tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-150534562011-04-21T17:51:58.820-07:00Ramblings of a Mere Mortal MamaLeigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.comBlogger601100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1147217075519715832006-05-09T16:16:00.000-07:002008-12-09T12:39:20.739-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;">I've moved (a few years ago...)!*</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Catch me at <a href="http://leighsteele.wordpress.com/">http://leighsteele.wordpress.com</a>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Peace out.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wPGxLSnNfTg/R6qSVZZpvII/AAAAAAAAAIw/P159OdEJhXg/s1600-h/533503238_a16073655d.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wPGxLSnNfTg/R6qSVZZpvII/AAAAAAAAAIw/P159OdEJhXg/s320/533503238_a16073655d.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164100819027082370" border="0" /></a>*but I can't figure out how to not have this blog show up as a default when I make comments on another Blogger account. Sigh.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114721707551971583?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1147152952460213162006-05-08T22:35:00.000-07:002006-05-09T12:42:22.926-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/britney%20birthing.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/britney%20birthing.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I guess I’m behind the 8-ball.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it’s because I don’t watch the news, or read the newspaper, or even enjoy television much.<span style=""> </span>At the end of March, artist Daniel Edwards created a sculpture of Britney Spears birthing.<span style=""> </span>Naked. On all fours. Vaginally. Naturally.<span style=""> </span>Many of you may be responding similarly to how I did: “Cool, birth art”.<span style=""> </span>But I think we would be in the minority.<span style=""> </span>We would be considered the pond scum of the art world. <span style=""> </span>Now, the fact that he chose Britney as his subject, or that she indeed birthed her son via C-section isn’t what I’m interested in right now.<span style=""> </span>It’s the fact that apparently, this sculpture has created quite a controversy.<span style=""> </span>People are up in arms of the fact that someone would even dare sculpt an image of a naked birthing woman in a hands and knees position.<span style=""> </span>Not only do they find it offensive, but are utterly appalled at this raw, natural depiction. They are pissed off.<span style=""> </span>Disgusted.<span style=""> </span>Appalled.<span style=""> </span>Infuriated.<span style=""> </span>Just read between the lines of the actual description from the ABCnews.com article:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> “The life-size pop princess is naked and pregnant, crouching face-down on a bare-toothed bear rug as the baby's head appears on the opposite end.”<span style=""><br /><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As if it’s being naked while giving birth is unheard of.<span style=""> </span>As if a woman birthing on all fours is ridiculous (okay, the bear skin rug is just funny).<span style=""> </span>And they couldn’t even write that the baby’s head is emerging from her vagina.<span style=""> </span>Yes, I typed vagina.<span style=""> </span>Vagina, vagina, vagina.<span style=""> </span>People, get over it.<span style=""> </span>Like the word or not, it is where babies emerge from, after all.<span style=""> </span>They’ve emerged from vaginas since the beginning of humankind.<span style=""> </span>This, unlike the Brit statue, is not breaking news..</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps I could agree that the image of Britney wasn’t the best choice to convey this idea, but then again why not?<span style=""> </span>We unfortunately look to celebrities to tell us what fashion to don, teach us how to be “happy”, and give us examples of how to measure our body image and self worth.<span style=""> </span>Maybe Brit, in all her pregnant glory, was the perfect choice.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <>I made the mistake of reviewing some comments on forums about the sculpture.<span style=""> </span>Afterwards, on my commute to my cubicle, I gripped the steering wheel in dejection and frustration as the comments ran through my head.<span style=""> </span>I was so tense I thought my brain would explode into a billion pieces (now that’s a sculpture in the making).<span style=""> </span>It seriously ruined my day. <span style=""> </span>The comments ranged from mildly understandable to utterly ignorant.<span style=""> </span>People used words such as disgusting, vile, degrading, and filthy.<span style=""> </span>These words were describing birth… her birthing position, her vagina, the image of the baby’s head.<br /><br />I wondered if these individuals would rather have viewed a sculpture of a woman cut and bleeding after an episiotomy.<span style=""> </span>Or perhaps they’d rather have laid eyes upon Britney with an IV shoved in her helpless arms as she laid vulnerable upon her back, with her legs forced into stirrups.<span style=""> </span>Would they have noticed the defeat on the face of Britney, exhausted and starved from hours of pushing without food and without the ability to even feel her contractions?<span style=""> </span>No, I think it would have been easier to gaze at this new Mother, abdomen and fragile uterus exposed, as she struggled to stroke her newborn’s cheek for the first time with her arms strapped to a metal table. Please, anything but a naked woman birthing vaginally on all fours with her child emerging perfectly from her uncut, intact, miraculously stretching vagina.<span style=""> </span>(I know, I know, here come the “but women tear all the time” comments).<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I guess I don’t know what I had expected.<span style=""> </span>Our culture provides us with very little impressions of natural birth.<span style=""> </span>Those we are exposed to are often “blurred” in all the “right” places.<span style=""> </span>They certainly aren’t edited in a manner that would demonstrate the perfect power and ability of a birthing body, of an empowered woman.<span style=""> </span>As children, we are seemingly forced to construct our own ideas and visualization of the exact details and dynamics of how and where babies emerge from their mother’s bodies. <span style=""> </span>Why is it easier for our children to access images of porn, violence, war and crime than images of an incredibly intricate process that a majority of women will experience in their lifetime? This doesn’t seem like responsible journalism or education<span style=""> </span>Because we aren’t given the opportunity, through news and magazines and television, to witness births many do believe that it’s gross, disgusting, or dirty.<span style=""> </span>This must change.<span style=""> </span>Our daughters must not endure the fear that the medical industry and culture have instilled in the minds of recent generations of women.<span style=""> </span>Our sons cannot turn their heads at the beauty of their loved ones’ bodies that they, nine months prior, obviously indulged in without hesitation. Mothers should no longer be expected to silently weep in shame (or act grateful) as their bellies are sliced, their vaginas cut, their veins punctured, and their emotions numbed in the name of medicine, safety, and modesty.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Some say that birth is intimate, private and personal and it shouldn’t be “shoved in our face”.<span style=""> </span>But since when has the medical institution respected the birth process as intimate and personal?<span style=""> </span>I ask you if droves of strangers gloved and masked in a foreign room, with shiny steel instruments and beeping machines at the ready, portray an image of respect and intimacy?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We fear birth.<span style=""> </span>We are taught it.<span style=""> </span>Expose the real stories and photos of natural birth (hospital or home) that thousands of women experience each day and I wonder if we are ready to answer the question:<span style=""> </span>what the hell are we afraid of anyways?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps we fear the truth.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="copy"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.” – Marianne Williamson</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: left;">I know you were waiting for this…go here for the photos:<br /><a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/wireStory?id=1777959"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/wireStory?id=1777959</span></a><br />Go here for the image of the baby’s head crowning: <a href="http://www.blognyc.net/news/britney-spears/britney-in-the-act-of-childbirth-the-money-shot.php">http://www.blognyc.net/news/britney-spears/britney-in-the-act-of-childbirth-the-money-shot.php</a></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114715295246021316?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1146985406517019262006-05-06T22:05:00.000-07:002006-05-07T00:24:08.166-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/10%20months%20black%20border.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/10%20months%20black%20border.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />My Dear Kaia, <p class="MsoNormal"><br />As of yesterday, you have experienced 10 new moons (and yesterday was the 1st quarter phase of the moon, a half moon, a wedge of cheese, a taco...) Your bright light has swirled it's way inside of our lives, your love as powerful as the lunar waves, filling us with cool renewal and gratitude. This past month, your personality blossomed in harmony with the spring’s desert landscape, and is just as diverse.<br /><br />It's become apparent that you inherited your Mama's lack of patience. I am so sorry for that. Yes, I'm the one who seems to always tear the cereal bags vertically because I'm in too much of a hurry to care And Cheerios go spilling out everywhere into the cardboard box, never to pour out the same way again. Incidentally, you've actually helped to teach me to focus on patience. I'm happy to say I've become a bit better at living with (some) patience...so there's hope for you yet. Every time I gingerly guide your chubby limbs into your PJ's, or take away a "toy", or walk out of the room when you are greepy or slumpy (grumpy-sleepy combo) thou dost protest too much! Your tiny back arches, your head flings back, and your eyes clamp shut while you wail. And sometimes, dare I say it; you start to hold your breath. You may not know, dear child, that I expressed my childhood dismay by holding my breath until I passed out cold on the floor. Guess what? Your Grams did the same thing. I fear your Papa and I are doomed to witness the same fate in you. Know that our arms will be there to catch you. At the least, we will make sure there is something soft to break your fall.<br /><br />There is one thing that is guaranteed to make you stop crying. It's when Mama sings you the lyrics of the <a href="http://www.matthewgollub.com/jazz.html">"Jazz Fly" book</a>: "ZZZZ, a fly buzzed by it was late in the day, and he was lost, so he flew to the frog who was sitting on the log, and asked the frog which way to town.”Za-baza Be-zaba Zee-za RONI". Your tears cease and and you look up at me with knowing eyes. The rhythm of the words soothes you and makes you feel safe.<br /><br />You finally learned to crawl and quickly mastered the skill. Your fat baby knees and tops of your feet got calloused and red from all of your scooting. Pulling up on furniture or your crib is your newest skill and you grin at me, baring your top 2 teeth, as if you are the proudest big girl around. Pulling up, combined with your lack of patience and keen ability to pitch a fit, make for an interesting drama when you are ticked off in your crib. You even throw your binky's on the floor in your room just to make a point. And to watch me pick them up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br />This past month, I got a big taste of how your Cheerios must feel. Let's just say, they have my fullest sympathy. Those four chompers of yours pack a powerful punch, er, bite. Particularly when they are on my sensitive bits! You are on about a three week streak of full-on biting me while nursing. My nipples have a bone to pick with you! It doesn't faze you when I shriek and jerk away and put you down while saying "Noooo, no biting. That hurts Mama!". In fact, sometimes you look at me and smirk.<br /><br />This new hobby of yours has presented a plethora of new problems. Because I can't seem to finish a nursing session with you, I am FULL of milk. Which means, I have to try and find time to pump more often. One night, I was watching TV and pumping along until I looked down to notice pink milk! Yes, I was bleeding. Fab-u-lous. I'm sore, so I cringe every time you latch on, while simultaneously trying to relaxxxxx. It's sorta like that machine at the eye doctor where they blow a puff of air into your eye. The anticipation makes you crazy. But at least that process is painless! As of late, you've become a little bit (bite?) better about at least waiting until you are done to give me the ritual sayonara bite. I'm glad you've seemed to calm down because I really, really enjoy our bonding time together. It's part of how I've learned about the beauty of patience and mindfulness. I don't wait to give it up to some little pearly whites that will eventually fall out anyways.<br /><br />Need I even mention that you <b><i>still </i></b>don't sleep through the night?<br /><br />Your babbling makes me giddy. Of course, your Daddy and I, along with your grandparents, swear you say a lot of words (hi, bye-bye, Elmo, Grams, Grandpa, Papa, Nana, Mama, Dada). Daddy told me about how you saw him roll in your Bugaboo Frog stroller and exclaimed "Bugaboo!” You make all kinds of silly noises and have found out how to blow applesauce all over the place while making some of them. You also understand the word "No"...I'm trying really hard to make sure you life isn't full of No's though...I want you to understand that Yes' are all around you! You are worth every Y, E, and S.<br /><br />Food is your passion. Girl, can you EAT! You are a food scrounge and try to steal my food all of the time, particularly my PB&amp;J sandwiches. When we place you in your highchair, you immediately stick your hand in the shallow built-in cup holder, searching for Cheerios. If I take too long chopping your carrots, or blending your sweet potatoes, or peeling your squash, the Diva Kaia (that's you) begins to take over. Yelling from her royal high chair, she tenses up her body and smacks the tray. Sometimes she even groans and roars deeply and slowly like a protective lioness! I cannot believe how you devour beans, fingerful by fingerful. Beans of any kind - kidney, white beans, black beans. Beans, beans, good for the heart...Today, Daddy noticed how there were beans in your poop. Yep. And you still love them. More of your favorites: avocado, cheese, apples, pears, peaches. Your so-so's are pineapple, green beans, mango. Daddy found out you like pickles and even onions. This, you inherited from him.<br /><br />You've also developed some interesting habits. You love your binkys. Your Elmo doll has a binky and so does your $3 Wal-Mart dollie. These binky's are your best friend, next to your Puppy JP. Lately, you've wanted an additional binky to hold on to at night (which Daddy has termed your "safety binky”). Another habit is that you try to chew on the glass top of our coffee table. Ay-yi-yie, it's like fingers on a chalkboard!<br /><br />You love to swing really high in your red plastic swing outside. The higher Grandpa Ritchie pushes you, the more you squeal and smile. Your fine brown hair even blows with the breeze. I hope you'll grow up hearing him chant "Rocket Ship to the Mooooooon" like I did when I was a young girl. I taught you how to clap to "Pat-a-Cake" this past week, even though you don't quite understand the motions to the "Roll 'em Up, Roll 'em Up, Throw 'Em in the Pan" part yet. I'm sure that will come with time. Another cute thing is you have a few dolls who you will usually hug and pat their backs when asked to do so. When I carry you to bed, your head nestled on my shoulders and eyelids heavy, you will pat my back when I say “Pat Mama’s back!”<span style=""> </span>Already a mothering instinct!<br /><br />Perhaps one of the proudest skills you've demonstrated is your keen sense of rhythm. Your Daddy beams with pride at this one ("My little musician", he says). A few weeks ago, we stopped to watch a live Jazz trio set up at the Country Club and play their first song. You stared in awe at the upright bass and was so enthralled by its deep pulsing vibe that you sat, mouth agape, and drooled. Then, you noticed the drums and starting waving your arms in perfect time. Seriously. Then you shirked in joy while they played. In your carseat, you start doing the same thing when you hear Ben Folds. Good girl! Daddy plays his congas and, again, you wave your arms to the beat and watch with intent. When I approach the congas with you in arm, you reach out and begin to beat them, creating your own music.<br /><br />You are still a social baby and enjoy nothing more than playing with, and watching, other children. This is when you are truly most content. Stranger anxiety hasn't set in just yet with you and you are almost always up to giving a bit ol' toothy smile to anyone who peers your way.<br /><br />My Kaia, my lovely little peanut, my heart cannot contain the pure pleasure you bring me. Surely, my heart must be bleeding onto the pages of my life! That's a good thing, really. It's not just that your innocence is so endearing, and that you are impossibly cute, that make me beam with pride. It's that I see how open you are to love, how sensitive you are to the vibration of our universe. How accepting you are to all of life's surprises and mysteries. Its how your little arms and legs cling to me when you ride on my hip, as if you've always been there, you belong there.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, you were fussing in your crib and just wouldn't go to sleep. Your nose was runny, your hair wild. I brought you into bed next to me and held you on my chest. Then, you began a strange and ritualistic sort of dance with me. With your eyes closed, you crawled and rolled your body down and over mine while I gently held on to you...to the left and the right you slowly crawled and gently swayed with me, still entangled in the safely of my arms. It seemed to have soothed your tired soul, while it penetrated mine with love. It felt almost like you were snuggled within my body again, safe and warm and gentle. You <b><i>needed </i></b>me. We needed each other. The same feeling of oneness washed over me and I was overcome with emotion and memory of our nine intensely close months together. Thank you for this brief experience that night. So spiritual, so special.<br /><br />It seemed fitting that we spent yesterday, your 10 moon anniversary, at a Day of the Midwife Rally that I had helped to organize along with our dear Marinah and other lovely birth advocates. We played in the sun, lolled in the grass with other Mamas, and shared birth poetry in a circle. You left exhausted. I left with sunburn.<br /><br />While you napped today, your Daddy and I sat on the couch and reminisced about how you've grown from a helpless, tiny infant to a sweet, kind, vivacious little bean. I said "Honey, she is our contribution to the world!” Your Daddy responded with such tenderness "She is the<span style=""> </span><b style=""><i style="">world's</i></b> contribution to <b style=""><i style="">us</i></b>". He was so very right.<br /><br />Kaia Marin, thank you for the gift of your spirit. It has pervaded our lives in ways we understand more deeply every single day. Now, please, don't grow up any faster.<span style=""> </span>And let’s work on that biting thing…<br /><br />I love you,<br />Mama</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114698540651701926?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1146801113504927652006-05-04T20:42:00.000-07:002006-05-04T20:51:53.516-07:00Dedicated to all the SAHM's (Stay-at-home moms) in the world, especially my personal superheroes: Sara, Kimmy, MaryBeth, Brooke, Jeanette. You are all making the world better, one multi-tasking day at a time. <br />-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />From MSNBC.com<br /><br />NEW YORK - The old adage that “a mother's work is never done” remains as true now as ever. Today's stay-at-home moms are learning what their predecessors always knew — they'd be making a lot of money doing their job outside the home. <p class="textBodyBlack"><span id="byLine"></span>Just in time for Mother's Day, an informal study conducted by Web site Salary.com shows that stay-at-home moms would earn an average of <span style="font-weight: bold;">$131,471</span> annually, including overtime, if they received a paycheck.</p> <span id="byLine"></span>A sampling of the 5.4 million stay-at-home mothers were asked to come up with job titles that fit a general description of their daily routines.<br /><br />The titles — which reflected the most time-consuming parts of their day — include day-care center teacher, van driver, housekeeper, cook, chief executive officer, nurse and general maintenance worker, the survey showed. <p class="textBodyBlack"><span id="byLine"></span>Of course, a stay-at-home parent does not work typical office hours. The hypothetical median salary is based on a 100-hour work week and assumes caring for at least two children of school age.</p> <p class="textBodyBlack"><span id="byLine"></span>“The importance of this calculation or this estimate is just calling attention to the fact that being a stay-at-home mom is not a cop out, it's not the woman's way out of the work force and it's not a job of no value,” said Bill Coleman, senior vice president of compensation at Salary.com. “There is a lot of value there, and some would say it's even priceless.”</p> <p class="textBodyBlack"><span id="byLine"></span>Salary.com, which tracks what jobs pay, suggested that the annual base pay for a 40-hour stay-at-home mom's workweek would be $43,461. Mothers would earn an additional $88,009 a year for 60 hours of overtime each week.</p> <p class="textBodyBlack"><span id="byLine"></span>“I think I should definitely make that much,” said Joanna Butti, who stays at home to care for her twin boys. “It's a hard job.”</p> <p class="textBodyBlack"><span id="byLine"></span>Coleman said feedback on the figure was mixed. Some felt mothers deserved more, some less. In general, though, many were pleased to see a figure above $100,000.</p> <p class="textBodyBlack"><span id="byLine"></span>“Stay-at-home moms are enthusiastic and upbeat about their jobs, they didn't seem to need external validation,” Coleman told Reuters. “They were also happy that they were getting attention, and that somebody was out there telling the world that what they do is valuable, and perhaps more valuable than one would expect.”</p> <p class="textBodyBlack"><span id="byLine"></span>Mothers said you cannot attach a figure to the time spent with their kids.</p> <p class="textBodyBlack"><span id="byLine"></span>“I'm giving 150 percent of myself to them many hours a day,” said Debra Miley, who stays home with two-year old daughter Olivia and four-month old son Gregory. “You cannot attach a dollar value to the time that you spend nurturing your child if you're lucky enough to be a stay-at-home mom.”</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114680111350492765?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1145666822531116632006-04-21T17:26:00.000-07:002006-04-25T20:15:19.303-07:00So, the shower seems to be one of the only places that I get to be truly alone. I savor those 10, 15, and if I'm really greedy and irresponsible, 20 minutes of peace and quiet and healing water.<br /><br />Our shower is one that is glass-enclosed. Through it I can see out our window and view our neighbor's bougainvillea moving in the breeze.<br /><br />Yesterday, I noticed the way the steam was slowly veiling the glass. I saw my reflection. In an instant, I knew what I had to do. My fingers reached up to the steam covered glass walls of the shower and began moving, writing, dancing...<br /><br />With tears suddenly in my eyes, breath deep down within me, and without thought, a poem arose... an open poem to my C-section. Yes, it made so much sense to scrawl it, furiously, in the steam...knowing the words would soon dissapate and I'd not be able to recall them exactly. It was freeing, liberating. Like the healing process of the <a href="http://www.asia.si.edu/exhibitions/online/mandala/mandala.htm">Tibetan mandala</a>...a work of art whose grains of sands are finally swept up and poured into flowing water...my words were to exist briefly, literally, within water. And then, they would be gone.<br /><br />I wrote with a torrid pace on each wall of glass, from the top to the bottom, twice. Forming letters and words with just my fingers felt magical, powerful, wicked, and blessed. My hands moved without a thought and words flowed continuously.<br />And to cry in the shower is just as magical, powerful, wicked, and blessed. The tears were carried away, like my words, to never exist again. Indeed, I felt healed.<br /><br />When my poem was complete, I stood back, like an artist studying her painting, and watched my words. Have you ever <strong><u>watched</u></strong> your words?... Slowly they melted, changed, dripped, and eventually faded. Like my pain, my scar. But two lines of my poem remained visible even after I stepped out of the shower, warm and clean, refreshed and renewed...<br /><br /><strong><em>"...but in the end, you made me strong".</em></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.pachamama.ws/"></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114566682253111663?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1145341217458313532006-04-17T23:20:00.000-07:002006-04-17T23:21:41.736-07:00<p class="MsoNormal">The Best of the Worst<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br />List-a-mania, as they call it, has set in for me. I blame it on laziness and an exhausted mental state.<span style=""> </span>Here are some of my latest personal favs in the “Best of the Worst” department. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best of the Worst…Fast Foods</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="">In-n-Out Burgers</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Wetzel’s Pretzels</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Sonic’s French Toast Sticks (with syrup!)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Krispy Kreme warm, chocolate iced donuts (Folks, you get ½ dozen free donuts on your birthday.<span style=""> </span>Plus a mug filled with your choice of beverage.<span style=""> </span>Yep.<span style=""> </span>I drove through three different KK locations last year.<span style=""> </span>That equals 1.5 dozen free, gratis, greasy, warm, sugary lumps of heavenly treat.<span style=""> </span>Guilt-free, of course, on your birthday)</li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best of the Worst…Indulgent Foods</p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="">Choc-o-diles (always priced at like .39 cents or something at the gas stations)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Milky Way Midnight candy bars</li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><st1:place st="on">Paradise</st1:place> Bakery Chocolate Chip Cookies</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies (duh!)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">E.L. Fudge Cookies (dipped in milk)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Golden Oreos (very addictive)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">My own concoction called “Preggo Delight”:<span style=""> </span>Rainbow sherbet w/gummi bears and peanut butter cups</li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best of the Worst…Shopping <st1:place st="on">Spree</st1:place> Addictions </p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="">Fashion Q/Xi (so cheap, so trendy.<span style=""> </span>full of strippers!)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Ross Dress for Less (designer purses and shoes for a steal.<span style=""> </span>Great maternity too)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Last Chance (Nordstrom bargain designer clothes – ya gotta hunt-n-peck.<span style=""> </span>Don’t go on Saturdays unless you want to battle or arm wrestle)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Ann Taylor Loft (classy, simple)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Old Navy (fun, so much variety, comfy maternity.<span style=""> </span>Plus, baby clothes!)</li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best of the Worst…Bad Habits</p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="">Chewing fingernails (stress reliever)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Not refilling the toilet paper roll (sometimes, it just feels good to half-ass things)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Consistently underestimating arrival/departure times (a.k.a being late)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Stashing unfolded laundry (dirty or clean) away in my closet, in a basket (a big “F-you” to household chores)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Removing my shoes in random spots…and leaving them there (pure laziness)</li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best of the Worst…Reality TV Shows</p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="">American Inventor (laugh your butt off)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">American Idol (particularly the early auditions)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">OK, I just realized I actually don’t watch enough TV to really be able to elaborate on this topic</li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best of the Worst…Excuses to Blog Instead of: Go to Bed, Pay Bills, Clean the Kitchen, Change a Dirty Diaper, Go #1, Got #2, Eat for the First Time All Day</p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="">It’s therapeutic</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">I can wallow in other people’s problems</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">I can live vicariously through other people (gotta check in on my girly girls)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">“It helps me to sharpen my saw”</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Too lazy to call everyone who I’d like to update on my boring, crazy, lovely, wouldn’t-trade-it life</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">I might garner a compliment…or not</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">“I’m documenting Kaia’s life!”</li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best of the Worst…Things I’ve Said Out of Frustration and Impatience Lately to My Dear Husband (all of which I immediately apologized for…or soon thereafter)</p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="">YOU try working from home AND taking care of a baby twice a week! (pity party)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">At some point you really need to decide to stop working and spend time with your family on Easter! (which he did)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Sometimes I feel like a single Mom! (ohhh, that was uncalled for)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">…Sure, just like you try and put the dishes away in the dishwasher when you are done with them. (When he kindly asked if I could try to put my shoes up when I take them off)</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="">Shhhhh, don’t wake the baby! (repeated Every. Single. Morning. while I’m still in bed.<span style=""> </span>He has never complained)</li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Best of the Worst…Excuses for Being a Homebody</p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style="">“I’m an introvert”</li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114534121745831353?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1145338763152000972006-04-17T22:37:00.000-07:002006-04-17T22:39:23.163-07:00<span style="font-family:Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:-1;">An entire post, lost with one fell keystroke! It's too late for this! I'm too tired to try again. So, here's my post instead.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">@#$%^&amp;@!!!!!</span></span><br /></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114533876315200097?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1145253526950349042006-04-16T22:47:00.000-07:002006-04-16T22:58:46.970-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/some%20bunny%20loves%20you.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/some%20bunny%20loves%20you.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/easterbunny.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/easterbunny.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/teeth%20for%20easter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/teeth%20for%20easter.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/important%20lesson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/important%20lesson.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/mama%20and%20kaia%20on%20easter%203.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/mama%20and%20kaia%20on%20easter%203.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/mama%20and%20kaia%20on%20easter%202.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/mama%20and%20kaia%20on%20easter%202.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114525352695034904?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1144908481976172452006-04-12T23:05:00.000-07:002006-04-14T10:46:15.863-07:00UPDATE ON NEW BLOG<br /><br />Ok, so apparently my new blog site at Wordpress.com is freezing up eeryone's computers. Oops! Not sure what's going on, but I'm contacting Wordpress.com to find out. In the meantime...stick here!<br />---------------------------------------------<br /><br />So, based on boredom, inspiration from Jeanette's newly designed site, and the desire to keep everyone crazy, I've switched to a new blog website.<br /><br />Visit me at <a href="http://leighsteele.wordpress.com">My New Blog</a>. Let me know what you think. Bookmark it if you please. I promise I won't switch on you again any time soon.<br /><br />Until I get bored again. Or inspired.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114490848197617245?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1144728080895108892006-04-10T21:00:00.000-07:002006-04-10T21:08:36.486-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/jason%20bday%20photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/jason%20bday%20photo.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br />upon pulling back</p> <p class="MsoNormal">the edges of my heart</p> <p class="MsoNormal">the revelation was that </p> <p class="MsoNormal">you were always there</p> <p class="MsoNormal">deep down</p> <p class="MsoNormal">tunneled and safe</p> <p class="MsoNormal">knocking, knocking<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">i knew this </p> <p class="MsoNormal">when I was in high school</p> <p class="MsoNormal">with stringy hair</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and combat boots</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and so many poems</p> <p class="MsoNormal">i could drink them </p> <p class="MsoNormal">for days<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">when she asked me</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“who would you marry”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and I answered</p> <p class="MsoNormal">immediately</p> <p class="MsoNormal">unremarkably</p> <p class="MsoNormal">without hesitation</p> <p class="MsoNormal">you<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">like the worry stone</p> <p class="MsoNormal">whose edges are smooth</p> <p class="MsoNormal">from rhythmic touch</p> <p class="MsoNormal">from ages, from love</p> <p class="MsoNormal">so, too, my heart now</p> <p class="MsoNormal">smooth, from love</p> <p class="MsoNormal">from 120 moons<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">i get it now</p> <p class="MsoNormal">it’s not that you complete me</p> <p class="MsoNormal">as much as you</p> <p class="MsoNormal">make me remember</p> <p class="MsoNormal">who I am</p> <p class="MsoNormal">when I’m alone</p> <p class="MsoNormal">with the dark moon<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">so bare, so tiny</p> <p class="MsoNormal">intense </p> <p class="MsoNormal">like a child</p> <p class="MsoNormal">destined to birth</p> <p class="MsoNormal">like her</p> <p class="MsoNormal">destined to be ours</p> <p class="MsoNormal">on this day</p> <p class="MsoNormal">yours<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>*** on jason's 28th birthday, 4.11.2006<br /></o:p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114472808089510889?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1144279193090872872006-04-05T16:15:00.000-07:002006-04-07T20:45:14.616-07:00Holy Cow, don't ever go checkin' other other peeps' blogs at 11:30 at night. Not only do you realize that the blog world is truly a web, but that web grabs ya and reallllly doesn't want to let you go. Nope. It wants you to sit and read, read, read until you get too tired and BAM - down comes the spider. Eats you alive with incredible words. Hilarious, sarcastic, honest, edgy, wailing words.<br /><br />A few nights ago I became engrossed in a few blogs and finally had to go to sleep. I left my computer screen feeling like an utter amateur...like a fifth grader writing a 3 paragraph essay on the disappearance of dinosaurs.<br /><br />Ya know the saying "Well, there's always someone worse off than you". Well, in the blog world, there's always someone "much better at writing than you"! Much, much, much better. Start to read blogs and you'll be amazed at the talent out there. True talent. Word-smiths. Analogy queens. Masterful picture painters (with words). Insightful story tellers. And people who have an awful lot to say about poop.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114427919309087287?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1144045756150641522006-04-04T20:29:00.000-07:002006-04-04T19:39:36.520-07:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia%209%20months.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/kaia%209%20months.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />- Finally crawls<br />- Has 2 top teeth and 2 bottom teeth. Teething has recently been a bear. Knows the sound of dispensing teething tablets.<br />- Is a chatterbox. Grams swears she said "March Madness" and Jason heard her repeat it a few hours later. What the...?<br />- Accepts that her binky really is her best friend<br />- Shows off and smiles for other babies and kids<br />- Clap, clap, claps her hands<br />- Devours black beans, Grams' yogurt parfait mix, and Cheerios<br />- Threw a real, true blue, diva fit because I wouldn't let her grab the glasses off my face. She's a pistol.<br />- Favorite toys include: teething tablet bottle, diaper creme bottle, IKEA froggy sippy cup, wipes, banging two binkys together, cell phone<br />- Favorite TOY toys include: links, Oscar the Grouch puppet, stacking rings, Binky Elmo (what have we done??!!)<br />- Sits up in her crib and plays...or holds on to the crib rails like a monkey and cries to be released<br />- Still doesn't sleep through the night (how long will this be on my list???)<br />- Still nurses<br />- Is tickleish on her back and neck and chubby little thighs<br />- Has crazy bed head hair when she wakes up<br />- Wants to eat whatever we eat<br />- Adores her puppy and kitty and recognizes the sound of their jingling collars<br />- Jabbers on about "Da da da da" and "mom mom mom" and "guh guh" and "buh buh"<br />- Discovered the lip puckering, raspberry blowin', spit flingin' thing with her mouth (what do you call this? Sorry, it's almost midnight!). Loves to do it with her mouth full of food.<br />- Holds her breath when really upset (like I did and my Mother before me did when we were tykes)<br />- Protests a dirty diaper<br />- Has a great memory/remembers things you show her after the first time (like sticking her finger inside Pop-Beads, knowing how to get her toys to make noise, etc)<br />- Smiles when she first sees her babysitter Kimmy<br />- Is mastering the cute lil' pincser grasp<br />- Splashes in the bath<br />- Grams says she has "chubby insteps"<br />- Sometimes sweetly pats my back (like I do to hers) when she lays her head on my shoulder to go nitey nite<br />- Loves to hear her voice echo loudly<br />- Digs peek-a-boo<br />- Loves to stand on her tippy-toes<br />- Figured out how to get her arm out of her sleeve<br />- Has started to understand the concept of putting things in my mouth after I put something in hers (like her binky)<br />- Has pooped in the bathtub<br />- Never fails to make me overflow with gratitude and love and helps me remember what my real priorities are<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114404575615064152?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1144204102925086972006-04-04T19:12:00.000-07:002006-04-04T19:35:28.696-07:00So on this overcast afternoon in Anthem, while at Wal-Mart (Jeanette says that I really shouldn't say that "W" word around crunchy folk), I found myself in the checkout line with Kaia perched on my hip. She had become a wee bit grumpy from my usual lack of focus in such a huge store. So, on my hip she sat while I sorted through my cart and, one by one, bent over and tossed the items on the checkout conveyer belt...diapers, mangos, laundry detergent, pomegranate juice, a new bra, some donuts (ooops, you didn't see that), peaches, yogurt...I heard a mama in line behind me mumbling quietly to her son, but kept my head down in the cart while I concentrated on the task at hand. And then, the boy with the little round glasses and sandy blond hair stepped closer to me and gently asked "Can I help you with anything?”<br /><br />My heart instantly leapt in pride for this Mama's son. I grinned, looked him in the eye, and said "Oh, no thank you, but that was very sweet of you!” He stepped back as I continued unloading the cart and clutching my girl.<br /><br />And, as only a parent would do, I immediately began to second guess my response. Perhaps I should have said "Yes, please, that would be very helpful" so that he could have learned the brief, but important, life lesson his Mother was urging him towards. Or, I should have responded with "Oh, no thank you, but that was very <strong>kind</strong> of you!” Yes, <strong>kindness</strong> is what I believe is so important to instill in our children. Not sweetness...kindness.<br /><br />Of course, in the scheme of things it doesn't matter what my response. The fact that he confidently offered to help a stranger (at his mother's beckoning) was indeed...<strong>kind</strong>. And kinda sweet.<br /><br />P.S. Oh please, please for the love of Pete, someone beam a Trader Joe's or Whole Foods or Sprout's into Anthem!!!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114420410292508697?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1144026023934897802006-04-02T17:20:00.000-07:002006-04-02T23:10:19.873-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;font-family:Georgia;" ><br /></span> <p class="style1"> </p><span style="font-style: italic;">"Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape." - <span style="font-weight: bold;">Charles Dickens</span></span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><br />As of late, my journey of pain and healing surrounding Kaia's birth has been challenged by others. "Why are you STILL in so much pain 9 months after her birth? Shouldn't you be over it?”<br /><br />I'm not sure why I am so shocked at this sentiment, seeing as through our society views emotional pain as shameful or a weakness that must be quickly conquered. And it seems as though the emotional pain from a birth experience is one in which our culture has the shortest amount of patience for. To utter this phrase to someone who has lost a loved one, been victimized through violence or rape, or has simply has fallen on tough times would be seen as rude and unsympathetic. But to say "just over it" to a Mother, violated during a fragile and vulnerable time in her life...to say it to a Mother who, while being violated, could only think of the safety and well-being of her tiny child...to say it to a woman who was asked to quickly concede with a decision that would impact her future births, her health, and potentially her life...to say it...seems unforgivable.<br /><br />To say "get over" or "you shouldn't still be in so much pain" is similar to reducing a major life experience to the bad luck on a lottery scratcher ticket. It is to assume no soul searching has occurred, no surrendering realized, and that no gratitude has surfaced. Simply, it is to assume no process has taken place. Just as one doesn't "get over" a mountain by simply walking, the challenge of pain is that it indeed becomes a journey: complete with rocky paths, stumbling, moments of rest and rehydration, stops to assure direction, strength, agility. And in the end, a feeling of achievement, renewed appreciation, and a priceless new view of the world. Like the mountain climb, the process of pain isn't easy. But, go through it time and time again with intention and you will become better at it, notice more, learn, and reveal and understanding that the process is what made it so worthwhile.<br /><br />It's why we celebrate icons such as Lance Armstrong and <a href="http://www.touchthetop.com/"><b>Erik Weihenmeyer</b> </a>(first blind man to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">climb</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype></st1:place> Everest). We recognize them not simply because of their feats, but because of the seemingly insurmountable adversity they overcame (i.e. the process) in order to achieve them. We can relate to them. It wouldn't be very engaging to her Lance say "Well, I won the Tour de France seven times. And I beat cancer". We want to know how he did this, what he went through, where he found his strength...we want to know that in a small way, we can be just like him. So, why do we silence women who have experienced traumatic births? Why don't we beg to hear their stories, learn from them, seek to relate to them? Why does it bother us so much to sit with their pain? Why do we ask them to stuff their pain deep into their souls, as quickly as possible, only to know it seeps out their entire lives? Why do we ask another being to feel very alone?<br /><br />On a physical level, we understand that pain is necessary. Without it, we would not survive. It is our body's reaction to a problem which requires immediate attention. So, too, is emotional pain a necessity for our body and hearts and mind. Glossing over it, not giving it the attention it deserves is like trying to cover a gaping wound with a flimsy band aid.<br /><br />We must learn to honor pain for the lessons it reveals. When we choose to be open to pain, we become more connected to ourselves and to those around us. We find we are resilient and that we are capable of even greater love than we thought possible. Pain opens us up. Let me clarify that pain and suffering, while related, are different and I do not propose that our world must suffer. However, I have often used the terms interchangeably since they are related. <a href="http://www.spiritsite.com/writing/sylboo/">Sylvia Boorstein</a><a href="http://www.spiritsite.com/writing/sylboo/"> </a>explains that "...Suffering is what happens when we struggle with whatever our life experience is rather than <b>accepting </b>and <b>opening to our experience with wise and compassionate response.</b> From this point of view, there's a big difference between pain and suffering. Pain is inevitable".<br /><br />Talk to people who lived years, lifetimes, without honoring their pain. They will tell you how it almost destroyed them, how they felt so alone, and how they never realized their true inner strength until one day, the pain exploded within and they were forced to either drown in it or paddle hard to stay afloat. Eventually, if they paddled, they found stable ground.<br /><br /><b>My wish list is simple and three pronged: </b><br />1. Recognize and accept that pain is a normal, healthy, and necessary life process that provides insights (i.e. </span><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Pain doesn't always mean one is depressed, downtrodden, faithless, or ungrateful)</span><br /><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> 2. Allow others (and one's self) their own path, journey, and timeline to healing<br />3. Talk about it!<br /><br />Philosophers and scholars of all backgrounds and faiths have discussed pain and suffering and many have accepted its importance in our quest for love, spirituality, acceptance, and healing:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <ul type="disc"> <li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Georgia;">"Whatever you do, don’t shut off your pain; accept your pain and remain vulnerable. However desperate you become, accept your pain as it is, because it is in fact trying to hand you a priceless gift: the chance of discovering, through spiritual practice, what lies behind sorrow. Grief, <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.rumi.net/rumi_by_shiva.htm">Rumi</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>wrote, can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom. <em><span style="font-family:Georgia;">" -<b> </b></span></em></span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.rigpa.org/"><em>Sogyal Rimpoche</em></a><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><em><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><b><a href="http://www.rigpa.org/">, renowned Tibetan teacher</a></b></span></em><o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Georgia;">"I suggest to you that it is because God loves us that he makes us the gift of suffering. To put it another way, pain is God’s megaphone to rouse a deaf world. You see, we are like blocks of stone out of which the Sculptor carves the forms of men. The blows of his chisel, which hurt us so much are what make us…perfect." - <a href="http://www.cslewis.org/"><b><i>C.S. Lewis, Christian author</i></b></a><o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Georgia;">"Everything dear to us causes pain." - <b><i>Buddha</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Georgia;">"Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys." -- <a href="http://www.fordham.edu/HALSALL/MOD/1848lamartine.html"><b><i>Alphonse de Lamartine, poet</i></b></a> <o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Georgia;">"The capacity to give one's attention to a sufferer is a very rare and difficult thing; it is almost a miracle; it is a miracle." --<b><i> <a href="http://members.aol.com/geojade/Introduction.htm">Simone Weil, moral and political philosopher </a></i></b><i> </i><o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Georgia;">"Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved." - <b><i>Helen Keller</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Georgia;">"Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state." - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Eliot"><b><i>George Eliot (a.k.a. Mary Ann Evans), poet</i></b><br /></a><o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Georgia;">"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?" -<a href="http://leb.net/gibran/"><b><i>Kahlil Gibran, author and poet</i></b><br /></a><o:p></o:p></span></li> </ul> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;">I hope for my Kaia that she will understand that honoring the pain I experienced along with her birth was because I loved her too much to shrug it off. Through Kaia, through her birth, through my pain, I have been able to see the world even in the moon's dark light! What a wonderful, wonderful world. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="style1"></p> <p style="text-align: right;" align="right"><em><span style="font-family:Georgia;"></span></em><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114402602393489780?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1143960426229505272006-04-01T21:41:00.000-08:002006-04-02T15:56:29.716-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/smallerstill.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/smallerstill.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A few things that have been lolling around in my mind today (that's me with a lolling mind. whatever. it's me after I got my haircut a few weeks ago.)...<br /><br />The memory of my brother in law's ex-girlfriend, Liz, when she birthed her baby at 17 young years of age. This was almost 2 years ago, before my Kaia was even a sparkle in my eye. Liz is a tall, sweetly naive, partly mystic Romanian-American young womam who is proud and resourceful and has a fierce fashion sense (complete with BCBG, D&amp;G taste). I recall that on her 9 month pregnant belly, she painted a bright, yellow sun at her swim birthday party. She always carries herself with such grace and ease...almost makes you forget her young age.<br /><br />We arrived at the hospital moments after her sweet Emma Elizabeth was born. There was Liz, a brand new Mama, smiling brightly with wide doe eyes, and holding her babe close. The room was quiet, the air bitterseet. Liz laughed, shrugged, and told us what a breeze labor and childbirth was. In the middle of the night, sharing her hospital bed with my brother-in-law Jeremy, she told me how she breathed through her contractions by counting in Romanian and clenching Jeremy's hand. It was her way of relaxing and maintaining focus. She would sleep in between contractions and awaken to continue the counting. Then, "Leigh, ust a few pushes and she slid out, no big deal at all. No pain". Liz had refused an epidural and other medical interventions and birthed her baby girl the way her body intended. I will never forget the look in her eyes when she told us this: strong, centered, proud, bare, primal yet serene. At 17, she suddenly had the look of a "mother", a sage. She was still in "birth world" - not quite yet connected to this Earthly place and still reeling from the intimate connection and experience. I could almost taste the birth high in the room, and in a sense, seemed I was imposing on sacred ground. At this point, I had just began my research into natural birth and was so touched by Liz' calm demeanor. After the birth, I asked her to recount her experience a few times, just so I could hear it. Just so I could confirm what I had always known deep withing: birth is normal, birth is natural, women are capable. At a mere 17 years of age, Liz taught me so much and was my first inspiration for natural birth.<br /><br />I'm thinking about spaces. Spaces = life force. We met with our landscape architect today and I'm reeling. Two and a half hours later, I left his 600 sq. foot bungalow, built in 1935, and felt a renewed sense of excitement for our project. Our ideas meshed, he presented new options and creatively challenged our thoughts and plans. He totally "got" my passion for native planting and understood my desire for outdoor spaces that engage exploration and imagination while providing simplicity and serenity. I know this home in our minds will become a place of healing and cleansing for me. I await with great anticipation the first moment in which my bare feet sink unto the desert ground, smell the wet plants, and gaze at the outline of the trees through the moon's shadow. I am ready for new spaces. I welcome new life force.<br /><br />I'm thinking about familiy. My Mama leaves Phoenix to head back home to Indiana after 10 sumptuous days here. My heart is breaking. How I wish she could be here every night when I came home from work. I'd give anything to be able to eat dinner with my Mama whenever I wished. Much like me, my Mama is a homebody at heart. She cleaned my house, washed and sorted my laundry, organized Kaia's room, got stains out of the carpet, made baby food, mopped the floors, and helped amuse and nurture our baby every single day. She watched TV with me and we made fun of commercials and people and topics. We shopped a little, ate a ton, and generally tried to solve all the world's problems. My Mama is a "doer", full of energy, but knows the value of a great nap. She raised 4 kids by herself and infused our childhoods with boundless fun. It's nice to know that I don't ever have to worry about my Mama skills, because she instilled the best in me. I want to sit on her lap and feel safe, the way only Mama's can make you feel. At times, I hold my dear, teething, sobbing Kaia and feel my Mama's love in my bones, my blood, my very cells. I feel reassured. Waking up the morning after my Mom leaves is always the roughest. I can still smell her clothes, her hairspray, her cooking, the smells of my childhood. I notice the way she put things away, folded clothes, and I try hard not to disturb them. She spent 10 days spoiling Kaia with love, love, love...and funny lullabies. I will miss her gentle, carefree spirit. I'll even miss her worrying...<br /><br />I am thinking about friendship and how my concept of it has morphed over the years. And just recently. I marvel at how one can feel connected to faceless strangers and yet so distant from close-held friends. It isn't the years or the physical proximity that matter...there is so much more. Too much to write about at this moment. A topic I must ponder and explore. One that I always thought would truly be painless...<br /><br />Lastly, I'm thinking about dreams. I had a recent one in which I was hangin' with my buds Gwenyth and Angelie (Paltrow and Jolie, that is). They were pregnant. Angelina began sharing some of her concerns and worries with me about her pregnancy and birth. She was quiet, almost meek, which shocked me. But the energy surrounding her was pure and loving. To ease some of her concerns, I suggested she take a look at her growing baby. With some "dream magic", I helped her gingerly pull her tiny, growing baby from her body, still connected to the cord. With tears on her face, she held the baby in the palm of her hands and looked up in sheer wonder and relief. "I can't believe how perfect she is...fully formed and alive. She is healthy." She brought the baby close to her cheeks and held it there for a few moments. I smiled and gently suggested we return the baby back to her protective womb to let her grow. Slowly, carefully, Angelina did just that and hugged me with intense gratitude. I told her "what a cool gal" she was and how I was so glad to know her. I awoke from the dream glowing. I still recall seeing that little baby in her hands...the skin was almost translucent and every body part was miniature and pefect. On one hand, I was scared to see this seemingly fragile being outside of it's world. On the other hand, it felt like we were given the chance to peek inside a secret world and experience a miracle. Dreams. Strange and wonderful, exausting and exhilirating. Why Angelina? Why this little baby? What could I possibly have to teach Angelina?<br /><br />On my mind...sleep...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114396042622950527?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1143873446280795392006-03-31T22:37:00.000-08:002006-04-02T16:55:01.956-07:00<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;">So, I'm stealing this list idea from <a href="http://misplacedmama.blogsome.com/">MaryBeth</a>. I just got such a kick out of her list that I felt compelled to try one of my own. As I closed my eyes and brainstormed those things I have come to love, I suddenly became embarrassed. They pale in comparison to MB's earthy, environmentally friendly, organic, easy-going list. I mean, dang, her list makes you really feel like she has her priorities straight. She's "centered"!<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;">I scanned my preliminary list and felt like I had to take a red pen to it for editing. But then, I sat back in my chair, shushed the critics in my head, and breathed deep (probably not as deep as MB can breathe)...<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;">This is MY list. It's me. The good, the bad, and the chocoholic. At my core, I'm a wannabe: vegetarian/stay at home mama/yogi who recycles, craves a healthy snack over In-n-Out Burger and can bust out in a graceful, balanced Tree pose in the middle of high-stress day. Folks, seriously, I have a ways to go...</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;">In the meantime, read my list. Go ahead. It’s the best I could do and well, reflects me at the moment:</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="">1.<span style=""> </span></span><!--[endif]--><a href="http://www.lansinoh.com/index.php?src=directory&view=Products&amp;srctype=display&back=Products&amp;id=20&category=Nursing+Pads&amp;pos=0,10,3">Lansinoh nursing pads</a>.<span style=""> </span>These soft little circles of wonder have never let me down, never leaked, and never shown through my clothes.<span style=""> </span>I go through them like crazy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="">2.<span style=""> <a href="http://www.randalls.com/o_organics_v2_new.asp"> </a></span></span><!--[endif]--><a href="http://www.randalls.com/o_organics_v2_new.asp">“O Organics” orange juice</a> (Safeway’s line of organic products).<span style=""> </span>Like fresh-squeezed OJ for us lazy people.<span style=""> </span>Just OJ and nothing else. No water, no additives.<span style=""> </span>Savor the yumminess.<span style=""> </span>I’m addicted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="">3.<span style=""> </span></span><!--[endif]-->If you know me, you know I’m a dark chocolate freak.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t stumble upon this realization until I was about 10 years old.<span style=""> </span>During Christmas, my step-mom always placed a bowl of those miniature Hershey’s chocolates on the coffee table.<span style=""> </span>I would pick through and eat the Krackle’s and plain chocolates and leave the strange looking ones marked “Dark”.<span style=""> </span>One day, the only one left were the dark chocolate and, in a pinch, I tried it.<span style=""> </span>I was hooked.<span style=""> </span>I now don’t go a single day without my intake of dark chocolate.<span style=""> </span>I was terribly thrilled when reports of the health benefits of dark chocolate began to emerge a few years ago. I felt like a pioneer.<span style=""> </span>My absolute favorite is a <a href="http://www.milkywaybar.com/products/">Milky Way Midnight candy bar</a>.<span style=""> </span>Goes down like butta’ and satisfies every craving.<span style=""> </span>Jason buys one for me for every birthday and V-day and anytime I’m feeling down.<span style=""> </span>It was one of the very first things I craved before I found out I was a teensy bit pregnant.<span style=""> </span>I’m always so shocked that dark chocolate lover’s haven’t ever tried Milky Way Midnight bars…they don’t taste at all like regular Milky Way’s.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="">4.<span style=""> </span></span><!--[endif]--><a href="http://www.maxfactor.com/products/face/pan-cake.jsp">Max Factor pancake makeup</a>.<span style=""> </span>I discovered this makeup a few years ago and it’s become one of the few products I am loyal to.<span style=""> </span>Applied with a wet sponge, you gotta work fast with it.<span style=""> </span>But, the finish is matte and flawless and lasts all day (and night).</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="">5.<span style=""> </span></span><!--[endif]-->CD’s:<span style=""> </span><a href="http://www.wickedthemusical.com/">Wicked, the Broadway musica</a>l an <a href="http://www.edgeofwonder.com/">Jennifer Berezean's</a> "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Returning" </span>album. <span style=""></span>The music of Wicked is powerful and raw.<span style=""> </span>The story is stunning and sad.<span style=""> </span>I pump up the volume and belt out the songs on my way to work.<span style=""> </span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;">Jennifer Berezean’s “Returning” is an album that my midwife recommended while I was pregnant.<span style=""> </span>I listened to it religiously every day to and from work while Kaia grew inside me.<span style=""> </span>I knew I would have it playing during my labor, so I wanted Kaia to get used to the soothing, mystical, meditative chant.<span style=""> </span>While driving, it would set a peaceful tone of hope and gratitude that lasted the entire day.<span style=""> </span>Indeed, it was on “repeat” during my entire labor process.<span style=""> </span>To this day, listening to the album puts me right back into those moments of pure love and creates a sacred space for me to focus and relax.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="">6.<span style=""> </span></span><!--[endif]-->Whole Wheat flour.<span style=""> </span>My excuse for baking chocolate chip cookies and calling them “healthy”!<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="">7.<span style=""> </span></span><!--[endif]--><a href="http://naartjie.homestead.com/">Naartjie baby apparel.</a><span style=""> </span>Made of natural fabrics, these are comfy, garment dyed clothes that are fashionable and affordable.<span style=""> </span>Plus, the name is fun to say and the store isn’t full of just pink stuff for girls. And the outlet store is here in Anthem!<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="">8.<span style=""> </span></span><!--[endif]--><st1:city st="on">Bath</st1:city> and Body Works Pure Simplicity <a href="http://www.bathandbodyworks.com/product/index.jsp?productId=2095078&cp&amp;kw=cocoa&parentPage=search">Restorative Body Cream in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Cocoa</st1:place></st1:city></a>.<span style=""> </span>Smells yummy, applies smooth and silky, and lasts all day.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="">9.<span style=""> </span></span><!--[endif]-->Books:<span style=""> </span>my <a href="http://davidwhyte.bigmindcatalyst.com/cgi/bmc.pl?page=pubpg1.html&node=1016">David Whyte</a> and <a href="http://www.bigsnap.com/billy.html">Billy Collins</a> poetry collection.<span style=""> <a href="http://www.greenwood.com/catalog/G120.aspx"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></a></span><a href="http://www.greenwood.com/catalog/G120.aspx"><font>"The VBAC Experience"</span></a><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> by Lynn Baptisti Richards.<span style=""> </span>My friend Jeanette loaned me this autographed copy of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Lynn</st1:city></st1:place>’s book and I’ve been engrossed in its empowering, honest birth stories ever since (J – I’m almost done!)</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> <font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style=""><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span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style=""> </span><!--[endif]--><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span>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girly, </span><a href="http://crunchy.blogsome.com/">crunchy</a>, <a href="http://urbanearthmama.typepad.com/">earthy</a>, birthy, <a href="http://misplacedmama.blogsome.com/">mama</a> writing buddies.<span style=""> </span>Really, I’m not just saying this because MB<span style=""> </span>happened to include the same on her list.<span style=""> </span>They’ve become my “hobby”.<span style=""> </span>They inspire me to continue writing, sharing my experiences, my flaws, my insights.<span style=""> </span>They have been with me along my journey, nodding, laying their hands upon my head with love, holding me in their hearts.<span style=""> </span>They are talented beyond belief and really, really help me become a better, more educated person.<span style=""> </span>They are fab.<br 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</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font></span><font></span><font></span></span></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><fon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class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.75in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span 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style=""> </span><!--[endif]--><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font>My </span><a href="http://www.twolipsshoes.com/shop/index.php">Two Lips</a> black stillettos adorned with petite little flowers in blue, magenta, and green near the toe. They go with everything - jeans or a suit - and make me feel flirtatious and sexy any time I wear them. And they always get compliments. AND I paid under $20 for them at Ross.<span style=""> </span>‘Nuff said.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114387344628079539?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1143865031119744092006-03-31T18:48:00.000-08:002006-03-31T20:23:03.250-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/aunt%20ag.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/aunt%20ag.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">My great Aunt Ag (Agnes) Hill, a spirited, BINGO-playin' aunt with one glass eye, passed away today at 91 years of age.<br /></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">She had been in a nursing home for about two weeks, in my hometown of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Evansville</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">Indiana</st1:state></st1:place>. My Mom's best friend, Janet, went to visit her today for the first time. Janet had been reading her bible yesterday and a little paper card fell out. It was the card from my great-great Aunt Mattie's funeral. Aunt Mattie and Janet's mother were great friends. In fact, Janet's mother was by Mattie's side when she passed. When she saw this card, Janet reflected on this friendship. She decided to go visit Aunt Ag, who was residing in the same nursing home as Janet's mother.<br /><br />Janet arrived at the nursing home, and after saying hello and patting her arm, found Aunt Ag to be unresponsive. What she did notice was the "feisty, happy" look on Aunt Ag's face. <span style=""> </span>Upon taking her pulse, she discovered it was very faint. She called in the nurses and waited in the hallway. Ten minutes later, the staff returned and said she had passed away. Janet was at her side while she believes she was "in transition" from this world to the next. As a nurse, Janet explained that she has seen many faces of those in the same place...some are in agony, some are sad. Aunt Ag's face was happy.<br /><br />My Aunt Ag loved to eat, but like many of us, she didn't like to readily admit it. When she visited, our family's little joke was mischievously offer her plate upon plate of different snacks and food. <span style=""> </span>At first she would say "Oh, no, I'm not hungry"...but during conversation, one of us would casually slide a plate of food closer to Aunt Ag. Before you knew it - "caught a fish!" - Aunt Ag had devoured the food. A few minute later, another plate would be slid in her direction...and like clockwork, the food would disappear. Upon tasting a sweet pie, she would laugh and say “Ohhhh, this tastes so good! I haven’t eaten pie in 2 years!”<span style=""> </span>She seemed to forget that she’d just eaten pie perhaps a few weeks earlier at our house.<span style=""> </span>But, alas, she’d then say “Ohh, now I have to eat something salty”.<span style=""> </span>From sweet to salty and back again.<span style=""> </span>The silly food circus would continue and leave us smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>A few years ago, my Mom and sister took Aunt Ag sightseeing in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">St. Louis</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>That morning, they had taken a pit stop at Cracker Barrel and indulged in some down home biscuits and gravy.<span style=""> </span>Afterwards, while attending Sunday mass at Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis, a noxious smell erupted from their “pew” (pun intended). Aunt Ag peered over at Mom and right in the middle of mass, cackled “Ohhhh, them biscuits and gravy!!”<span style=""> </span>What followed was a resounding echo in one of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">St. Louis</st1:place></st1:city>’ oldest and most respected basilicas.<span style=""> </span>So, when visiting Aunt Ag, I would joke with her about “them biscuits and gravy” and she would giggle and relive the event.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>My Aunt Ag lived on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Delaware St.</st1:address></st1:street> in a cozy apartment.<span style=""> </span>She loved to play BINGO and eat at the Knotty Pine Café.<span style=""> </span>She was frugal, close with her money, but had sweet, deep soul.<span style=""> </span>She was recently seen using a broom as a cane.<span style=""> </span>She’d call my Mom and ask her to go shopping for Diet Coke and groceries.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I would always ask to tell me about her BINGO experiences.<span style=""> </span>She would put her hand on my knee, lean in towards me and say “Do you know that the girls I play with just don’t really like me?”<span style=""> </span>I would inquire as to why and she would say, in an almost whisper, “Well, ya know, when I win they just think I’m some ‘rich bitch’”.<span style=""> </span>We would laugh.<span style=""> </span>We would always laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>Aunt Ag loved a great gold, sparkly walkin’ shoe and matching purse.<span style=""> </span>She would gladly flaunt her costume jewelry and nylon jogging suits.<span style=""> </span>She’d often show her freshly permed and colored hair and would ask “how do you like my new makeup”.<span style=""> </span>In fact, one time she let her normally red hair turn natural gray.<span style=""> </span>She told us again and again how her friends thought her gray hair was just “so beautiful”. <span style=""> </span>The world revolved around Aunt Ag.<span style=""> </span>At least she thought so.<span style=""> </span>I was happy to let her believe it.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>She would always show off her newest pictures of her son, Donnie, and of her travels and cruises.<span style=""> </span>In the photos, there was Aunt Ag…gold shoes and handbag, flowered cotton t-shirt, matching pants, pink lipstick, cheeks just a bit too rosy from blush, and a big ol’ smile on her face.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>She fed a cat every day which she named Nuisance.<span style=""> </span>One of our favorite items in her home was a bean-filled fabric frog which, when flipped over, revealed anatomically correct male parts.<span style=""> </span>She thought it was hilarious and so did we.<span style=""> </span>So one day, she gave it to us.<span style=""> </span>That was a big deal.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>This past summer, on our cross-country road trip, Jason and I stopped by Aunt Ag’s house for a visit (the photo above was taken during that visit). In our arms was our three month old baby Kaia.<span style=""> </span>Aunt Ag was beside herself with happiness to see our baby girl.<span style=""> </span>She couldn’t believe how beautiful she was.<span style=""> </span>Later, my Mom shared with me that Aunt Ag couldn’t stop talking about Kaia… “Now, I’m not saying this just because she’s related to me, but that Kaia is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen.”<span style=""> </span>I think meeting Kaia was the highlight of Aunt Ag’s year.<span style=""> </span>I’m grateful I was able to share those bittersweet moments with Aunt Ag.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>A few weeks ago, Aunt Ag told her son Donnie that she had a recent “premonition” in which she saw her Mother.<span style=""> </span>It seems she must have known her time was approaching.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>"In the world of the ancient Celts, people believed the world of the living and the world of the dead exist side by side. Only a thin veil separated them. One night in all the year, the veil is lifted. We can suddenly “see” that we are standing right at the edge, where the two worlds meet. And on that night, souls can cross over, go back and forth across the threshold."</i></p> <!-- End #sidebar --><!-- End #content --> <!-- Begin #footer --> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span style=""> </span>I only wish I could have shared one more meal with Aunt Ag.<span style=""> </span>I’m sure it would have been biscuits and gravy.<span style=""> </span>And pie.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114386503111974409?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1143827309223281782006-03-31T09:45:00.000-08:002006-04-02T17:14:23.546-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia%20for%20blog%20copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/kaia%20for%20blog%20copy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Lovely, inspiring song I just heard on the <a href="http://www.cbs.com/latenight/latelate/">Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson</a> (TIVO'd, of course, as this Mama isn't up at midnight unless it involves nursing my child!)<br /><br />For Me, It's You</span><br /><a href="http://www.trainline.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">By Train</span></a><br /><br />If I ever find truth I'm gonna let you know<br />If I ever find faith I'm gonna sit in every bit of its afterglow<br />If I ever find a way to bring love here today<br />You better bet your life that this is what I'll say<br />Give it if you've got it<br />Get it if you don't<br /><br />Take my hand in the meantime<br />And let's walk into the sunshine<br />Everybody got something that they want to sing about, laugh about, cry about<br />It's true<br />For me it's you<br /><br />Give it away, give it away, give it away<br />If it's something that you got layin' round your house<br />Man let me tell ya if ain't a kiss<br />It's something you'll never miss<br />Give it to somebody that don't have a thing layin' round like a prayer or a<br />sweet sound<br />Give it if you've got it<br />Get it if you don't<br /><br />Take my hand in the meantime<br />Let's walk into the sunshine<br />Everybody got something that they want to sing about, laugh about, cry about<br />It's true<br />For me it's you<br /><br />Na na na na na na na na na<br />For me it's you<br /><br />Give it to somebody that don't have a thing<br />Ain't got soft shoes to dance or a love song to sing - no<br />Get yourself on the right track<br />Let somebody ride your back for a while<br /><br />If I ever find truth I'm gonna let you know<br />You better bet your life if this is what I'm gonna say just give it away<br />You can't take it where you're goin anyway<br /><br />Take my hand in the meantime<br />And let's walk into the sunshine<br />Everybody got something they want to sing about, laugh about cry about it's true<br />For me it's you<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114382730922328178?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1144513627848706362006-03-31T09:13:00.000-08:002006-04-08T09:28:53.826-07:00Diarrhea cramps are exceedingly more painful than labor contractions.<br /><br />Before I had Kaia, I used to think (as I writhed on the bathroom floor in pain) "Ok, if I can get through this, surely I'll be able to get through the terrible pain of labor!". My Mom agreed and assured me that was the closest way to describe labor.<br /><br />Lemme tell ya, when I have an upset gastrointestinal tract, I'd much, much rather be in full on labor at that point. At least I could breathe through those cramps and contractions. At least I could get a hold of what my body was going to be doing next. At least I knew something living and breathing would be arriving at the end.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114451362784870636?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1142985912194809092006-03-21T15:58:00.000-08:002006-03-21T17:55:38.156-08:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/Panorama-small.0.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/Panorama-small.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><em><strong>Note: I've learned how to add links within posts, so WATCH OUT. I've gone "linkin' mad!" Think of it as a photographic journey!</strong></em><br /><br />As of yesterday, Jason and I are official owners of 1.1 acres of Arizona dirt up in <a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.web-writer.com/images/office1.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.web-writer.com/office.htm&amp;amp;amp;amp;h=195&w=300&amp;sz=21&tbnid=oG0rq_qcHjNsaM:&amp;amp;amp;amp;tbnh=72&tbnw=111&amp;hl=en&start=4&amp;prev=/images%3Fq%3DNew%2BRiver,%2BArizona%26svnum%3D10%26">New River</a>! Finally, some breathing room, elbow room, lounging room, baby raising room, exploring room...finally desert mountain views and magnificant sunsets. Finally, plenty of sky for dreamy, lazy fall days and brisk, starry nights. Finally, a place for an outdoor shower surrounded by bamboo or ocotillo. Finally, a place we can unbox many of our dreams that have been packaged and waiting on the shelves for so long. A place that Kaia can wander and discover nature. A special place where I can hopefully labor with and birth my next child. And finally, a canvas in which my eager and inventive <a href="http://jasonasteele.blogspot.com/">architect husband</a> can paint and create and build the house <a href="http://acanthusarch.blogspot.com/">we've been longing for</a>.<br />Yes, we scored all of this for the grand price of...well, let's just say the price of what about 12 - 15 acres in the good old Midwest would cost ya. When you break it down that way it seems absolutely insane that we even considered this undertaking. But, Californians and native Arizona folks will understand that, well, it's just the price you have to pay for your own space here. And really, it's just DIRT. Ok, some native <a href="http://www.desertusa.com/april96/du_britb2.jpg">brittlebush</a>, <a href="http://www.azarboretum.org/plantlist/chainfruitcholla.jpg">scattered cholla</a>, and a few grand and proud <a href="http://www.totacc.com/user/jgoucher/ocotillo.jpg">Ocotillo</a> (my favorite desert plant). But, unlike a parcel of land most any other place, there are no trees or grass or lakes or ponds or streams. There is, however, a tiny little wash that we really, really hope runs during big rains or the <a href="http://www.solarhaven.org/MONSOON.jpg">Monsoons</a>.<br />Jason is finalizing the <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3064/1661/1600/Steele%20Floorplan.jpg">house plans</a> and is working to get them to bid very soon. As of late, I'm most anxious about landscaping, in which we've designated a large chunk of our budget to go towards. It will be all about <a href="http://modernphoenix.net/xerophytic1.htm">xeriscape</a> and native plants. When I moved here eight years ago, I swore I would NEVER build a house without at least a strip of grass. I <strong><em>needed</em></strong> that grass to sink my bare feet into, need that soft dirt beneath to dig my chewed up nails into, to feel like I was home. When we built our <a href="http://www.imagestation.com/album/pictures.html?id=4286410233&idx=12">first tract home</a> in 2000, we were adamant about not having desert landscaping. So, on our little plot of land grew <a href="http://www.imagestation.com/album/pictures.html?id=4286410233&amp;idx=12">ficus</a> and <a href="http://www.floridata.com/wallpaper/jpg/Nerium_oleander800yellow.jpg">oleander</a> and <a href="http://pubs.caes.uga.edu/caespubs/horticulture/Gold%20Medal%20Winners/GoldMedal-2003/Miss%20Huff%20Lantana%201.jpg">lantana </a>and grass.<br />With my renewed love affair with the desert, we are now quite adamant about staying true to the incredibly resilient and vastly different landscape and plants of the desert. My thoughts swirl with ideas for <a href="http://206.173.89.42/stevemullis_com/piphoto/Desert%20Wild%20Flowers.jpg">desert wildflowers </a>and <a href="http://www.fototime.com/e6b9717025d5ba5/standard.jpg">Mexican poppies </a>bursting with color in the spring. I think about native <a href="http://www.bewaterwise.com/gardensoft/images/plants/2316a.jpg">deer grass </a>swaying gently, dancing with the wind of our quite breezy lot. I want hummingbird-drawingi <a href="http://biology.ucr.edu/personal/MACphotos/plants/chuparosa.jpg">Chuparosa</a>, graceful golden <a href="http://www.astronomy-images.com/day-images/ZionNationalPark/GoldenColumbine.Zion.600px.5719.jpg">Columbine</a>, bold <a href="http://www.rangenet.org/directory/christiec/plants/scrophulariaceae/PEPA24.jpg">Penstemon</a>, and plenty of <a href="http://www.skidmore.edu/~jthomas/JJT%20Home%20Page/Arizona%202004/Arizona%20Pictures%202004/62%20Creosote%20Bush.jpg">Creosote</a> which smell divinly of earth, dirt, and leafy bark after a rain. Looking out the expanse of glass in our living room and bedrooms, I envision seeing <a href="http://www.naturalphotos.com/sekercioglu/sonoran_desert/images/ARZ8-OrgnPp-PaloVerde.jpg">Palo Verde</a>, rugged <a href="http://ag.arizona.edu/pima/gardening/aridplants/images/Olneya_tesota.jpg">Ironwood</a>, and the medicinal <a href="http://home.sandiego.edu/~pkemp/MesquiteTree.JPG">Mesquite</a> tree. Can you believe the lovely and delicate seeming <a href="http://www.josephholmes.com/large/033SacredDatura.jpg">Sacred Datura </a>(what an awesome name) and <a href="http://www.twofrog.com/images/oenothera.jpg">Evening Primrose</a> plants are native to the desert climate? Other must-haves are sumptuous and antioxidant-packed <a href="http://smallfarms.typepad.com/photos/beautiful_farms/pomegranatetree.jpg">Pomegranate</a>, fragrant <a href="http://www.mswn.com/images/Leucophyllum_langmaniae_Lynns_Legacy-3.JPG">Sage</a>, and a tiny little herb garden with <a href="http://www.swsbm.com/Images/New2005/Rosmarinus_officinalis-2.jpg">Rosemary</a> and other herbs. While the aforementioned plants aren't desert natives (yah, so I'm straying a bit from my "only desert native" anthem), they grow wonderfully here and will add flavor and healing to our lil' paradise. And of course, there will be lots and lots of Ocotillo. It's all about the <a href="http://www.arizonahighways.com/custom.cfm?name=photos.cfm&page=4&amp;nav=photo">Ocotillo</a>. They look like little dead sticks, but out of nowhere, or after a rain... bright flowers bloom from their tips. They are indeed <strong><em>alive</em></strong>. And they offer a wonderful sculptural feel to the landscape.<br />So, we are busy trying to plan a little weenie/s'mores roast on our land at some point soon. We can gather around the bonfire (don't worry, not on a <a href="http://www.maricopa.gov/aq/default.aspx">no-burn day</a>), lay on our backs on some Mexican blankets, and enjoy the great sacred space which has been reserved just for us.<br /><br />OK, time for your assignment: Visit <a href="http://www.arizonahighways.com">Arizona Highways Magazine's</a> website. One look and you too will fall in love with the desert.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114298591219480909?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1142746174864818652006-03-18T20:48:00.000-08:002006-03-18T21:40:14.586-08:00<a href="http://urbanearthmama.typepad.com/">Brooke</a> signed my blog comment book. Even better, she <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">read</span> one of my blogs. Then, she said her heart was with me. Maybe that's why I've slept so deeply and peacefully the past few nights - because I've had her heart. Her broken/loving/bleeding/healing heart. And she even had enough room left over to even give some of it to me.<br />Brooke is a blogging goddess. Like me, she was a homebirth transport - her son born by traumatic c-section. You can read all about her experiences, and taste the insight and texture of her words on her blog: <a href="http://urbanearthmama.typepad.com/">http://urbanearthmama.typepad.com/</a><br /><br />I read blogs like Brooke's and I still cannot.fathom.why.the.hell it's <span style="font-weight: bold;">moviestars</span> that are celebrated and idolized and paid the mad-crazy bucks and not impossibly talented, insightful, tormented, brutally honest women like Brooke. Yes, I'm saying she should be celebrated and idolized and paid the mad-crazy bucks for just being HER, for finding light in all the darkness. Or, nay, freakin' creating the light if she had to. That's pure magic, folks. But I will rest easy because I know the dirty little secret of our culture: it is women like Brooke, and <a href="http://crunchy.blogsome.com">Jeanette</a>, and <a href="http://misplacedmama.blogsome.com">Marybeth</a>, and <a href="http://www.sagemidwifery.com/page4.html">Marinah</a> who really hold all the empowerment in this world. The best part? They release it, in little capsules, and it rises like smoke from the ashes of our burning hearts...and finds it's way to people like me.<br /><br />From Dictionary.Com:<br />Brook.<br />Noun: a natural stream of water smaller than a river (and often a tributary of a river)<br />Verb : put up with something or somebody unpleasant.<br /><br />From Me:<br />Brooke.<br />A natural stream of wisdom, smaller than the river of energy that surrounds us (and often a tributary to that river of energy) ...but larger than life. Meandering, life-giving, quenching, peaceful, babbling (in a good way!), awakening, reflective.<br />Brooke.<br />Put up with something or somebody unpleasant. Cried. Survived. Thrived. Lives. Loves. Laughs. Oh, always laughs.<br /><br />Brooke: "I am haunted by waters..." Your namesake is the connection to my favorite words, the words which are housed on my blog home page even:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters". - Norm MacLean</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114274617486481865?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1142147298325550612006-03-11T23:00:00.000-08:002006-03-14T07:30:08.076-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia%20for%20blog.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/kaia%20for%20blog.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />- Said "DaDa" for the first time last Thursday. She has said it "on cue" when seeing or hearing Jason a handful of times.<br />- Has her very first ear infection<br />- Tries terribly hard NOT to crawl. Wants to roll her way around. Getting better at her own version of crawling.<br />- Can fanagle her way from a laying down position to sitting up<br />- Eats Cheerios, mashed up bananas, apple and carrot wagon wheels<br />- Chews on teething biscuits<br />- Discovered (like, for reals) the majesty of her tongue this week. Sticks it out while in the carseat.<br />- Still doesn't sleep through the night<br />- Can clap her hands<br />- Looks around for JP when you say "Where's your puppy?"<br />- Gets the concept of Peek-a-boo<br />- Is really into loud squealing<br />- Begs for sips out of your water glass<br />- Has two teeth on bottom<br />- Bites when nursing (I have the battle wound to prove it)<br />- Plays around when nursing<br />- Recognizes the "Elmo's World" song<br />- Pulls on your nose and lips (ouch!) and explores inside your mouth with her hands<br />- Loves to talk into her "pop-bead" toys to hear the echo<br />- Looks more and more like her Daddy each day<br />- Had earwax removed at the Dr's office last week (so sad! And boy, she protested). Dr. says she has narrow ear canals.<br />- Can say "more" in sign language when I'm feeding her in her high chair (unless I'm confusing it for excited clapping)<br />- Crawls up onto your lap like a monkey if you are sitting on the floor playing with her<br />- Is a champion napper (goes down easy, sleeps for hours. Hmmm, just like her folks!)<br />- Doesn't like her nose to be cleaned<br />- Still doesn't "bounce" up and down on her knees like some babies<br />- Babbles in her crib in the mornings<br />- Goes nuts for fruit<br />- Sometimes gags on green veggies<br />- Knows the sound of the ringing phone<br />- Does the "stiff as a board" move when she doesn't want to be put down or sit down<br />- Always pees if you keep her diaper off for more than 20 seconds<br />- Is growing too fast<br />- Still melts my heart when I see her, awake and hungry, at 4 in the morning<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114214729832555061?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1141539675527438072006-03-04T22:20:00.000-08:002006-03-04T22:22:09.556-08:00<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Of course.<br /><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s not a coincidence that </p> <p class="MsoNormal">you share your name</p> <p class="MsoNormal">with the Greek earth goddess Gaia</p> <p class="MsoNormal">who was born from Chaos<br /><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of course.<br /><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Chaos being the great void of emptiness </p> <p class="MsoNormal">within the universe</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Chaos being the great void you filled</p> <p class="MsoNormal">within my belly<br /><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of course.<br /><br /> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Chaos being the circumstances</p> <p class="MsoNormal">in which you arrived</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Chaos being the circumstances </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of life and love<br /><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of course. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114153967552743807?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1140823902663981742006-02-24T15:05:00.000-08:002006-02-24T18:40:30.076-08:00When your husband walks in the door from a hard day's work and says "Un-be-lieve-able" you know your housekeeping skills have completely gone to crap. When your response is "Oh, well YOU try and take care of a baby and work from home and keep the house clean" you know your relationship skills are on their way to craptown too. Lucky for us, it was only a momentary meltdown on my part and now that the babes are in dreamland (yep, hubby too), I have some minutes to relax, surf the web, and blog. All better!<br />So let me paint of picture of my living room floor area for you. I'll spare you the gory details of the current state of the kitchen.<br /><br /><ul><li>One highchair, covered with spilled and hardening goo from bowl of rice cereal mixed with peas that my dog managed to overturn after I'd left it unattended. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/baby%20goo.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/baby%20goo.jpg" border="0" /></a></li><li>One bowl flung onto carpet, spoon 5 feet away, once filled with rice cereal mixed with peas.</li><li>Partially emptied, opened diaper bag, now stained with overflow of spilled goo from said highchair incident. </li><li>3 baby blankets (that double as changing pads and play mats), each in various states of "wadded up" and sprinkled with a delicious combination of teething biscuit crumbs, rice cereal flakes, Cheerios, and pet hair. </li><li>13 primary colored plastic ("PCP" as Jeanette says) baby toys in random order as if shot across the room from a baby toy cannon. Cannon is nowhere to be found.</></li><li>One baby bouncy seat positioned strategically in front of the TV and atop one of wadded up baby blankets. </li><li>One tube of diaper creme being squished under the leg of above bouncy seat. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/baby%20creme.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/baby%20creme.jpg" border="0" /></a></li><li>One unopened fax machine in box from last night's Wal-Mart trip, complete with large roll of architectural drawings and landscaping book balanced on top. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/fax.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/fax.jpg" border="0" /></a></li><li>Three untouched plastic Wal-Mart bags still filled with purchased items from last night's Wal-Mart trip.</li><li>Three dirty, crusty bibs, each in different locations. (**Note: I've had to revised this number 3 times as each time I scan the room I have found another bib!) </li><li>One pair of flannel plaid baby pants purchased at last night's Wal-Mart trip.</li><li>One baby wash cloth, printed with the word "Sunday".</li><li>Two dirty diapers sporting half-assed attempt at being neatly and tightly wrapped up to contain pee and poo.</li><li>One unused diaper utilized as momentary distraction technique during previous diaper changing. </li><li>Torn apart package of baby tights.</li><li>Seven wipes - unable to tell from current seat on sofa as to whether they are used or not.</li><li>Black leather laptop bag purchased during last night's Wal-Mart trip (yah, high quality I'm sure) , laying on it's side and temporarily being used as alternate diaper bag.</li><li>Black canvas laptop bag, laying on it's side, stuffed with work things.</li><li>Two chenille hand puppets, which look as if they jumped to their death from their partially emptied, goo-encrusted diaper bag home.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/puppet.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/puppet.jpg" border="0" /></a></li><li>One pair of brown, pointy toe, stiletto heels removed in an hurry while carrying crying, snotty babe in arms from the car. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/shoes.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/shoes.jpg" border="0" /></a></li><li>One pair of black, pointy toe, stiletto heels removed in a leisurely fashion upon return from Wal-Mart trip with sleeping babe in carseat.</li><li>One white, baby tee shirt peeled from just awaken babe in preparation for donning of cute party outfit for an office shin-dig. </li><li>Two dirty towels used to dry wet babe fresh from a bath this morning.</li><li>One flyer/magazine read while waiting for waitress to take our order at Denny's last night.</li><li>Official, wipeable diaper changing pad.</li><li>Bottle of "Little Noses" saline solution used to clear up snotty noses; used as another toy used to keep baby busy while changing a diaper or while waiting for waitress to take order at Denny's.</li><li>Shreds of cardboard and plastic from box of Goldfish that dog stole from kitchen counter and subsequently devoured during last night's Denny's/Wal-Mart outing.</li><li>Lone flip-flop thrown on with pajamas for quick dash to mailbox yesterday morning.</li><li>One piece of dog food.</li><li>Hanging from leather chair in living room: dirty pair of lavender baby pajamas (inside out), recycled paper stuffing from newly purchased laptop bag.</li><li>Sitting on top of glass coffee table... basket filled with: diapers, lotion, pair of baby nail clippers, never-used container of anti-bacterial hand sanitizer, comb, and bathwash.</li></ul>Well, my scan of the ghastly living room is complete...and with spot-on timing, both of my babes have awaken! Time to keep livin'....<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114082390266398174?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1140064586798849122006-02-15T19:51:00.000-08:002006-02-16T11:53:47.753-08:00Spill milk from a carton: repour. Voila!<br /><br />Spill pumped milk from it's supernatural tear in the breast milk storage bag that was cushioned and protected like a corpse in a casket: cry. shlump over in agony. hope like hell there's an at least an ounce that's salvageable. mourn when hope is dashed. clamp hair in hands and quietly repeat "no, no, no" while scrunching eyes and shaking head. hope milk decides to miraculously let down again minutes after pumping session yielded only 5 ounces, but hey, it was gold. Instinctively smell the contents of pump bag to determine imminent sour milk odor damage. look around cubicle to make sure no one saw you smell the bag. dreadfully recall that you only have 3.5 frozen bags of pumped milk at home. swear off Gerber's cheap breast milk storage bags in favor of the peace of mind that comes with Lansinoh's double zipper kind. belabor the fact that you took 15 perfectly good minutes out of your hectic work day to travel 4 floors and traverse across the building to hook yourself to a milking machine. Vividly recall how, 10 minutes prior, you proudly said (literally outloud to yourself in the mirror as you washed the bottles in the public restroom) "Nursing and pumping is the coolest thing I've ever done next to birthing my baby". feel stupid for a few moments. lackadaisically wipe some noticeable milk drips from your desk before non-breastfeeding-friendly cubie-mate returns. resist strange urge to lick some of it up in some wild effort to at least feel like it wasn't completely and "udderly" wasted. chastise self for weird urge. breathe deeply. unpack bag contents so that milk can be sopped up with the extra handful of scratchy cafeteria napkins you fatefully stashed in bag before pumping session. toss half-assed cleaned parts back into bag while squatting in stilettos and pitifully resting head in palms. regain composure. tell returned non-breastfeeding-friendly cubie-mate about incident when she asks what's up. give quick advocacy shpeil when she apathetically questions "when are you gonna stop doing that anyways?". stare at her with tired, tired eyes when she quickly changes subject. return to work. replay above drama in head on the way to pick up child. think about the phrase "crying over spilled milk". try to remember if there's a song about it. decide there should be and start thinking of lyrics and beat and style and who the hell could make a hit out of it. decide throaty, folky Jewel could probably make it work. or angry Alanis. remember that Jewel has bigger boobs which would most likely make the song sell better for obvious and non-obvious reasons. pick up hungry child and immediately nurse her at sitter's house in vain attempt to forgot "the incident". revisit "the incident" the entire time you are nursing. feign a smile. bestow silent blessings on all breastfeeding and pumping mothers of the world. put tired child to bed upon returning home. go about normal evening routine. tell husband working on laptop spilled milk sob story. appreciate his look of concern and understanding when he says "that sucks". realize he really is concerned, but probably not for obvious reasons. discover it's probably because he thinks you should be more careful. nod at admission and decide to forget about it for obvious reasons. open freezer to stare blankly at measly 3.5 bags of pumped milk left. imagine 5 ounces sitting pretty in cheap Gerber bag next to them. close freezer door. terrorize yourself by repeating cycle two more times in true OCD manner. pull homemade cookie dough crammed with dark chocolate chips, whole wheat flour, and raw cane sugar (i.e. attempt at 'healthier cookies') from fridge. find a comfy leather seat in front of TIVO'd American Idol episode. critique contestants, fashion, and judges' choices. eat healthier cookie dough by fingertipfulls. breathe. resume pumping tomorrow...carefully.<br /><br />**Added after initial post** adorable, concerned pro-breastfeeding hubby decided I got the "Finally Funny" award after reading this post. Gave a combo wink/kiss from across the room at hubby after proclamation. Reference previous blog for more insight.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-114006458679884912?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1139938868720852152006-02-14T09:35:00.000-08:002006-02-14T09:43:08.080-08:00<div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"> Happy Valentine's Day to all the fabulous, extraordinary valentine's in our lives! Yep, that's YOU!</span> </div><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/cap.2.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/cap.2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/who%20me%20on%20vday.0.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/who%20me%20on%20vday.0.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113993886872085215?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1139638624053642162006-02-10T22:12:00.000-08:002006-02-10T22:21:56.136-08:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia%20bw%20cuteness.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/kaia%20bw%20cuteness.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So, I'm not a Mom that checks often to see if teeth have managed to break their way through Kaia's soft gums. People often ask if she has any teeth yet and I have to admit, quite embarrased, that I really don't know.<br />Today was the day I decided to check and wouldn't ya know it - a little tooth is poking through just enough to see it and feel it! After I smiled and hugged her tight and told her Congrats, I realized that this tooth and I could have many a fight during nursing sessions. Let's just hope it behaves...When I told her Daddy, he was so darn excited he could barely contain it. "What a PERSON!" he squealed and smothered her jiggly cheeks with smooches. He kissed the top of her freshly washed head of hair and said "See, I told you that you'd have to grow a tooth for Daddy since I just had one taken out!". Ever the compliant girl...Yes, so after an emergency tooth extraction and 5 days later, Jason and sat in awe of our lil' tooth fairy. Quit growing so fast, my love!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113963862405364216?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1139638196678384152006-02-10T22:08:00.000-08:002006-02-10T22:30:03.780-08:00While rolling around in bed one night thinking about Kaia’s C-birth, I suddenly realized that most of the words I associated with it began with the letter “S”. I didn’t even have to dig to think of these words, they just flew around in my brain at warp speed. These words alone function as a short, harsh story of her C-birth.<br /><br /><br />Her Birth Begins with “S”<br /><br />Stopped<br />Scared<br />Shuffled<br />Stripped<br />Sedated<br />Spinal<br />Supine<br />Shaved<br />Strapped<br />Scrubbed<br />Sterile<br />Smalltalk<br />Strangers<br />Supervised<br />Scalpel<br />Sliced<br />Slashed<br />Sectioned<br />Savage<br />Sacrilege<br />Subhuman<br />Stolen<br />Swiped<br />Severed<br />Suctioned<br />Separated<br />Screamed<br />Sutured<br />Superglued<br />Scarred<br />Sore<br />Stinging<br />Seepage<br />Solitude<br />Sobbed<br />Sorrow<br />Shushed<br />Shamed<br />Silenced<br />Surrendered<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113963819667838415?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1139206239430988742006-02-05T20:48:00.000-08:002006-02-06T16:40:10.630-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/cute%20baby%20in%20a%20box%20photoshop.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/cute%20baby%20in%20a%20box%20photoshop.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />To my utterly delicious daughter,<br /><br />Today is a special day. It is the day in which you have been on this Earth for seven months. As this day inched closer, the need for me to celebrate it became more clear. Six months was indeed a milestone and yet seven somehow seemed different. The word that kept coming to my mind was mystical.<br /><br />As I stood in the shower this morning I kept thinking about the number seven. I lowered myself on the floor of the shower and leaned gently back to rest. I shifted my gaze towards the hot water streaming from the shiny showerhead. It dropped and sprayed and splashed quickly and deliberately on my body. It reminded me of tears...all the tears I'd cried in these seven months - many happy, many sad. I thought about how, at times, both the pain and joy were so deep that it seemed tears might bubble from every pore of my body. But in the shower, watching the water, I wasn't sad. I thought about seven. I thought about the shape of the written numeral and it brought to mind two images; one of you laying on your side in your crib, legs stretched in an almost 90 degree angle. Like a sweet little 7. The other image was of you, awaiting to descend into my birth canal, with your legs dangling down. I don't think you were to be born feet first, however, thinking of 7 this morning reminded me of you, in my belly, preparing to enter this world quite differently.<br /><br />So I did a quick search on the internet about the number seven. My search resulted in very interesting, and validating, information about the mystical number seven:<br />"Number seven has profound and mystical undertones. It is the number of the mystics, a number that denotes wisdom, perfection, and completeness. It relates to spiritual development and is a number of self-expression. Number 7 has been regarded as the number of mystery and in sacred books, always signifies the mysterious and the spiritual force. Number seven specifies the blessings, the gifts of the spirit."<br /><br />Yes! You are my little mystic, my blessed gift from the spirit of this Earth. You are the wisdom, perfection, and completeness I have long yearned for. And mysterious you are indeed, from your surprising conception (you have always resided in my heart of hearts) to your mysterious birth, to the ways in which you gently nudge me along the spiritual path. It all makes sense to me, why the number 7 seemed so special.<br /><br />I took a peek back into my pregnancy journal to compare your life at 7 months in utero. On May 4, 2005 I was reflecting on a recent appointment with Marinah: "My prenatal appointment on Sunday went great. I've gained about 22 lbs so far and I'm starting to feel every pound of it! Funny enough, my belly was measuring smaller than at last appointment, but neither Marinah and I are worried. Who knows!". Alas, you, my little mystic, presented surprises to us at every prenatal appointment. Sometimes I miss the indelible closeness of pregnancy, of having you all to myself, of knowing you were right where you were meant to be. It was safe. You were with me everywhere and that small, but miraculous, fact changed my very outlook on life.<br /><br />Of course, having you here now to physically touch and smell and kiss and hold is intensly satisfying. But I would be lying if I didn't admit I sometimes wish we could instantly and secretly steal back into the womb, together, one being, sharing blood and nourishment and love...sharing that mystical and primal experience that is bestowed solely upon women/mothers. It is said that pregnancy creates such power within a woman that in some cultures it is the very reason pregnant women are not allowed to partake in certain rituals and celebrations...for fear that divine power will overtake and usurp the social authority of men.<br /><br />Pregnancy and birth taught me that I was unlimited. And now that you are here, with us, babbling and banging toys together and smiling with every muscle in your eyes, my love for you remains limitless too. "Unlimited. Together we're unlimited. Together we'll be the greatest team there's every been" - From <strong><em>"Wicked".</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br />At seven months, you are not interested in trying to crawl. It seems much more fun to just roll and roll and roll to get where you want to be. You gobble up homemade baby food, particularly sweet potatos, and truly enjoy the view in your new high chair. You gladly "Ride a little pony into town" on my knee and laugh every single time I get to the part that goes "...there's a hole and you fall down!". Sitting up on your soft giraffe mat, you will play cheerfully for 45 minutes at a time, always sure to keep me within your view. Did I mention that a few months ago you finally got over your extreme fear of and aversion to your carseat? Thank heavans! Our cars rides have resumed their leisurely feel and mostly you stare out the window or (GASP!) fall asleep. I used to be pretty jealous of those "fall asleep" carseat babies. Now, you too have joined the club and Mama's quite content with your membership.<br /><br />On the mornings in which I'm dreadfully drowsy, I plop you in your bouncy seat, binky and all, to watch Sesame Street, Oobi, or Dragon Tales. Like a compliant little girl, you allow me at least half and hour more sleep. Every now and then I hear you chit-chat with the cartoons about how you've managed to careen your binky halfway across the room in one fell spit!<br /><br />One morning about a week ago, I scooped your pajama clad body, smiling half moon eyes and all, from the crib. We gazed at each other silently while I layed you down to change your diaper. And then gently, with such clarity and deliberateness, you said "Buh". A new sound, deep from your belly. It hung divinely in the air. What did it mean? Nothing, I suppose, and yet it was glorious! You found that if you pursed your lips together first and blew, it was an even more unique introduction for your "Buh" sound. Your Grams thought it was hilarious that I recounted this story with such enthusiasm to her..."Mom, today she said 'Buh'!". She says it means that I am in tune with you. I think it means I am in love with the little bitty 7 month old creature you are and the way you make me completely giddy, renewed, and exausted all at once.<br /><br />Kaia Marin, here's to your seven magical, mystical, memorable, messy, and mah-velous months!<br /><br />***"Buh!!!"***<br /><br />Love,<br />Mama<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113920623943098874?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1139078055663430882006-02-04T10:19:00.000-08:002006-02-04T11:10:46.230-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/photshop%20love%20the%20bra%20hanging%20out.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/photshop%20love%20the%20bra%20hanging%20out.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I want to be funny. Geniunely funny. I'm not even asking for "pee in your pants" funny, or "soda spraying from the nose" funny, or "raw, Jenny McCarthy" funny. I would happily and humbly settle for "chin resting on the palm while reading blogs and chuckling" funny. Of even simple "eyes smiling so you know it's for real" funny. Honestly, my 7 month old daughter's poo is funnier than me. And the thing is, I have some dang funny pals. You'd think their humor would rub off on me... Jeanette is honest "why didn't I think of that" funny. Theresa is "holy cow, I can't believe that happened to you" funny (just ask her about her mascara under the boobs story). Haley is "small town girl meets raunchy chic" funny. Kimmy is "animated use of old school phrases" funny. Aaron is "unique analogy/story telling" funny. <br /><br />Me, well, I'm just too serious. I <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">feel </span>the world so intensly and haven't found the ability to translate that into funny just yet. You see, everyone loves funny people. Everyone finds a way to somehow relate to them. I am certain, too, that the release of endorphins during a laughing fit helps as well.<br /><br />Us serious folks just don't get the luxury of watching people have the same endorphin high reaction to our stories, our writing, and our musings. See, I used the word musings. Funny people wouldn't use that word. Instead they would probably use a more fitting, funny word like "crap" or "psycho babble". Not that funny people are crappy or psycho, although many are blessed with the gift of babble.<br /><br />I read Jeanette's blog about finding a fitting, flattering, practical, perhaps sexy nursing bra and I laugh out loud because I know exactly how she feels. Funny people like her must have a great memory because they write about those everyday things that slip right past the brain of us more austere humans. I mean, I experience hilarious things in life every day. But after the endorphins fade, I go about my day and the next thing I know I'm scrubbing homemade baby food off the carpet, polishing off a box of day old E.L. fudge cookies, and repositioning my nursing pads in preparation for bed. In a nutshell, my brain is exausted and I've long forgotten how the seriously large, middle aged woman with incredibly teased bleach blond hair and RuPaul-esque makeup sporting a "Big Dog" sweatshirt working the local bagel shop was really a funny sight.<br /><br />No one giggles about the emotional pain and suffering of a C-section. People rarely laugh out loud about my passion for homebirth and midwifery and a woman's right to birth safely in the place of her choice. Granted, homebirth can be funny! Yes, hearing my midwife recount the tale of how she <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">thought</span> she was sticking her finger in Kaia's <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">mouth </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>during my breech-discovering exam was sincerly funny. Listening as she went on to describe her daughter's wide-eyed expressions as she told the story to them was even better. Surely funny things happen under seemingly serious conditions, but alas, my skills at capturing them in a quirky, funny way is nil.<br />Bloggers of the world, I beckon you to bestow even a moment of your funniness on me. Give me a few hints, inside tips. Help me sprinkle some laughter into my weighty blogs. I promise to try and use them. Universe, this is my invocation of funniness.<br /><br />Well, the good news is I think that my burning desire to be funny is reflective of my journey of healing from Kaia's birth. I am on the path and I've already taken those serious, painful turns in the road. Now, as the emotional scars fade just a teeny bit, it's time for some laughter on the next leg of my adventure.<br />Even the closing couldn't end on a funny note. See, I told you...I'm just not funny.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113907805566343088?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1137393778319670952006-01-15T22:40:00.000-08:002006-01-15T22:42:58.330-08:00No one tells you<br />That in one flash<br />Of a moment<br />The earth shifts and<br />You move from selfish<br />To caretaker for all<br /><br />The cat<br />The dog<br />The laundry<br />The dirt<br />Was always there<br />Waiting quite patiently<br /><br />But now, because of that moment,<br />The frail cat needs<br />Herbs and reiki<br />A syringe full of pasty food<br /> “a pate” they say<br />that drips from her chin<br /><br />the dog, weary from a<br />day in the canyon<br />has broken or strained<br />his paw<br />and needs to be supported<br />to stand or walk or pee<br /><br />laundry must be sorted, socks matched<br />and must smell<br />fresh, of some man-made<br />aroma that can’t be placed<br />but just smells<br />right and respectable<br /><br />the cheese and dirt<br />mustn’t cover the counters<br />for too long and<br />one cannot dream<br />knowing a chocolate chip<br />has strayed from it’s package<br /><br />i care about sleep<br />and bright ready eyes<br />and skins that glows just so<br />but not enough to<br />let her wail alone<br />in her room while I think<br /><br />about dirt and cheese<br />and smelly clothes<br />and cats and dogs<br />and they way they rain<br />and how I used to care<br />about only me.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113739377831967095?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1137391963852155442006-01-15T22:11:00.000-08:002006-01-15T22:43:21.476-08:00Your face<br />On the pillow<br />Whose cover hasn’t<br />been washed<br />in a week.<br />The same pillow<br />your daddy drools on<br />Because he sleeps<br />so sound.<br />He flips it over<br />graciously<br />when I notice<br />the spots.<br />And I snobbishly<br />will not sleep<br />On the pillow.<br />But you do<br />Because your face<br />On the pillow<br />is all that matters<br />right now.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113739196385215544?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1137391081137532382006-01-15T21:57:00.000-08:002006-01-16T07:48:12.290-08:00The first poem written about Kaia's birth. It's been residing inside me for some time, and - like my healing - is a work in progress.<br />----------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />I piece apart my yearning<br />As if I must somehow defend it<br />Understand it wholly<br />Know where and why<br />My heart was ripped<br />My body was torn and numb<br />Like my soul<br />My child removed, my soul<br />Why my tears fell too easily<br /><br /><br />That night<br />I clung onto the words<br />“this child can’t be born at home”<br />and wanted to fling them<br />with Olympic bravado<br />through the small slits of glass<br />I needed to hear them crash around<br />the shards<br />and bleed.<br />It’s hard falling from grace<br />So swiftly<br /><br /><br />I shiver remembering<br />How my body shut down<br />After so much work<br />And so much love<br />A defiant act<br />I grasped the child inside me and<br />dug my tattered nails<br />Into a system I couldn’t beat.<br />I could not protect her<br />From the lights<br />The strange gloved hands<br />The piercing and grabbing<br />The urgent and redundant need<br />To breathe over her life<br /><br />I am sure she heard my plea<br />“wait, baby, wait”<br />and was simply holding<br />her breath<br />waiting for the signal<br />the pushing<br />the fire<br />the water<br />the hands<br />of her daddy<br />her sage<br />her mother.<br />“home, baby, home”.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113739108113753238?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1136943550810958442006-01-10T17:15:00.000-08:002006-01-14T18:53:01.463-08:00Long ago, in a place of lore, there was a lovely Princess. Princess Kaia's name meant "Of The Earth" and indeed, she was truly loved and adored by all in the land. And, when the stars shone softly upon the desert, she would sleep. Through the night. Peacefully. All was good and happy.<br />And then, there was some distruption in the land and the King Daddy and Queen Mama decided it was time to leave. Into Nana's house they moved, into a small, cozy room which would be home for two moons. There were kitties and doggies and lots of kisses from the Nana. And then, in the comfort and excitement of Nana's house, Kaia decided she would no longer need to sleep. Through the night. Peacefully. Kaia would instead wake often. Throughout the night. Loudly. Consistently.<br />"This, too, shall pass", the Queen Mama would say. "When we find a home of our own, our princess Kaia will once again feel safe and secure and will surely remember that nighttime is for sleeping".<br />And so, according to plan, the Kin, Queen, and Mama moved into a home of their own. It was a beautiful, spacious castle in the mountains just north of the desert land. Just enough room for the King, Queen, and Princess to stretch their bodies and relax. And the lucky little Princess had a room of her own with windows and a fan and her comfy crib. "Certainly, this princess-sized room will be just quiet and peaceful enough for our little girl to sleep soundly in", said the Queen Mama.<br />And, so the story goes: The Princess Kaia does not sleep. Through the night. Peacefully. The Princess decides instead to fall asleep only on Queen Mama and, when laid gently into her downy crib, awakens with sad cries, determined screams, and a frowning mouth. Once Princess Kaia is finally off to dreamland, she pierces the silent night frequently with the same sad cries, determined screams, and frowning mouth. She is hungry. She is lonely. She is on her back. Her nose is snotty. She is confused. She is binkyless. And then, she is in the Queen Mama's arms.<br />Queen Mama wonders when the "Seepy Seepland"fairy will visit Princess Kaia and sprinkle "Seepy Seep" dust on her sweet, closed hazel eyes. It will surely be a wondorous night. It will certainly be so quiet. Queen Mama wonders "Will it be lonely"? And we will sleep...happily ever after...through the night. Peacefully. Until the next Princess or Prince joins the royal family.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113694355081095844?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1136869925934258092006-01-09T21:11:00.000-08:002006-01-09T21:56:49.356-08:00Some of MY favorite things! Months ago, I started a list of those thingsin life that never get "old"...simple plesasures. ..things you can experience over and over, and each time they are just as deliciously enticing and pure as the first time...Won't you help me add to the list?<br /> <ul> <li>You are never too old to ride a shopping cart through the parking lot. Get a little momentum and hop on! It's exilirating, especially on a warm summer night. And you can't help but giggle and smile.<br /> </li><li>The first rain of the season...the smell is so earthy, you can almost taste it.<br /> </li><li>I love a deep belly laugh that makes you cry or almost wet your pants! The feeling and adrenaline remains long after the laugther is gone.<br /> </li><li>Being barefoot in grass. When I see an especially tempting, lush plot of grass here in Arizona, I immediately toss my shoes and wiggle my feet deep into the softness.</li><li>The feeling and anticipation of exiting your car at a final vacation destination. This is usually accompanied by a slow stretch of my body - feels so good after riding in a cramped car. <br /> </li><li>Baking chocolate chip cookies. Tonight, I baked them while on speakerphone with my Mom. I added a sprinkle of oatmeal and a dash of love.</li><li>Kissing babies. Especially their toes and noses. Kaia leans in and gives fantastic open mouth kisses. <br /> </li><li>Throwing a frisbee with my dog. Watching him dash off for the soaring disc of fun and catch it in midair makes me giddy.</li><li>Star gazing. My Dad and I used to star gaze on our backs in the grass of our front yard. We would talk about the galaxy, time travel, black holes, how stars are born and how they die. We would ponder our existance and the existance of beings beyond our imaginations. Star gazing makes you feel small and insignificant and stretches the limits of our minds.</li><li>Treatsure and scavenger hunts. When we were young, my folks used to coordinate scavenger hunts on our 10 acres of wooded land in Missouri. The excitement overflowed as we scampered through the trees and ravines, glancing down at our homemade maps, to find the treasures. </li><li>Nothing beats finding a new haunt. Nothing REALLY beats finding a new haunt with your best friendfeel quite special and very smart for having found such a fabulous place.<br /> </li><li>Spontaneous road adventures. Sometimes they don't start off so well, like if you've gotten lost on your way to somewhere else. Most times, they end well with great memories.</li><li>Ohhh, the smell of a new book. Fresh, clean, important, ready to be cracked open. I've often thought of it as the smell of the words "baking", rising off the pages. I remember what my textbooks even smelled like in grade school. For a few days, the smell made you excited to be in school. <br /> </li><li>Doesn't it feel great when you get something right? Solving a Math problem, finally "mastering" a hobby, or even that moment when you make a "connection". For me, it's quite simple. I recently felt this way when I cooked a casserole that I'd had many times at a friend's house. When it came out of the oven, I could tell it was "right". I felt validated.<br /> </li><li>Remembering dreams is a sort of mini-pastime of mine. Sometimes, I remember them off the bat. Sometimes, I don't recall them until I see a person I dreamed of in real life. I often only connect the storylines of my dream as I'm actually telling them to someone. I marvel at how the brain works and think my dreams help me to connect to our realm in a way I'm not able to when awake.<br /> </li><li>The anticipation of waiting for a loved one at the airport. This is always a bittersweet moment. Jason and I mastered this while we dated long distance for a year. I still remember the first time I met him at the airport in Albequerque (long story!). I was wearing a long, flowing skirt and boots and was oh so young. He careened towards me in a sweet, vulnerable way that was full of gratitude. Our smiles were our words for many long minutes.<br /> </li><li>Jello. Squishy, wiggly, colorful, slippery, sweet. Goes down "like butta". 'Nuff said.<br /> </li><li>There is something incredibly indulgent about waking up to a gorgeous day with absolutely nothing planned.<br /> </li><li>Of course, napping during a rainstorm is high on the list. This combines a few of the "best of the best": napping, listening to a rainstorm, the smell of rain, being warm and cozy, taking time to yourself. And if napping with someone else, particularly a baby, it is simply divine.</li><li>Dejavu. Is that how you spell is? Not only is it fun to say, I get chills every time I experience it. Dejavu is another pheomenon that makes you think...</li><li>Hiccups. Seriously, I love them. I really think our world is divided into two groups: Those who love hiccups and those who can't stand them. They make me laugh, they make me wonder, and I love that the noise is uncontrollable. Close your mouth, you still make a noise. <br /> </li><li>Flying into a big city at night. Seeing all the lights reminds me of a Christmas tree. From up there, the city looks happy. <br /> </li><li>If you know me, then you know I LOVE to spy. I spy on arguing couples at restaurants, spy on people at the airport, and spy on parents at the mall. When Jason catches me he always says "I know you're spying..." Spying does not get old.<br /> </li><li>Peering through lighted windows as you drive at night. I love seeing families watching TV, cats in the window, Mom's cooking dinner...it's pure Americana, Norman-Rockwell style.<br /> </li> <>It seems this is easier to do in the Midwest, where bay-windows abound and where many homes leave their front doors open so that you can see into the storm doors.<br /></ul><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113686992593425809?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1136607588526623102006-01-06T19:53:00.000-08:002006-01-06T20:40:23.893-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/six%20months.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/six%20months.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> (Click photo for bigger version of cuteness!)<br /><br /></div> As of yesterday, January 5th...six months of baby bliss! Six months of spit up, restless nights, knowing glances, endearing expressions, unrequited love, poopy diapers, unscheduled nursing ssessions, learning a new language, and being reminded of a language so primitive and real...parental love!<br />And within those six short months...recovering from a C-birth, battling and recovering from pneumonia, moving (twice), taking on new jobs (Jason), returning to old jobs (mine) leaving a dream behind (Taliesin West), pursuing new dreams (search for the perfect plot of land to build our house), and getting to intimately know another human (Kaia, and Jason again). What a whirlwind of a year 2005 was. I cannot imagine what 2006 holds for us.<br />Smack dab in the middle of the holiday season, we decided to move. And this year, for the first year in many many, we were unable to send holiday cards by Christmas. I had a letter written and everything (including a family photo!), but alas, it got put on the backburner while moving in to our new home in Anthem. I am in the process of editing it and will be posting it soon. So, yes, it's doesn't quite have the "personal, arriving in the mail, happy holiday" effect. But, we did want to share our thoughts with each of you as we welcome the new year.<br />Our little girl has a runny, snotty nose. Last night we put her to bed in her stroller, so that she could be more upright for nose drainage purposes. Well, she awoke 3-4 times every hour until, out of Mommy desperation, I scooped her up at 4:30 am and headed to Wal-Mart for some relief. We aren't huge fans of medicating our baby, so if driving to Wally World in the wee hours of the morning wasn't enought to convince you I was desperate, then certainly going there for medicine should...<br />In a half daze (don't worry, I was cognizant enough to drive), I wrapped Kaia up in a fleece blankie and hopped in the car. The wind was bitter and gusted around us. Kaia looked up through her little hole in the blanket with wide, excited eyes. With the moonlight upon us, I could even see her baby fine hair blowing in the wind. In search of Tylenol Cold/Cough medicine for infants, I finally realized that Mommies of sick babies have recently gotten the shaft! The new regulations around selling cough medicine have changed so that you must purchase the stuff from the pharmacy. Of course, Wal-Mart's pharmacy isn't open at 4:30 am for Mommies in dire need of one straight hour of uninterruped sleep. So, I settled on children's allergy medicine that seemed to have simliar ingredients for alleviating runny noses. I didn't even wait until we were out of Wal-Mart to administer the first dose. Hey, I figured I had a good 5 minute drive in which it could start to course through her body.<br />I managed to get about 2 hours of decent sleep, in which I dreamed like a madwoman. After arriving home from work today, and noticing her nose hadn't cleared a bit, I sent Jason out for the good stuff. In less than an hour, it had worked. I just recently put the exausted babe down for the night without so much as a peep from her. Let's hope tonight is better!<br />So, at six months, our precious girl loves to sit up and play on her soft giraffe mat. She'll entertain herself for 15 minutes at a time, which, for Moms, is akin to hours! Enough time to speed clean a kitchen, write a few emails, fold a load of laundry, fix a bite to eat - no, a MEAL, or make some quick phone calls. When she starts to get fussy, I move her from station to station - to her Exersaucer next, then in her stroller, then in front of the TV to watch Sesame Street, then on my lap, then down for a nap. She's rolling over so much, mainly from her tummy to back, and loves to gnaw at her toes. We've figured out how to make her "belly laugh", which we can't get enough of. While she hasn't started to crawl yet, she rolls and reaches, and grabs at anything in sight. Testing her lungs and vocal cords is her other new found passion, and she can release an array of squeaks, squawks, and screams. Speaking of releasing, she's also a gas machine, ifya know what I mean! She eats baby food once a day and Kimmy's Special (my sitters homemade sweet potatoes) and so far doesn't seem too keen on greens. Gonna have to work on that! She watches JP intently and I melt when she smiles and laughs at him.<br />I still hold my girl and rock her to sleep everyday and think about how she has seemed to sprout into a "kid" so quickly. I never, ever thought I'd almost forget what those early infant days were like...holding and kissing and nursing such a tiny body. She's got me "wrapped" around her chubby fingers!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113660758852662310?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1135966828847104522005-12-30T10:16:00.000-08:002006-02-26T11:55:02.186-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/great%20time%20bw%20copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/great%20time%20bw%20copy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/laughing%20laundry%20photoshop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/laughing%20laundry%20photoshop.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/angel%20eyes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/angel%20eyes.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/AUNTIE%20LOVE.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/AUNTIE%20LOVE.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/fun%20at%20grams.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/fun%20at%20grams.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/nakedgiggle.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/nakedgiggle.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/daddy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/daddy.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/agirlandherdogsmall.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/agirlandherdogsmall.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/green.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/green.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/feet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/feet.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/playtime.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/playtime.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/mylove.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/mylove.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/closeup2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/closeup2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia8.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/kaia8.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia5.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/kaia5.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/kaia7.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/kaia4.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/kaia3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/bathtub3a.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/bathtub3a.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaia1.jpg"><br /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113596682884710452?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1135230609777553592005-12-21T21:11:00.000-08:002005-12-21T22:01:19.860-08:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/mom%20and%20k.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/mom%20and%20k.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Call it out-of-whack new Mom hormones, or the stress of moving somewhere new, or the balancing act of being at working/wannabe Stay-at-Home Mom...call it what you will, but boy, can I cry on a dime. I cry because as I lean over Kaia's grinning, giggling face while playing with her on the floor, I suddenly realize that eventually I will have to leave her on an uplanned "someday". And in that moment, that knowledge becomes unbearable and wicked and completely unjust. I snuggle her neck, hold her close to me, and continue to cry. She smiles again and wonders why my face is so wrinkled up and wet.<br />I cry driving home from Wal-Mart at 10pm with a trunkload of last minute (yet thoughtful) Christmas gifts, juice, and pet food. This time I cry because the song that was my anthem during pregnancy, the song I sing out loud to most every day, finds it's way into a tiny crack in my heart where pain still resides over Kaia's birth. This was the song I sang to my midwife when she asked me to ponder Kaia's impending birth, the emotions, and the possibilities. It begins "Something has changed within me, something is not the same...". I told myself I would sing this song to Jason when I went into labor. "Too late for second guessing, too late to go back to sleep, it's time I trust my instincts, close my eyes and leap...it's time I try defying gravity" (From "Wicked"). To me, I felt like labor and childbirth would be like defying gravity. Truly, it was. But tonight, this song brought back 1000 emotions at once...the excitement of labor, the wondering what she would look and feel and smell like, the last few days of aloneness as husband and wife, the smell of the room the night I gave birth, the way I had prepared my favorite sheets for the bed that Jason, I, and Kaia would cuddle in immediately following her entry into this world, the gentle way Jason supported me in the birthing tub and the loving glances we shared, and the way I knew - just KNEW - I'd be birthing Kaia in our home. "Life has a funny way, of sneakin' up on you with you think everything's OK" - Alanis Morisette. Grief also sneaks and snakes it's way through your body. I think of Kaia's birth every single time I'm in the bathtub. I sink down into the water and recall everything, things I hadn't even remembered until then. There, my tears can simply merge with the water, and in that way join part of a life-giving force of nature.<br />Tonight, an image came to my mind. It was of Jason and I sitting in the dark on our bed the night we brought Kaia...home. Jason had been in the living room uploading photos of our girl and I was in darkened bedroom nursing. I began to quietly sob for the first time since Kaia's birth. Tears made their way, one by one, quickly down my chest and onto Kaia. Many minutes went by and I released so many feelings about Kaia's birth in each of those tears. Some for happiness, but on this night, most were tears of anger, sadness, guilt, dissapointment. Jason joined me and tenderly sat beside me. "I'm just thinking about her birth...and..." Jason hugged me and said "I know, I know" and I felt the warmth of his tears as well. For the next few hours, we cried together and talked about our experience, all while holding a sleeping Kaia in my arms. It was truly the night in which our healing began. We felt so robbed, and at the same time, guitly for feeling that way when our precious daughter, whom we loved with an enormity unexplained, was right here. Society told us we really were not allowed to feel angry and dissapointed because our baby was "safe and healthy". We both had felt trapped in the hospital, unable to release our raw emotions, until we were back home. We had been afraid. We leaned on each other that night to finish something we had started days prior. We celebrated.<br />Right now, Kaia is alseep in our room with Jason. I am so blessed. A year ago today, I was only 12 weeks pregnant. I look back at photos and see a distinct glimmer in my eye. I know now that the glimmer was Kaia peeking through our world, reminding us that even through pain there is hope...that even wounds as fresh as fallen snow will someday be the badges of honor we carry with us forever...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113523060977755359?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1133064780680875322005-11-26T19:56:00.000-08:002005-12-21T22:07:49.676-08:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/smiling%20and%20sitting.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/smiling%20and%20sitting.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/kaialaughingCROPPED.jpg"></a><br />December 3, 2005<br />Our little Kaia has mastered the "Staying" command. She is well on her way to "Sitting" up on her own and is a joy to watch as she outstretches her arms in an attempt to balance her tiny body. She can sit unsupported for bits at a time until she reaches to grab something in curiosity. By Christmas time, I have a feeling she'll be a pro. Two friday's ago (11/18/05), Jason and I were awaken as normal by our daughter at some ungodly hour in the morning. We both slowly crawled over to the foot of our bed where her crib resides and groggily bent over to pick her up and transfer her into our bed - something we've gotten ourselves into the habit of lately. Suddenly, Jason noticed Kaia was on her back and said "Honey, she rolled over! I put her to sleep on her belly!". We looked at each other, then looked at our wriggling, wimpering daughter and laughed. She sure did! As we stood over her crib, like Mary and Joseph gazing upon a baby in a manger, we were awestruck at this milestone. Yes...we had witnessed a miracle! We were immediately energized, giggled, and both reached in to pick her up and congratulate her. That morning, just to ensure I hadn't dreamed it, I rolled over to Jason and said "Remember that she rolled over last night?". He confirmed the experience and took Kaia downstairs to allow me to sleep in peace for a bit longer. Before falling back to sleep, I overheard Jason joyously telling his mom and Grandma how Kaia rolled over and before I knew it, he was laughing with joy. "Look, Look, she's gonna do it for us!". I jumped out of bed and stood looking down over the upstairs landing to see Kaia on her tummy on the living room couch. She hiked her little bum in the the air as leverage to push herself on her side. Gurgling and cooing, she then managed to swing her legs around just enough to roll herself on her back. We oohhed and ahhhed and clapped our hands in excitement. We tried to get her to do it again to take pictures, but alas, she decided she'd keep her secret to herself.<br />Milestones such as these serve as a bittersweet reminder of how quickly little ones grow up. Many times, I intentionally hold her too tight, nurse her too long, and kiss her too much in an effor to sieze the moment and remember her just as she is...perfect, tiny, wholly ours and so much herself.<br />For a few weeks, I've been hosting an internal battle about starting her on solid foods (while of course continuing to nurse). She has been watching with intent as we eat, reaching up to grab good just before it enters our mouths. She studies how we drink water and opens her mouth instintively. She is now almost 5 months old and I can tell her belly is growing! Finally, I walzed into Walgreen's and picked up some baby food - pears. That night, we sat her in her bouncy seat and strapped on a bib. And just like that, we spooned the pears in her hungry mouth. She squealed and jabbered and begged for more...she ate like a champ! While I certainly plan to continue nursing her, I feel twinges of guilt, sadness, and loss about transitioning her to solid foods. I know it sounds funny and it's one of those reactions I never imagined I"d have as a Mother. But somehow, I am dreading the day in which she will no longer "need" me for nourishment. I am saddened by the thought...and at the same time, Jason reminds me that watching her grow will be a true adventure and blessing.<br />Kaia is one happy little girl. She whines only when she is tired or hungry and let me tell you, both require immediate attention! At the first rub of her eyes, I've learned to put her down for a nap or crankiness will certainly ensue. Since we moved into Jason's Mom's house, she decided that she was no longer going to sleep through the night. So, we've managed to somehow make it through numerous wakings and feedings all night long...Of course, when Grandpa and Grandma Ritchie, and Grams Ritchie (my Mom) were here, she slept through the entire night for them at their hotel rooms. Sometimes in the mornings in which I work from home, Kaia awakens next to me on my pillow. She turns to look at me and we stare at each other in silence. She reaches out and touches my face, her soft hands exploring my nose and hair and mouth. We start a conversation and she laughs and smiles and talks right back. We share wisdom. We transfer love. We keep each other warm. We make pacts to always remember...how loved we are, how special our bond is...And sometimes, our lovely encounters leads up right back to peaceful sleep, together again...we share life-giving breath.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-113306478068087532?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1129867921610683222005-10-20T20:55:00.000-07:002005-10-20T22:11:47.736-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/sleeping.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/sleeping.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />How could I have ever predicted that I would fall head over heels in love with my daughter? People warned me, but I had my own ideas of what it would feel like. Pre-baby, I guess I imagined that Motherhood would exibit itself in different ways... such as thinking Kaia was adorable and irresistable and that I needed to feel responsible for her in terms of protecting her and raising her well.<br />I absolutely believe she is adorable and irresistable. And while I want to protect her, I never imagined that the NEED to do so was so innate, so primative and so deep. It's not what I would call a "responsibility"; rather, it's an instinct and it's impossible to quell. Suddently, walking down steps causes me to think "What if Kaia were in my arms and I tripped? How could I position myself so that she could break her landing by falling on me instead of the hard ground? Would I be able to react soon enough? If she got hurt, could I maintain my cool while I helped her?". My mind has created terrible and instant versions of situations in which Kaia could be harmed...these imagined moments stop the breath in my body and take me minutes to recover from. I think "How could I go on?" if something were to happen to her. I do not believe I am an overly protective Mother...however, I've been shocked at just how overwhelming the need to protect my child has been...whether it's comforting her when she cries, not allowing her to sit in a soiled diaper too long, or holding her tightly when I descend stairs. Alas, these past 15 weeks have proven to be ones in which Kaia has been thankfully safe and sound.<br />So, I never thought that loving my daughter would feel this way either. I mean, it's LOVE. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Serious</span> love. Like, "who cares if I'm entirely exausted and have spit up and poop stains on my clothes and have awakened 10 times in an hour to put your binky back in and can't seem to finish one task without tending to you and have listened to you wail at unnerving decibals for an unnerving 45 minutes on our drive across down and at the end of the day still am reduced to happy giddy bliss by your mere smile or the smell of your hair or the smoothness of your skin or the warmth and security of your snoozing body against mine" type of love. Oh, I forgot the "now I wear flip-flops and don't even care and experienced life without makeup for 5 weeks straight and have gotten to where I actually understand your goo-goo-ga-ga's and prefer them to plain English" type of love. I guess mostly it's a truly tender, bittersweet love that floors me. It is overflowing. Tenderness isn't something that ever came easy to me. But when that squiggly almost 7 pounder emerged from my body, I suddenly became tender. Nurturing and patient (OK, so maybe only with her).<br />Lately, I've been pathetically anxious and dreadfully in denial about returning to work on October 24th. I cannot fathom a life other than that in which I've been living for 15 weeks with Kaia. One in which she does not leave my side. A life in which I can decipher her cries. I suspect that most Mom's go through days in which they cannot wait to put their child down for a nap. I know I do! Finally, some time alone all to yourself. Some time to relax. Or perhaps time to pick your puked-on clothes up from the spot in which you dropped them week only to find they've begun to grow some kind of mold (yep, it can happen). Some time to comtemplate your next meal when you suddenly recall that you didn't eat breakfast and that lunch was skipped due to a spontaneous nursing session. But ya know what's strange? I cannot wait to come to the rescue of that waking babe, to cradle her in my arms as she struggles to adjust her eyes to the light. I call out to her "Mama's coming!" and snatch her up into the crook of my neck as as I smother her chubby cheeks in kisses. She smiles because she knows me....because I know her...because leftover milk in her mouth is gonna find it's way onto my shoulder at any minute...and I won't mind a bit. I'll keep on bein' her Mama, believing that she's really truly vocalizing the phrase "I love you" when she is whiny and tired, and that she'll change the world someday, and that she's the cutest patootie around. Meanwhile, she'll keep stealing my heart and reminding me that Motherhood is the greatest, most gravity defying love on Earth.<br />I believe Kaia has always existed and lived within me and that she has just recently come to me in the form of a child so that I could experience true love with all my senses. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"I have existed from the morning of the world and I shall exist until the last star falls from the night."</span> -from "Caligula"<a href="http://www.imdb.com/rg/title-tease/quotes/title/tt0080491/quotes"></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-112986792161068322?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1127882788768238132005-09-27T20:42:00.000-07:002005-09-27T21:54:31.410-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/in%20backpack1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/in%20backpack1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />(The photo shows me on the first day I felt really sick. Awful!)<br /><br />I have a sneaking suspicion that this blog will consist of more than one entry...okay, wait, it's not even really "sneaking". This suspicion is all out in the open, announcing it's presence like a college roomate walking into your shared dorm room at 3 am after a night of partying. Know what I mean? Another admission about this story: in the wake of all the sadness and devestation in our world, this entry is going to sound PATHETIC, I tell ya. But I have to get it out.<br />Last night, at 2:30 am, admid the bit surprising heat of the desert, we arrived home after four weeks on the road in our RV. Four weeks with our baby. Four weeks with our yellow Lab. Four weeks of sleeping in different beds. Four weeks of filling up on record-setting priced gas every few hours. Four weeks of dealing with Pneumonia! When we set out on the road, I was sick. Really sick. But I thought I just had some nasty bug I'd get over. Turns out, I'd end up in the hospital for two nights in Dodgeville, Wisconsin on our last week of vacation with a massive case of Pneumonia has apparantly been hangin' out in my lungs since the birth of Kaia. (!!!) For me, here's what Pneumonia on the road looked like: lots of moaning, not being able to sit up for extended periods of time (i.e. only for nursing my baby), inability to even lift my arms (except to nurse my baby), a dry, deep cough, round the clock fever, night sweats, loss of appetite, Jason doing everything in his power to take care of our baby because I just couldn't...well, it doesn't really matter anymore. But it sucked. I finally went to a Dr. in my Dad's hometown of Warrenton, Missouri. Not having a clue as to what I had, the Dr. said "Oh yes, you have congestion in your chest". I was put on a 10 day round of Amoxicillin. I also sported a lovely fever blister. Due to this intruder, I was told not to kiss my baby until it cleared up. Have you ever had to "not kiss your baby"? Terrible. Barely possible.<br />After the Amoxicillin, I still didn't feel better. I checked myself into another Dr. in Jason's Dad's hometown of Charlestown, Indiana. After listening to my lungs, asking tons of questions, concerned looks and furrowed brows, the Dr. sent me to the hospital to get chest X-rays. "It could be many things", he said. " It could be a collapsed lung." "What??!! And I wouldn't know it??", I asked scared and flabbergasted. "Not nessasarily". I admit I was a quite relieved to find out it was "only" Pneumonia. A pretty nasty case of it in my left lung. This time, I was put on a 5 day round of Zithromax. We headed to Spring Green, Wisconsin, our last stop on the journey before we headed home. After four days at Taliesin, I knew something wasn't right. I still coughed. And it started to hurt in my chest. I woke Jason up at 9 am on Thursday and said "I need to go to the ER". Anyone who has read my blogs clearly knows about my aversion to hospitals. After Kaia's birth, I vowed I never wanted to step foot into another one. But I knew in my soul that it was where I must be. And I knew that I'd be staying. I had a premonition of sorts a week or so early...I was tied to IV's, not able to nurse my baby. And when I woke this Thursday, I knew I had to surrender to it.<br />Dodgeville is one tiny town in Wisconsin. Their ER admitted me immediatly and I was greeted my a kind male nurse. Right away, a nightmarish amount of testing began and I struggled to resign to them all. I abhor blood draws, and must lay down to avoid passing out. I must breath deeply and consciously block out any conversation going on during this time. I cry every time. Jason holds my hand and tells me it's gonna be alright. I almost hyperventilated when they had to insert the IV. I surived the scariness (albeit painless, thank goodness) of an EKG and CT scan and multiple chest x-rays. I even managed to get through a very painful arterial blood draw (although much crying accompanied it). But the time I bawled the most, the time I just didn't think I could get through one more moment was when they said I'd have to pump-n-dump and formula feed my baby for at least 48 hours. I freaked out. This was not my plan. Although this moment appeared in my premonition, I had dreaded it. I did not want to give up this intensly personal, profound, wonderful act of nursing my baby. The nurse stared at me in a combination of confusion, sympathy, and craziness as I wailed, muttered to Jason, flailed in the hospital bed, and choked on tears as I struggled to breath through the ball of Pneumonia in my lungs. The nurse silently left the room and in a few moments later the gentle, female Dr. appeared. She tried to talk me down. I had more resigning to do.<br />That first day was tough. Being tethered to an IV in the middle of my arm(which administered round the clock antibiotics and saline solution) restricted my ability to even hold my baby. Not only could I not nurse her, I really couldn't even bottle feed her or hold her or change her diaper. Of course, I am terrified of IV's in my arm, so I am extra cautious and careful. I envision it ripping out and blooding spewing all of the room (I know, I know, I'm insane). As I watched Jason feed Kaia her first bottle of formula, I again broke down in tears. "I should be the one feeding her...I should be holding her and gazing in her eyes...that's my job". As trivial as it may sound to others, it was heart-wrenching to me. I felt robbed. I felt out of control. I felt so very alone. I felt vulnerable and so terribly exausted. Jason is an amazing Dad and took care of our little girl like a pro. He slept in my room along with our baby and did everything in his power to love, love, love me. Dang, I am so lucky.<br />Another Dr. had stopped by around 10 pm that night to check on me and try to assess my case. The Dr's were really concerned as to how I contracted this and why it had held on for weeks admid rounds of antibiotics. They each asked questions, many about my birth. They concluded that I had aspirated a bit of the vomit (yum) during my labor and that it had settled in my lungs and caused this infection. Apparantly, my body must have tried like hell to fight it off, as I didn't get my first true "bang me over the head" symptom until 8 weeks postpartum.<br />I couldn't sleep that first night. I felt those same waves of disspointment that came over me after Kaia's birth. Why couldn't I take care of myself? Why didn't my body fight this off? Was I a bad Mom? My body felt so invaded with all the testing, and check ups, and routine breathing treatments, and unexpected blood draws that sent me into fits. At 3 am, when the nurse came to check my vitals, I told her I couldn't sleep and could I please get something very mild to help? She brought in Robitussin, which I politely declined since cough syrup makes me naseous and dizzy for 24 hours. Not exactly the relief I was looking for. I slept a few hours here and there and kept waking up suddenly with the thought of my IV coming out of my arm. The next morning, another Dr. consulted me. They were still concerned and kept encouraging me to try and "cough something up" so they could culture it to find the exact right antiobiotic to treat it. If I couldn't do this by the weekend, they make have to cut me open and scrape stuff from my lungs. When I heard this, let my head, arms, and tears fall. I held Jason's hand and babbled about how I couldn't do this anymore, I wanted to get better, I was so very scared.<br />My fate began to turn later that afternoon when the nurse said the Dr. had agreed I could get the tether line to my IV removed. Although the IV would have to remain, I would only need to be hooked up when antiobiotics needed to be administered once a day. I smiled for the first time. "You are my hero" I claimed as they removed the IV line. They also moved us to another room right after this. As I sat in my new bed, freed from the IV tether, I summoned Jason to bring Kaia over. I gently laid her on my knees and wept. I smiled and talked to my baby, told her how much I loved her and how I had missed her SO much in just these past 24 hours. I told her she had grown and that I was gonna get better for her. She smiled and laughed and talked to me and looked curiously at the tears streaming down my face. I felt like I was meeting her for the very first time. I cannot describe the overwhelming happiness. The blood now flowed in my arms out of sheer joy. I held her and changed her and fed her from the bottle (apologizing the entire time and reassuring her that Mama's milk would be back on the way soon). It was a new day!<br />I slept soundly that night and dreamed of my baby. The next day, the Dr. came with great news that I was indeed getting better and stronger. The antiobiotic was working and they felt confident about releasing me, although I'd be on a 11 day oral antiobiotic. I still had to get well and strong. With the Dr's agreement, I happily nursed my baby that night in a hotel room after being discharged. I felt like I could have nursed her all night. Man, how I missed it.<br />We are now home, after driving the 30 hour journey in about 40 hours total. Jason is a master long-haul driver and I am immensly thankful for his resolve and his ability to have NEVER complained once during the entire four week adventure. I have much, much to learn from him.<br />Settling on my couch to nurse my daughter after we arrived, I saw her look around and smile. She knew we were home. Jason and I, our baby, our dog and our cat all slept sounding in our tiny room last night.<br />While our "vacation" was anything but, I am once again faced with numerous lessons in patience, humility, parenthood, love, family, will-power, and surrendering. It was one tough adventure. I am looking forward to being a "Mom" again, without this infection. While I feel 90% better, I know that there's still that 10% in which I must take time to help heal. And for someone who had never been really sick in my life, I no longer take my health for granted. And now, I REALLY understand the quote I mentioned a few posts back:<br />"<span style=";font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:100%;" ><strong> It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children."<br />I've been there. I've done that. And the emotion and experience never leave you.<br /></strong></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15053456-112788278876823813?l=leighsteele.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Leigh Steelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00928084291175385402noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15053456.post-1124767817270269852005-08-22T19:46:00.000-07:002005-08-22T21:35:40.720-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/1600/sleeping%20fists%20cropped.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6680/1381/320/sleeping%20fists%20cropped.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />So, this post doesn't have any moral to it besides "Writing Things Down Can Help You Remember Cute Things in the Future". Pretty boring, eh? Kaia, now that you have been part of our lives for seven weeks, I figured it would behoove me (and you someday) to take note of some of your sweet and unique mannerisms and personality traits.<br />**Like Mama, you love to have a rouge foot peeking out of the covers when you sleep<br />**You tug on your ear and rub your eyes when you are tired<br />**You curl your tiny fists up by your face to help you fall asleep (see photo above).<br />**Sleeping on your side is your number one preference. Unlessl tricked to do so, you won't fall asleep on your back.<br />**Mama knows one of the only positions in which she can hold you that lulls you to sleep. Curled like a bean on it's side, laying on the left side of my chest, with a blanket wrapped around you and your warm body cuddled very close to mine. You almost always must have your "binky". I pull it out when you fall fast asleep.<br />**"Kaia, Kaia Little Star" is your favorite lullaby. Mama recently learned there are 5 more lyrics and is trying to memorize them for you. There are some days in which I sing the first verse dozens of times until you drift to sleep.<br />**You also like "It's a Small World", "Hush Little Baby", and "Rock-a-Bye Baby". Mama made up one verse to a song just for you: "Kaia Marin, of the Earth and of the Sea, Kaia Marin you are beautiful to me. You're Mama's little girl, and you rock Daddy's world, Kaia Marin you are beautiful to me". Also, as a throwback to my Catholic school days, I've slightly modified a church song for you and it speaks volumes about your gentle and bright heart: "Gentle Kaia, quiet light, morning star so strong and bright. Gentle Kaia, peaceful dove, teach us wisdom, teach us love".<br />**Your "play gym" is your newest favorite toy. Laying on your back (one of the only times you'll tolerate that!) you bat at the colorful toys and talk to Mama and Dadda. You smile and coo and laugh.<br />**"Goodnight Moon" is the book that calms you and sometimes helps nudge you to napland. I've memorized almost every page. You gaze at the pictures and listen to the rhythm of Mama's voice and the words of the story.<br />**You absolutely despise getting strapped into your carseat. Early on, Daddy learned that swiftly picking it up and swinging you around helps to calm you down.<br />**Car rides are something you love. However, you DO NOT like for the car to stop. When it does, you break out in your loudest, most pathetic cry and usually don't stop until we find some bumps in the road to calm you. You have, at times, cried for 15-20 minutes non-stop and have lost your cute voice because of it. Your little fuzzy head turns red by your wailing and it's so sad for Mama and Daddy because we can't do anything to help you. We seem to always seek out the speed bumps and potholes just for you. We found out this weekend that you prefer riding in the bumpy Jeep!<br />**From day one, you have been a "spitty-uppy" baby. We must burp you every single time and one, or even two burps, is not enough. We must wiggle and pat you until you let out an adult-sized burp, which is almost always accompanied with spit up. Sometimes, you seem to spit up half your meal! We have changed many an outfit because of your talent in this arena. Daddy has the magic touch when it comes to burping you...he hikes you high over his shoulder and in no time you produce a big one!<br />**You really don't like having your diaper changed, but boy oh boy, you love naked time!<br />**Bath time is your number one favorite thing to induldge in. Mom and Dad take you in the shower with them and hold your naked body to theirs as the water gently falls on you. Sometimes, we dance around and sing the "Shower Pokey". Because of one of the early photos Daddy captioned for you, we call bathtime by the same title of that caption: "Soft Warm Sprinkles". During bathtime, you don't mind when the water runs down your face and eyes, and you reach your searching tongue out to taste the water. You never cry...until we take you out to dry you off!<br />**Your favorite, happy time is around 7 or 8 in the morning. This is when we play together!<br />**This weekend, you projectile-vomited all over Daddy at the Casino in Prescott. We were there to listen to Uncle Josh play in his big band and you had been very upset. I handed you to Daddy and within a few moments, you unleased a fury of breastmilk with unbelievable force onto Dad. It soaked him all the way into his shorts! Aunt Shawna said it was an "Exorcist Moment". We felt so sorry for you, but it didn't seem to bother you in the least. You felt so much better afterwards!<br />**You definately got your "Diva" from your Mama! I just hope that you don't hold your breath like I did!<br />**On good days, you stay on an approx. 3 - 3.5 hour feeding schedule. On not so good days, you want to eat every 2 hours, even at night. This is tough on Mama!<br />**Once you are down for a nap or nitey-nite, you sleep so soundly. Even your JP dog's bark, or a vaccuum, doesn't phase you. Sometimes you'll sleep 4 - 6 hours at a time for us!<br />**To help calm you down to sleep after your early morning feeding, we sometimes let you sleep between Mom and Dad. You almost immediatly fall asleep like this. Who can blame you? I think all humans like cuddling and snoozing next to the warmth of another