bits of immaturity so it’s safe for them to be off monitor and in car seats at home.

So this one is for them. Those NICU families that are so close, so eager to transition from hospital to home. I see you!

The final leg.

Feed and Growers.

The babies we feed. The ones we grow.

Long NICU journey, or short.

—

Each road leads to a last leg.

Less tubes, wires. Less hospital, less medical.

Bottle and baby. Suck, swallow, breath.

—

Sleepy babies. Tiny babies. All the “not quite” babies.

Not quite old enough, strong enough, big enough.

Not quite ready for home.

—

Empty cribs, car seats await.

Some empty for months, some weeks, some days.

An empty spot in a house, a family waiting for their baby to go from my care to theirs.

*(Photo credit Gabby Orcutt)

#AMWRITING

Three Things I’m Reading as They Go Back to…

August 17, 2016October 26, 2016
by Cry and Nurse On

Photo Credit: Austen Neill

It’s that time of year, back to school. It can feel like standing at the edge of a cliff. A new leap into the next unknown. As ussual I feel everyone’s pain. My many homeschool friends are posting about how glad they are to keep their kids at home and not needing to deal with the dreaded back to school hassles, there are the moms who are sad to send their kids back and say goodbye and the ones who are ready to party.

I’m all about feeling all the feels so yes, I’m sad to see summer ending. Working evenings and weekends plus full-time school means connecting time is more precious. I’ve loved our summer and feel like we were really able to reconnect as a family.

I also am really looking forward to some quiet mornings. Coffee and writing, letting someone else help bear the burden of raising small people. Did I mention quiet? My kids don’t do quiet and I have a pretty high need for it in my life. So as I ease into this stage off simultaneously grieving and celebrating there are a few things I’m choosing to reread as I send my children off into the big world again.

My third blogging promt for Make Blogging Fun Again is “what are you reading” so I thought I would share with you three things that I think should be required reading as we send our kids to school or even keep them home with us.

First is Brene Brown’s Parenting Manifesto.

This is her guideposts from The Gifts of Imperfection written into a parenting mantra. I cannot read it enough. If you click the above link it takes you to a downloadable pdf. I have a printed copy by my bed and in the kitchen. Whenever I feel like the seas are stormy and my boat is falling apart a little I read this to remind myself of what I value for me and my children. It reminds me of what is important and I feel grounded.

I forget easily and need to read often, but as the anxiety creeps in about having my kids in school, getting them there and what they are learning when they are there, I am reminded that I am still their anchor and they are my moons.

My influence on them isn’t measured by the hours a day we spend together, but what I am teaching them with my life and my choices. For better or worse we are tethered. I need not worry whether my choices affect them, only how.

The one I am focussing on this year is:

“I want you to engage with the world from a place of worthiness. You will learn that you are worthy of love, belonging, and joy every time you see me practice self-compassion and embrace my own imperfections.”

Self-compassion has been a big theme in my life this year and I realized that desperately wanting it for my kids does nothing. They learn by watching me. When I see my negative self-talk reflected in their words it shakes me to the core.

In relation to shame, Brene often speaks about parents only being able to lead their children as far as they have gone. It’s easier to want better for kids than myself but that’s not how it works. They learn by watching. I may teach them to eat breakfast every morning but my not eating speaks louder than my words of how important it is.

Second is Glennon Melton Doyle’s Dear Chase Letter

This letter has become our official back to school reading material for mom and kids. Glennon wrote this letter to her son Chase and when I get really caught up in all the things my kids “aren’t” it brings me back to what I truly want for them.

Yes, all parents want to see their children succeed. We want them to excel at school in academics and sports. We want them to wear cute clothes and have great friends. We want the teacher to praise them and see all their good parts. These aren’t bad things, but they aren’t the most important. Grades, athletic prowess, and popularity are all fickle friends.

This letter reminds me that deep down when I’m done comparing my kid’s accomplishments to those of their friends and classmates that for us, in our family, being brave and kind are the life lessons that come first.

“Chase – We do not care if you are the smartest or fastest or coolest or funniest. There will be lots of contests at school, and we don’t care if you win a single one of them. We don’t care if you get straight As. We don’t care if the girls think you’re cute or whether you’re picked first or last for kickball at recess. We don’t care if you are your teacher’s favorite or not. We don’t care if you have the best clothes or most Pokemon cards or coolest gadgets. We just don’t care.

We don’t send you to school to become the best at anything at all. We already love you as much as we possibly could. You do not have to earn our love or pride and you can’t lose it. That’s done.

We send you to school to practice being brave and kind.”

Reading this letter reminds me that this is how I want to feel. This is what I want my kids to know and believe, that I already love them beyond belief. I will celebrate all their accomplishments with them, but in the end, I will be most proud when they make choices that are brave and kind. The ones that value themselves and others.

Third is the post that gets me through most days.

Don’t Carpe Diem is the very first post I ever read by Glennon. I’ve written about it many times because it completely changed my perspective. I was so caught up in trying to enjoy every minute I was missing the really good ones.

I was drowning in the overwhelm and in denial about how hard parenting was. I truly believed if it was this hard I must be doing something wrong. Because I believed this message, I heard it in every well-meaning word of parenting advice or support.

“Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is it that the second a mother admits that it’s hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she’s not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn’t add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it’s so hard means she IS doing it right…in her own way…and she happens to be honest.”

Owning my parenting journey for all it is good and bad, and loving myself through it has grown me as a person. Learning to share the struggles has brought them into the light and made me realize that struggle is universal.

It’s normal to wonder if you are doing it right. When we are honest, our doubts and disappointments may be about different things and we will value different successes without kids, but we all struggle or Bad Moms wouldn’t be a box office hit.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA — <span style="font-size: 8pt;">Photo Credit: <a href="https://unsplash.com/@curtismacnewton">Curtis Mac Newton</a></span>

So for these last few weeks of summer, we’re practising a little self-compassion around here. We’re learning to love ourselves and speak kindly to and about ourselves in preparation for the big day.

We’re remembering what matters and that cute clothes and knowing the answers don’t hold up in the long run over kindness and being brave, and mostly we are just enjoying the moments of Kairos (Spirit) time amidst the harder parts of each day.

Snacks and shoes will be bought, lunches and backpacks packed. Everything will seem new and shiny and older like time is speeding up again. Yellow busses with come and go. The greenness and colours of summer will slowly die into the orange, red and yellow fiery hues of fall.

Lazy days by the pool, lemonade stands, and iced beverages in the backyard will give way to home reading, making lunches, and daily agendas. I’m overwhelmed just thinking about it but I will read and reread these truths until they sink into my soul and become more than words on a page. Until they become the very breath we breathe and the things we value.

Everything Else

If Costco can do Christmas in August so Can…

August 12, 2016August 12, 2016
by Cry and Nurse On

My first Make Blogging Fun Again writing prompt was to write a Christmas letter. I am so not that kind of mom so welcome to the first Christmas letter I’ve ever written.

Dear Friends,

I’m writing you this Christmas letter to share with you the things in my life that haven’t really changed this year.

Chrismas you say? Yes, Christmas. The first thing that hasn’t changed is my perpetual disorganization. If I write it now I won’t have to stress this holiday over my annual lack of a season’s greeting. While I may think of writing a Christmas letter, or sending a Christmas card, I’ve only ever succeeded once.

It was the year I combined our youngest child’s birth announcement with a holiday greeting. It was just too good of an opportunity to pass up and I felt so proud to have finally succeeded at sending one. I did recently find a stack of said birth announcement in a drawer that were never mailed so I’m not sure how many people were able to appreciate my ingenuity.

So here’s what else hasn’t changed; I’m stilling changing diapers. I had high hopes for this third child of mine but he very much has a mind of his own. He “no like potty” and on the odd occasion that he does like potty it resembles the scene in my kitchen last night.

Little man asks to use the potty. I glance at the clock 11pm. Seriously? Now? I settle him in and leave him to his business. When the time is right he proceeds to jump up and dance around. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination but perhaps you might understand why as much as I claim to be done with diapers, they still maintain more mommy dignity than picking up poop off the floor.

My love of coffee also remains the same. (perhaps because I’m up at midnight cleaning poop off the floor???) I have once or twice this year erroneously decided that I should quit coffee, that being addicted to something was bad, ergo I needed to prove I could stop. I suffered through the headache withdrawal, made it to the other side, and realized I just like coffee, even when my body doesn’t necessarily “need” it.

As a nurse and a mom, I fall into the two people groups that dominate coffee meme’s so coffee is here to stay. I buy ethical and fair trade so really it’s not even about me drinking coffee as much as supporting the world economy. Right?

Chocolate would probably fall into this category as well. I’m doing my due duty and consuming excellent, ethical coffee and chocolate. The benefits are two-fold. I’m making the world a better place by supporting growers and simply being a happier person. (also family take note…chocolate and coffee are always excellent Christmas gift ideas.)

I’m still a nurse. Therefore I will likely be working this Christmas. One more reason I don’t send a Christmas letter. Through the years I’ve created a little fantasy for myself that I don’t really like Christmas so I may as well work. Then, when I don’t have a choice, I still feel like it was my choice. See what I did there?

Last Christmas I managed to snag all the major STAT pay days and make a good chunk of money so I could feel even better about working Christmas. It’s mostly an illusion. It can feel pretty lonely to work a major holiday. While it’s a special part of nursing to care for those who are also stuck in the hospital for Christmas, when I’m honest it’s all a bit of a mind game.

I’m also still addicted to Instagram. I’ve always loved it but recently took it to a whole new level. It’s my gratitude journal and photograph journey of my family and my life. It’s another thing I’ve decided to stop feeling guilty about. Snapping photos helps me stop and really notice my kids and find the good parts of my day.

I try to keep it honest and not just post the shiny moments, but talk about the hard too. I’m also trying to take more selfies with my kids. Self-love isn’t necessarily my greatest talent, but little by little I’m learning. Who doesn’t like a bunch of hearts and likes when they post a picture of themselves?

Lastly, I can also still say I cry a lot. In fact, I cry so much that I decided to embrace it and name my blog after it. I’m the nurse who cries. I cry over commercials and articles, when I’m happy and when I’m sad. I still have niggling shame over crying easily from many off handed comments as a kid, but this is the year of fully embracing my highly sensitive, empathic nature, and rolling with it.

There is one thing that has changed this year and that is how much I write. The word I chose for this year was courage. Not just courage to write, but to be honest and to put my work out there. After a many year hiatus from intentionally blogging I have been blogging fairly regularly as well as publishing elsewhere.

I’ve been writing facebook statuses and Instagram blurbs, I journal and jot. I do writing prompts. I write in my head in the shower and as my head hits the pillow at night. I let the words flow and when they don’t I push until they do.

I take mental notes when reading writers and bloggers I love. I write about motherhood and nursing and the things that make me cry. I don’t know why or where it will go, all I know is that I feel better when I do it. It’s helped me connect with different people on different levels and I’ve made new friends and strengthened old.

In the words of Brene Brown, I am owning my story. When I write about the imperfections and am vulnerable, it feels like I’m writing my story through living it and recording it. To me, writing is how I own my story.

Thanks for catching up. I’d love to hear about your year. Drop me a comment here or on Facebook. What would your Christmas letter say this year? If Costco can sell Christmas is August so can we. Merry Christmas while we wait for peppermint lattes to come back.

Much Love,
Jenn

Everything Else

On Raising a Wild One

August 11, 2016August 11, 2016
by Cry and Nurse On

I didn’t know you were a wild one. I spend my labour with you in denial. I laughed when the midwife began preparing for delivery because I didn’t believe you were coming. The contractions were gentle, yet you came.

I don’t know when I realized you were a wild one. In one of my favourite videos you probably aren’t quite two. The video is of your sister but at the end, you are coming up behind her a gleeful look in our eyes, hand raised with wooden cookie ready to crash down on your sister’s head. This is where the video ends, probably because I leapt up to save your unsuspecting sister.

I know it’s hard being the middle child but you have mastered the art. You aren’t easily ignored and you know how to gang up with either sibling. You are small but fierce, definitely a mighty girl. Your determination is unstoppable and though you are selective with your love and loyalty, when a friend has earned it, they get all of it. You are dedicated and kind.

One day you came home sad on the bus. When I asked you why you said that the teacher had gotten you in trouble. You adored your kindergarten teacher and I could tell you felt deeply misunderstood. I asked why you got in trouble and you admitted to yelling at some of the kids in your class.

I’m glad I listened instead of scolding because you proceeded to tell me that the reason you yelled at them is because they were touching the fidgets of the girl in your class with some special needs, and sitting in her spot. You were protecting her. As your teacher said you have a strong sense of justice. You loath your intentions being misunderstood.

We may butt heads a lot and you might get a few more exasperated sighs than your siblings but as your grandma said when I was complaining to her about you….you’re a lot like me! You’re determined and don’t take no for an answer very often. You love learning and the pursuit of figuring things out even if it gets you into trouble.

This summer you planted some seeds you got at a birthday party. You checked them every day and celebrated every small progress. As they grew and twisted around our banister your were enthralled. One morning you came to me so excited you could barely speak, dragging me out to see the first bloom.

The flower reminds me of you. You don’t grow straight, you aren’t the flowers of childhood drawings generic in their depiction. You are curvy twisty vines slowly sprouting up and curling around the hearts of those who love you strongly creeping up higher and higher towards the sun and then you bloom. You bloom with abandon more than predictability, but with spontaneity and determination.

Just like when you were concerned that the hail had destroyed your flowers bloom, I worry about the world knocking off your flowers. But, like your plant, when the hail knocks off one bloom today, you bloom twice as much the next day, hail be damned.

Happy Birthday my love. I can’t wait to see where your life journey takes you and I pity any fool who stands in your way! I hope and pray you never give up on your sense of justice, that you find ways of using it to protect those who aren’t as strong as you, or as privileged. I hope you keep fighting for those who can’t always fight for themselves but stay kind. The world needs both and it needs you.