The House Always Wins

My husband and I were blessed to have a wonderful  weekend away last week.  No children, just the two of us.  This was a welcomed break for both of us.  We hadn't been away alone together since long before I was pregnant with Sophia and it being the middle of February going to the beach seemed sort of a dissapointing option (this is typically where we vacation because we live in south Texas and it's near enough by to not spend too much of our valuable time on traveling) so we opted for Lake Charles, Louisiana as the drive wasn't too terribly long and we only had a Friday night, saturday and a few hours sunday morning to be away.  We decided on the Golden Nugget resort and Casino.  This was VERY exciting for me, I had never gambled or done anything that resembled it, I was eager to try my luck and was daydreaming of hitting big and coming home a winner.  I knew this scenario was unlikely, I was well aware of the saying "the house always wins", but I believed there was no harm in holding out hope, of dreaming, it all made the excitement of the trip that much greater, after all, the Longshot it certainly was, people do actually  win sometimes!

The resort was amazing. Clean, beautiful, bustling with excitement and boutiques and wonderful places to eat.  Our room was perfection.  I was sitting on the balcony of our 18th story suite staring down at the pool and fire pits and lazy river thinking to myself how lucky I was to be there.  Russell had left straight from work so when we arrived at our room he needed to shower and get dressed. I was so excited  to get downstairs I could hardly contain myself!

The casino was busy as I looked around the room taking inventory of all of the faces, i saw young and old alike and all of us were there with the same resolve, beat the house, go home winners.  We played the machines for a long time, we went up, we went down but this was not satisfying my urge to gamble, it was a dollar here two dollars there. I was itching to get to the tables for some real gambling and after much nagging Russell finally agreed.  I was really intimidated when we walked up to the roulette table, there were people crowded so densely around it i could hardly see it.  When we finally edged our way in i saw that the minimum bet was $25.00 this was a far cry from the .25 we had played on the machines and I began to understand my husbands hesitancy to play table games, a loss here would really put a hurting on our gambling funds.  But I had to do it once, had to try.  So i flicked my $25.00 chip on the table and held my breath.  A hit! A win!! My $25.00 became $50.00 instantly, what a rush!!! I snatched up my chips, beamed victoriously at my cautious husband and walked away.  I did it, i beat the house, I was up and it felt splendid.  We went off to bed shortly thereafter, and as I drifted off to sleep, all I could think about was doubling that money the next chance I got. I didn't know it then but the house was already winning, they already had me beat.

I did visit the tables the next day, I won $275.00 there but ended up losing $100.00 of it before my good sense kicked in and I walked away for good.

On the long drive home I got to thinking about how "the house always wins", started relating that phrase to my everyday life.  I really want to take the kids to the playground, but the house needs to be cleaned. The house wins.  I really want to write a blog, but the children need attention and dinner needs to be made. The house wins.  I would love a snappy new outfit, but the children's shoes are looking pretty worn.  The house wins again. The house always wins.  This is a fact and as a mother and a wife more often than not the odds are always stacked against me and I wake up every morning knowing I'm already defeated.

Then I began thinking, what if instead of focusing all of my energy on losing my "I want to" chips and consequently not placing a bet, what if I could hold on some hope of beating the house? What if I could feel as excited about starting my day as I did when I walked into that casino.  There is really little difference right?  I was excited about a Longshot win in a place structured to offer me the opposite, yet I held onto hope of winning instead of fear of losing.  And the beautiful thing about "I want to" chips is that they are in endless supply, in fact they multiply all by themselves!  So if I throw them all in everyday and everyday the children, the husband, the grocery store, the sick cat, the backed up laundry ...the "house" takes it all, well I've really not lost at all, I get another day to gamble on all of it.  God is so good.

So my resolve is to go "all in" everyday and wake up filled with hope and excitement about beating the house and turning some of my "I want to" chips into "goal accomplished" chips that I can stick away in the bank of "I am woman" and walk away a big, fat, happy winner. And if I lose, well there's more dishes in the sink, or one less entry in my blog but like I said before

"it all makes the excitement of the trip that much greater, after all, the Longshot it certainly was, people do actually  win sometimes!"

The naval ring

When I was 19 I got my naval pierced.  Oh what a day it was.  It was a Saturday morning I had just been paid and had already gone to the tanning salon and soaked up some uv Rays.  I had resolved to do it years before but this was something heavily frowned upon by my family and I didn't want to shake things up too much while I still lived with my parents, but I had moved out and this pier I was a statement of independ, and it's about as daring as I have ever been.  I walked into that tattoo parlor, ID in hand, selected a stainless steel hoop and walked out 15 minutes later my flat abdomen newly adorned.  I was elated!  I spent the next several months cleaning it and protecting it, unsnagging it from my jeans every time I sat down or stood up.  It was high maintenance and it seemed like it took forever to finally heal and feel comfortable.  I loved my preircing.  Every summer I would buy a new piece of naval jewelry to match my bikini.  Never for a second regretted having it done.  I never took the naval ring out without putting another in right away because I was afraid of it closing up, then not only would I not have my piercing anymore, all of the pain and work involved with healing it would have been for nothing.

My midriff and I carried on this way for 6 glorious years without a hitch, until my belly was stretched to capacity with baby Chloe in tow and my entire belly button was about to pop.  So out came the ring.   As quickly as I could I returned the ring to my now flabbier mom tummy, and was delighted to find that it slid right back in, I was 26 now and a mommy but I still hanging on to my 19 year old adventure in piercing.  Having that trophy of independence was still important to me, mommy hood had not robbed me of my youth, I was just the way I was before...only...I wasnt.  

My tummy wasn't the same after pregnancy and the pretty jewelry hung sadly down over my cesearan scar.  It was rubbed raw from where Chloe would lay against it while I fed her and when she was sturdy enough to stand and climb up my torso while I burped her it got snagged and pushed and pulled.  It was always getting hung up on my jeans as I was always tucking my new mommy pooch in or yanking it painfully when I was pulling my pants up over my new wider bottom.  But this didn't stop me, nope. I wasn't ready to let it go, I wouldn't be defeated.   I worked out and dieted and did millions Of crunches and by my 27th birthday my midriff  was almost restored to its former glory, just in time for summer, and bikinis.  My midriff and I enjoyed that summer, I couldn't sunbathe anymore because I had a baby with me at the pool, but I was a bikini mom...with an awesome pierced naval.  Well then came the news of my second pregnancy and things went the same as the had after Chloe, out came the jewelry during maternity and in it went after delivery. Now I was a bikini mom with two babies, no tan, and a naval ring, I was still hip, still just as cool and independent as my 19 yr old self.  Then...pregnancy #3. Sigh. Out it came and back in it went.  I wore a bikini with a skirted bottom on a family vacation to the beach equipped with a spray tan and my newest naval ring.  Bella wasn't even walking yet and I spent our beach time slathering all of my babies in sunscreen and keeping my crawling infant from eating sand, not as cool as my 19 year old self. Not as hip.  When we looked at our photos of the trip, I looked like a mommy. Not like a cool teenager, I was 30 now and after seeing my body now lumpier despite weighing what I always had I resolved that I no longer needed to be a bikini mom, just a mom, maybe with a posh one piece and a wide rimed sun hat and groovy sarong. But still, I didn't want to scrap the naval ring. I wore it concealed by my clothes no matter how impractical because of what it represented to me.  THEN pregnancy #4. Done, ok life you win.  Out came the jewelry into the jewelry box.  Sophia came and life was busy enough with out wrestling with that darn naval ring.

I would look at it in my jewelry box while I reached for sensible stud earrings that my baby wouldn't violent yank from my earlobes and I'd give it a silent nod of acknowledgment.  . Seeing it there in my jewelry box was memory enough for now, maybe someday I'd peirce it again. It had certainly closed by now.

The other day I pulled that jewelry out.  I apprehensively slipped it into the dent that for nearly two years hadn't held anything and it slowly but surely slipped into place.  I looked in the mirror and smiled remembering all of those years with my naval ring, then I slipped it out and threw it away. At nearly 35 years old I'm finally ready to close the book on 19 year old me and embrace the lovely middle aged wife and mother I have become.  Now my cesarean scars and oven burns from thanksgiving dinner are my new adornments, and the memories they carry are far more valuable. 

Crayons and Compassion

Gage is my little artist.  All of my children like to draw and color, but little Gage tries very hard to stay in the lines and he adds sweet little details and he is so proud of his work and it's solid work for a kindergartener.  A couple of weeks ago he submitted an entry into a coloring contest at school where the first prize was a ticket to the rodeo and a meet and greet with the rodeo clown.   They were selecting a first second and third place winner in each grade. I saw this as a perfect opportunity for Gage to show his skills and in such a small school I was certain he would get some kind of acknowledgement.  Every day he waited on the results, he watched videos of cowboys bucking out and rodeo clowns doing their thing. It was so amazing seeing him excited,  the thought had occurred to me that he may not win, but the way I figured it, it was still a good learning experience no matter the outcome and I would just cross that bridge when we got to it, i couldn't deprive him of this opportunity because I was afraid he may fail, right?

Yesterday he climbed into the car after school with a broken heart.  He had not won, not even a ribbon.   My sweet little Goo was heart broken.  In his eyes he had failed,  he wasn't good enough and in addition to all the personal heartbreak he wouldn't be meeting a rodeo clown or getting a free ticket.   He was legitimately devastated.   He was sobbing and nothing I could say could fix it.  I told him all the normal stuff, that there were alot of entries and that they could only select three winners,  that I'm sure other children were feeling exactly the way he was.  He shoved his binder over the consol to me and in it was his sweet picture.  Just the picture,  no sticker or smiley face, no acknowledgement at all. I was hurting so badly for him I wanted to cry also. Why did I do this to him, I was asking myself, did I set him up for this dissapointment?  Did I make Gage a sitting duck for life to just violently take out in an harsh instant?  All of a sudden my reasoning about a valuable life lesson " you win some you lose some" went right out of the window,  he's too fragile for those lessons, too young, too precious.  

We have all felt the way Gage was feeling.  After being dumped or rejected.  Not getting the job we applied for  or even the car loan we want. Not feeling good enough.  Failure feels dreadful and I have brought it upon my baby.  We all know time heals all wounds, but does it? Or do we get distracted and move on open wound and all.  As a parent it is our job to clean out those wounds, to medicate them and bandage them up to protect them from further trauma.  I think it's fair to assume all mothers share that sentiment.  It's frightening and frustrating when something threatens our ideals for the well adjusted adults we are trying to render, even more so when you feel the damage is going to permanently effect their character or self esteem.  When your afraid a little part of them will always hang on to a fear of not being good enough, a fear they didn't have before this kind of blow. Sure, i could resort to calling the judges bonkers or saying it must have been a mistake but what message is that sending, that certainly won't be equate to that "well adjusted" ideal. Chloe, my second grader was holding gages hand in the backseat and telling Gage his picture was so good she just couldn't understand it, and then I saw it, a little break in the tears a little comfort from a sister he admires, who is generally more eager to dish out insults than compliments.  Did he get over, no, but he got closer.  Me telling him his picture was great didn't phase him because he knows I'm going to say that.  My accountability is shot, because when it came down to it what I said was great, simply didn't make the cut and thats a fact, one that cant be undone.  But Chloes compassion bolstered my spirits.  After all I'm her mother too, and this independent, unparentally solicited act of compassion was a sure sign that Chloe too has tasted failure and it has made her kinder.  She has benefited from similar compassion and she has added it to her arsenal of life skills. Lo and behold it made her more well adjusted. Ahhhh a small triumph arising from tragedy.  A win in a loss. 

When we got home, the fitting had subsided but all the hurt was still lingering.  My words couldn't make things better, but I knew what would.  I taped Gages masterpiece on a prominent wall in the living room.  I audibly thanked God that Gage hadn't won because then his art would be at the rodeo instead of my living room.  Then while he did his normal after school stuff, i fashioned a first place ribbon from scrap fabric and glued a crayon in the shape of a 1 on front.  I awarded Gage a first place prize for his rodeo art in our home because in this house it was the grand prize winner and that's what really counts.  I'm happy to report that ribbon meant alot to him he proudly wore it all night and had me place it on his shirt before school today so he could show off his prize.

Is he over the rejection,  I doubt it.  Will he be apprehensive about entering another contest. Willing to bet on it.  Has he built some character and gotten a real life lesson in compassion for his peers? Absolutely.  So it's going to be ok.

We need to remember compassion and it's importance to the healing of others.  Showing a little compassion speaks volumes about the well adjusted adults we have, ourselves,  become. 

A picture Gages teacher emailed today of the class at their 100th day of school party. He's wearing his ribbon.

Instagram...and all it entails

TWho is it that encourages people to withhold their likes for "worthy" posts on instagram ? Social media is a confidence killer, every post we make is a gamble... and all of us contribute negatively  to it rather we mean to or not.  If someone with limited connections posts something and no one likes it, no one comments, what psychological impact would you imagine that has.  I see it daily on some of the celebrity sites I follow, people love to "hate" it's like hiding behind a computer screen suddenly makes select people feel powerful or superior, it's like "catfish" on MTV only skewed, otherwise good people spreading their "nasty" wings (so to speak) and getting high on a assumption of "social presence". social media is   bullying at its finest and a breeding ground for insecurity.   If you see and don't like, does that mean you dislike?! Perhaps people should be forced to choose an option...like feedback on ebay.  The customer or  reader in this application must choose an option.  The options are negative, positive or neutral.  Would people who generally pass a photo up with out "double tapping" choose neutral or check negative? or would the majority of people click positive just to be kind? I'm willing to bet that the pressure to formulate an actual opinion, and express it publicly on someones 15th "selfie" in a month would be enough to shut instagram down.  I wonder, is it really about our followers, or about ourselves. I propose a social experiment of epic proportions...Instead of a little heart with a little number of likes, a bar graph would be displayed with the stats of your followers that liked,  disliked,  or felt neutral, and at the same time, your stats would be displayed  (how pistive/negative /neutral you typically are then an only the  would we truly be accountable for our social media persona, after all we choose whom we follow and who we allow to follow us.

Likes and dislikes and neutral oh my! Whatever would we do?

A long time coming...

Well  much for carving out a little time to write!  In my last post my baby, Bunny, had just turned one and in September we celebrated her fourth birthday.   In the years that have passed since my last post I was blessed with a new baby.  Sophia (Sophie trophy) was born in April of 2013 and we will be celebrating the second year of her precious life this April.  We have moved, started a new business and grown so much as a family  I have never felt more secure in my husbands and I's relationship.  And there you have the sugar coated condensed version of our going ons.
Truth be told it's been a rough ride.  The news of Sophia's coming wasn't ideal, we were still getting a handle on three children, none of which had begun school yet, in fact, I was all set to start homeschooling Princess Coconut just a few months from the time I learned of Sophia's soul.  My pregnancy was a rough one, to put it lightly.  Wretched morning sickness that lasted all day and night and everyday of the nine months I carried her,  constipation so gripping it would have stopped anyone in their tracks and anemia that made me feel like I was perpetually on sleeping pills.   In addition all three children were home full time, we moved,  I was homeschooling a kinder gardener  and my Husband was relying heavily on me to hold up the accounting end of our new concrete contracting business.  I really held out little hope that our marriage would survive and had my bags packed on several occasions, ready to throw in the towel. It was all too much.  I don't know if it's true of all marriages but it's certainly been the case in ours, that pregnancy is tough stuff.  Russell and I were less than great with the three pregnancies prior, but this one was the perfect storm.  Things were so bad I was even having a hard time remembering ever feeling happy together, it was like a big black cloud that encapsulated us entirely.  I couldn't see through it, or behind it.   He was so caught up in work and providing for us that he had completely blinded himself to my misery,  and I in turn,  was so caught up in my misery, fears, and child raising (and child growing! ), that I was blind to the stress an burdens he himself was carrying.   As I'm typing this, i think I'm finally reconciling it, thank the good Lord I wasn't posting during my angst because this surely would have sounded different!

Our problems during my pregnancy with my precious Sophia began from the start.  The day that store bought pregnancy test turned positive we were faced with fears we never thought we would ever have to look in the face.  After bunny was born I encountered severe complication.  All of my babies have been cesarean births, and she was my third surgery.  unbeknownst To my doctors (still perplexing to me)  i had developed what is call a "placental accreta", the ends and outs of this remain somewhat mysterious but the basics of it are that my placenta had attached to the weakened scar of my uterus had actually grown all the way through my uterus and attached to my bladder so when they went in for Annabella my uterus was so thin they could see her hair before they even opened me up.  Bella was healthy and happy and until I was convulsions in the recovery room with my blood pressure rapidly dropping, still paralyzed from the waist down from my spinal block I had no idea what kind of trouble I was in. The nurses were thrusting on my abdomen saying it was probably a blood clot,  then the Dr came in, she looked as if she had seen a ghost.  "We have some internal bleeding,  and this could get very serious very quickly"  she went on to explain that she had tried her best to stich me back together but my uterus was falling apart it had been so weakened,  if the bleeding didn't stop it was back to surgery for a hysterectomy which would be very serious as I still had a pregnant woman's blood flow and performing the surgery would offer a very scary risk of bleeding out. So MRIs, and ultrasound s, and CT scan s commenced,  followed by blood transfusions, miraculously I clotted and the bleeding stopped.   When the Dr walked in the following morning with tears and a sincere embrace , she exclaimed "you did it! Your alive! "  but she continued,  "no more babies, your uterus won't hold up to it, we contended that russell would have a vasectomy and all would be right as rain.   Well slowly but surely I recovered and life returned to the beautiful chaos it had always been, plus one sweet bella.  Russell and I revisited that terrible scare only rarely,  like on bunnies birthday, but either of us ever forgot I was not to conceive again we took every precaution possible without a procedure But just a few weeks before Bellas second birthday on August 14, 2012 I took a test and the blue plus sign lit up like a candle before I could even cap the test stick and lay it down. This was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen, this first indicator of precious new life. Instantly my mind and heart flooded with gripping fear.  What was I to do?!  My three children, would I survive this? Could I? The anxiety was so overwhelming I had to surrender to faith and after much praying and soul searching and weighing the morality of the option I had other than to proceed with faith, i decided,  no matter the prognosis,  no matter risks I would carry this baby, if anything were to happen to this little soul, it would be by the hand of God alone.  This decision was a personal one and instantly strained my relationship with Russell.  "Your other children need you too", where would it leave him if he had 4 children and no mother for them, or what if the pregnancy was doomed and the baby and I both perished.  Really really tough stuff.  When we met with the ob, armed with fear and research and questions she supported my stand on the pregnancy and said that until 18 weeks we couldn't have any idea where the placenta may attach and termination at that point for both I and my husband was completely out of the question nearly halfway to delivery.   I wish I could say we got a great report after that first sonogram but we didn't.   The placenta had attached to the front of my uterus,  but at that time was still up higher than the weakened tissue from this point forward we would not know any more about  how it would grow, apparently these things progress and until they open you up, they don't even know what to expect.  So the fear of bleeding out on the table or my uterus rupturing were not the least bit alleviated and so it would remain until they wheeled me in, full term with a healthy baby to operate.  

That morning as my step daughter arrived to watch the other children while we headed off to welcome Sophia. Russell and I couldn't hardly even speak. Neither one of us wanting to expel the horrific fears lingering on our hearts.  I kissed and hugged my babies praying that it wouldn't be the last time I ever saw them. So very scared.  I can pinpoint the moment when I remembered Russell was my great love for the first time in nearly a year.  It was a moment that was all ours when our eyes magically zapped all of unspeakable emotions to each other.  Moments before they took me away from him to prepare me for surgery and administer anesthesia.  He flooded with tears and told me how much he loved me and said it was going to be fine trying to convince the both of us, i wouldn't see him again until I was opened on the operating table and it was do or die. And i wanted him with me, I suddenly saw so clearly that he was my kindred soul and that he too was in excruciating pain. That for the first time since that plus sign lit up, that he was right there with me. God is so good, I was so overcome with love during the surgery I wasn't afraid,  i was blessed to share this moment with him that magical moment sophia would come into this world,  a moment we shared 3 times before and changed ever thing every time, I think we both resolved to embrace that moment above fear. And we did.  Little Sophia was perfect.   She was instantly worth every excruciating moment,  she was one of us.  By the greatness of God the placenta had attached just above the weak spot and had not grown into it. There were no alarms, no transfusions and I was introducing to my older babies that very evening,  lighter one infant and a million pounds of fear.

That was a new beginning for Russell and i.  Not that we didn't still argue sometimes even to the point of wanting to once again throw in the proverbial Towel,  but we had been to the dark side, we had immerged triumphant we had hope.