tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54849832829087075752024-03-05T09:30:43.369-08:00mooshkatooAll things mamahood - from the silly to the serious, and everything in between.Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.comBlogger215125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-8548195313341265262018-01-14T13:29:00.001-08:002018-01-14T13:29:33.717-08:00An Elephant for DadaDear Chris:<br />
<br />
Ember brought me one of her stuffed animals today. She said she always wanted to give it to you, because it’s an elephant and you love elephants, but now she can’t give it to you.<br />
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I told her we could still give it to you, and we put it in the special box we got where we put photos of you and other things that remind us of you.<br />
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So your daughter gave you an elephant today. I just wanted you to know.<br />
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Love,<br />
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DvoraDvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-6426344592452456852018-01-13T19:07:00.001-08:002018-01-13T19:07:26.281-08:00The New NormalIt’s been a long time since I’ve written here. For a reason. Life has happened, and death has happened, and change has happened. Big change. It almost feels like my blog was the “before” and now I’m standing here in the “after.”<div>
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We are now a family of four. I am a single mom of three young children who lost their father to depression and an inability to cope with certain realities. I am a widow, grieving the loss of her husband but also acknowledging that I never really knew him fully. He didn’t let me. I spent ten years wondering why I wasn’t making my husband happy, and ten years wondering what was wrong with me, and how I could make things better for him and for us. Then I stopped trying, because trying was too much. And then he killed himself.</div>
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So now it is me and the kids, and our story is very different but also very much the same. Our daily routine is hardly changed. I do what I used to do. Get up. Get the kids fed and dressed and lunches packed while pouring 24 ounces of coffee down my throat as quickly as possible. In the afternoons I pick them up and feed them like a short order cook and bathe them and make sure their homework is done and get them in pajamas and talk to them about their days and sit with them while they fall asleep in their beds. It’s a steady stream of busy-ness, but it’s ok. I am now EVERYTHING for the kids. I am the bread winner, and the cook, and the cuddler, and the handyman, and the rule-maker, and the joke teller, and the bill payer, and the listener, and the mediator... I’m EVERYTHING. And that’s ok too, it is just different, and it has taken me six months to embrace this new normal. It’s only sometimes overwhelming.</div>
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What is more overwhelming is knowing that by no fault of their own, my children lost someone who they depended on being there for them for a long long time. What is more overwhelming is that the children’s memories of their father are already fading. When I asked Ember about what she remembers about Chris just the other night, she said she only remembered a few things, and that it seems to her like daddy was maybe all a dream. When Oren had to talk about family in his class the other day, he said family is that his dad died. </div>
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What is astonishing in all this is that the kids are doing incredibly well. They are thriving at school, they are not developing nervous habits or acting out in any unusual ways, and they are really just happy kids, laughing and playing and adjusting so beautifully to our new life. I learn from them every day. I observe them, and their ability to accept change, and their ability to continue to be themselves, and I aim for that same thing. I care for them, and they teach me.</div>
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This is our new life. It is me and my three children: my sun, my moon, and my stars.</div>
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Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-22800943937431363972017-01-12T08:28:00.001-08:002017-01-12T08:28:23.988-08:00Teaching My Son to Not Be Like the New President<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqX4q6cOHW4jLOvgagQwtXFCOlY5lr1pQ9Zg0NajLzuwmLMsCxPAnWaINojrCcfH6bP3mWFfofI2bCj3TJs01eHlQNcmMh5s_eAk1gKZmapSUQTxnbNAK0ZEi_YAaZSkKEoNbIkPphhQ/s1600/11150960_10202487553989740_1764945659040594147_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgqX4q6cOHW4jLOvgagQwtXFCOlY5lr1pQ9Zg0NajLzuwmLMsCxPAnWaINojrCcfH6bP3mWFfofI2bCj3TJs01eHlQNcmMh5s_eAk1gKZmapSUQTxnbNAK0ZEi_YAaZSkKEoNbIkPphhQ/s320/11150960_10202487553989740_1764945659040594147_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, as I drove Oren and Erez to daycare, I had NPR on
the radio. I don’t often listen to the news on the daycare commute because I am
nervous about the kids picking up on bits and pieces of information that might
not be age appropriate, but with everything going on – Trump’s first press
conference, the leaked dossier, etc., I was overly curious about what was going
on in the news.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, the words “President-Elect Trump” were spoken on
the radio within seconds of my turning it on. And Oren, ever the curious child,
asked me when Trump was going to become the president. When I told him Trump
would be president within the next few weeks, Oren looked thoughtfully out the
window. Then he looked at me and smiled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Trump says girls are PIGS!!” he said, and started laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hadn’t told Oren that Trump had called a woman a pig. He
had heard it from a girl in his preschool class back in September, when the
campaigns were heating up. From that point on, whenever he has heard Trump’s
name, he has the same reaction: Trump says girls are PIGS!<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I have had to have the same conversation with him. Over
and over and over again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oren,” I say, “It was absolutely wrong of Mr. Trump to call
a girl a pig. That is name calling, and it hurts people’s feelings.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oren looked at me. He GETS it, but he still doesn’t seem to REALLY
get it. He’s four years old. To him, saying the words “poopy” and “fart” is
REALLY funny. He thinks calling people animal names is funny, too. He doesn’t
understand that the word “pig” and “cow” are used to degrade a person and make
them feel fat and shameful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oren,” I continue, “There
are some words that SEEM funny, but they aren’t funny, and people use them to
hurt other people’s feelings. If someone called ME a pig, I would be really sad.
Would you want someone to call Mommy a name that would make me sad?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oren shook his head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sometimes, even important people can behave badly, and can
do mean things. Even the president.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that is the end of the conversation. For a while. Until
the next time Trump’s name is mentioned and Oren remembers that Trump said
girls are pigs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately, this is a conversation I think I am going to
be repeating many, many times in many different ways over the next four years. I
think about Oren evolving from a four year old preschooler into an 8 year old
grade school boy all in the era of Trump, and it scares me. As his awareness of
the world around him grows, and he is more mindful of news and politics and our
country, I know I am going to have to continue to run interference between our
president’s words and my son’s interpretations of those words. I am going to
have to have to continue to explain that our chosen leader doesn’t always say
nice things, doesn’t always treat people with respect, and doesn’t always lead
by example. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we ready ourselves for the inauguration next week, I find
myself filled with concerns I never imagined myself having. How am I going to
teach my children to respect others, show kindness to their peers, to speak
with empathy, and to exhibit restraint and care, when their president is unable
to do so?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-6412689108135637182016-08-11T12:34:00.000-07:002016-08-11T12:34:36.466-07:00My Happiest Baby is the One I Have Had the Least to Do With<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9uqHl8TuNC5XZ_RPfRYDigG4BcttG5ylSjFNtT0hiHZyy74pbxhR8pegL9SBtrMc3JPJu2yPPtJGHosaJBKBdZYn2JHfWGbDe8vbCBenzdGv1BEyxKH3PpDs4mhEtXuRTAwNyzPSSIo/s1600/Me+and+Erez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9uqHl8TuNC5XZ_RPfRYDigG4BcttG5ylSjFNtT0hiHZyy74pbxhR8pegL9SBtrMc3JPJu2yPPtJGHosaJBKBdZYn2JHfWGbDe8vbCBenzdGv1BEyxKH3PpDs4mhEtXuRTAwNyzPSSIo/s320/Me+and+Erez.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When Erez was born back in February, I was a little worried.
After the relatively relaxed and blissful week long stay in the hospital, we
transitioned home, and he almost immediately started exhibiting colicky
behaviors. He would cry for hours on end and there was little I could do to
console him. I would walk/bounce him around the house, make soft shush-shush noises
in his ears, give him gripe water, gas drops, and whatever else I could find
that would possibly offer my boy a little solace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it turns out, it was a formula issue. I felt guilty
enough for not breast-feeding my baby boy, having breastfed my other two kids.
Knowing that formula was giving him serious issues and discomfort KILLED me. Figuring
out which formula worked for Erez quickly became my number one priority.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I DID find a formula that worked for him. Once we made
the switch, it was only a matter of two or three days before my unhappy newborn
transformed into a happy baby. Since then, Erez has become our HAPPIEST baby. His
resting face is “smiley face”. He is always giggling and cooing, and on the
rare occasion when he DOES cry, it is always for a very valid reason.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I should be thrilled, right? I mean, my baby boy is AMAZING.
He is the kind of baby parents dream of having. He is the Gerber baby, only
happier. He seriously has a personality that inspires me, and he is only six
months old.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So what’s my issue? <o:p></o:p></div>
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My happiest baby is the one I have had the LEAST to do with.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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I went back to work exactly 8 weeks after Erez was born. I
felt like I had to. I liked my job, and I didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t want
to have to go through a whole new job search to find a job I liked LESS.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, as a full-time working mom, I see Erez briefly in the
mornings and in the evenings, and get to spend a good amount of time with him
on the weekends. I cuddle with him in my bed at night. But that is it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With my first born, my eldest, I worked only part time and pretty
much attached her to my hip for the first year of her life. I wore her in
slings, held her incessantly, breastfed her on demand. With my second son, I
took a year off from work so I could be with him ALWAYS. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not that they were UNhappy babies. But they were not
THIS happy. They were never as happy as Erez is, every single day of his life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know that babies are born with their own personalities and
all, but this happiness situation has caused me to seriously question how much
of an effect my attachment parenting had on my other two kids. Maybe it
negatively impacted them? I am a huge advocate for breastfeeding, but did
breastfeeding make my other kids LESS happy?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know Erez loves me. He looks for me in a room, he reaches
for my hair or my face, he smiles (of course!) from ear to ear when I pick him
up at daycare in the afternoon. But I am not the center of Erez’s universe, the
way I was for my other two. His life does not depend on me the way theirs did.
I am not his food source, his transportation, and his constant playmate the way
I was with the others. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the thing. Right now, I am at a place where I don’t
WANT to be totally depended on. I kind of feel overwhelmed with momhood. I occasionally
feel the urge to run away from all the responsibilities that come with being a
mom. I have seriously been craving “me” time, and have been wanting to
rediscover the part of me that is not a mommy, that has been pushed to the backburner
over the last six years. So why, when I am craving more independence, do I
still wish I was so much more important to my baby and so much more a factor of
his happiness?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Like many people, I like to feel needed. I like to feel
valued. I like to feel deeply loved. It makes me feel big and great and purposeful.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I truly hope I can experience those feelings with Erez. I
hope I can learn to embrace his happiness, not as a sign of what I may have
done wrong with my other kids, but what I have done right with all of them. I
hope I can see it not as a result of me having less time to love him, but as a
result of him feeling loved despite our limited time together. I hope I can
take pride in his happiness, rather than using it to question my own value.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hope I can feel all those things. I’m just not there yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-89637260086566837962016-04-02T18:28:00.001-07:002016-04-02T18:30:07.138-07:00Considering a third baby? Read this.<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmPFl1VUq6nFchLEZHbrmJ7Pq893knZFkfJJYBJZMs8Gu1M675yiuET8TsGeiUU-lSq3n85oyNUBPCppyoKDF4NKSvWRn8QpnJO2ONJM8vMi6TRRe7QxFZ05phhIP5P3_hnfB49szKdp4/s640/blogger-image-1686654080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmPFl1VUq6nFchLEZHbrmJ7Pq893knZFkfJJYBJZMs8Gu1M675yiuET8TsGeiUU-lSq3n85oyNUBPCppyoKDF4NKSvWRn8QpnJO2ONJM8vMi6TRRe7QxFZ05phhIP5P3_hnfB49szKdp4/s640/blogger-image-1686654080.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div><br></div>If you are even considering getting pregnant with a third child, it is important for you to know certain things.<div><br></div><div>Needless to say, I won't be the only one warning you about how your life will change once the third baby arrives. You will get many warnings about life with three kids, both warranted and unwarranted, from many different people. </div><div><br></div><div>When you go to the bank in the third trimester of your third pregnancy, the bank teller will smile sweetly at you and ask you if you are expecting your first baby. When you smile back sheepishly and tell her that you are expecting your THiRD child, her expression will change. She will know the balance in your savings account, and she will suddenly be telling you with her eyes that you CANNOT afford a third child. </div><div><br></div><div>She may be right.</div><div><br></div><div>When you and your family bravely go to Chuck E. Cheese one night for dinner during your thirty seventh week of pregnancy, the manager will specifically come over to you, corner you, and tell you with a very tired face that he too has three children. He will share with you that he is working seven jobs including this one, just so he can send his children to college. He will say that the <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">third child changed EVERYTHING, and you will sense that he does not mean "change" in an amazing, exciting, revelatory way. </span></div><div><br></div><div>He may be right.</div><div><br></div><div>Many many other people will warn you that you and your husband are about to be to be outnumbered, as if you and your children are at war with one another, and you are about to LOSE that war.</div><div><br></div><div>They may also be right. </div><div><br></div><div>Listen. Having a baby, whether it be your first or your ninth, is always incredible. Babies are beautiful creatures. Everything they do, even the expressions they make when they are farting, is adorable. There is no denying the cuteness. But no matter how cute that baby is, the reality of life with three kids is pretty UN-cute.</div><div><br></div><div>For instance, your day is going to begin at 3:30 a.m. No, you are not suddenly going to become a morning news reporter. You probably chose not to pursue news reporting as a career because you specifically wanted to avoid having to wake up at 3:30 a.m. And yet... Your adorable baby will wake you up at 3:30 am, screaming for nourishment. You will feed him, burp him, change his diaper, and rock him back to sleep. At 4:30 am, your middle child will wake up, completely convinced it is time for breakfast. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">You will show him the dark sky outside his bedroom window, tuck him back into bed, kiss him on the forehead, and tell him not to open his eyes for another three hours. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">By about 4:45, you will JUST be falling back to sleep when your oldest child will wake up, begging you to help her find her iPad so she can watch YouTube videos of things being made out of Play Doh. At 5:15, your middle child will wake up again, and will threaten to cry loud enough to wake the baby if you don't bring him downstairs for breakfast immediately. So you will bring him downstairs and you will feed him Cocoa Puffs.</span></div><div><br></div><div>Also, you are going to immediately brew a very BIG pot of coffee. You are going to drink 3/4 of the pot before 6 am.</div><div><br></div><div>Getting your family out the door of your home is going to take 27 days of planning. You will need maps, strategies, back-up plans, emergency contacts, and a member of the military to make it happen. Your eldest child will somehow forget to wear socks or shoes. Your middle child will wear all of his clothes backwards, will take fifty seven hours to decide what he wants to bring to school for show and tell, and will suddenly want to talk to you about every rock in your front yard before he gets into the mini van. Your baby will hate his car seat so much and will cry so hard it will make him spit up all over his onesie and blanket, so you will have to change him, and then you will get him back into his car seat just in time for him to poop in his diaper.</div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">You will have exactly thirty four seconds to get your own body ready to leave the house in the morning. Your self-maintenance routine will have to be uber efficient, and will need to be able to be completed during the time you are idling in your mini van at a red light or stop sign. You will keep your deodorant and your eyeliner in your pocketbook and you will not care that the man in the car next to you is staring at you as you stick your left hand under your right armpit while applying your eyeliner with your right hand.</span></div><div><br></div><div>You are going to need to make sure your place of employment offers a very liberal "sick day" policy, because for 359 days out of the year, at least one of your children will be ill with something very highly contagious. On the days when your children are NOT deathly ill, you will go to work feeling like you are going to accomplish a lot. Twenty minutes later, the principle of your eldest child's school will call to tell you your daughter stuck a bead up her nose and they can't get it out. </div><div><br></div><div>You will know all of the names of all of the staff at the pediatrician's office. You will have a chair that you consider YOUR chair at the pediatrician's office. You will seriously consider bringing a sleeping bag and camping out in the hallway outside the pediatrician's office just so you can save on gas.</div><div><br></div><div>You are no longer going to eat at meal times. Dinner will be spent holding and feeding your baby with one hand while pouring ketchup, buttering noodles, cleaning juice spills, cutting chicken, peeling apples, and wiping faces with your other hand. If you intend to eat, you will need to make yourself a plate of something edible, hide it under your shirt, and sneak into the bathroom to eat it in under four minutes. You will need to learn to consume food without ever needing to actually chew it. </div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Also, your eldest child will become obsessed with collecting very teeny tiny toys that are exactly the right size for your baby to choke on.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Also, your two older children will love coming up with new fun games like "let's see who can stick their fingers as far into the baby's eyes as possible" or "who can break the baby swing by using it as a human catapult?"</span></div><div><br></div><div>Getting all three of your children to bed is going to take eight and a half hours. You will need to fill up 2 water bottles, break up six arguments over who gets to play with what toy during bathtime, brush 40 teeth, read 81 books, and sing 172 lullabies. Your eldest will try on seven different pairs of pajamas before settling on the ones she wants. Your middle child will ask 2,693 questions about the universe. Your baby will spit out his pacifier nine million times and cry every single time it happens.</div><div><br></div><div>And finally, at 1:37 am, you will feel relaxed enough to watch a few seconds of TV and fall into a deep, deep slumber, until you are once again woken at 3:30 am.</div><div><br></div><div>And yet, despite this crazy life, you will have zero regrets. Why? Because everything that third baby does is going to be absolutely adorable.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-9713883941584664492016-04-01T10:22:00.001-07:002016-04-01T10:22:43.586-07:0010 Day Countdown<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5u3F28lwZrwuSPfr6uyJSW2m6m6KMUrr0eavlpvBgyOG_W4yFKC_CZFwrCSNz9XWzamAtICFDK6TjPn7oiyD4w7efC6H-bTQ1grtsIt_6uT-hRyrORtWJqHFTpa54L4nPDk3ofD9RRDA/s640/blogger-image-1813218292.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5u3F28lwZrwuSPfr6uyJSW2m6m6KMUrr0eavlpvBgyOG_W4yFKC_CZFwrCSNz9XWzamAtICFDK6TjPn7oiyD4w7efC6H-bTQ1grtsIt_6uT-hRyrORtWJqHFTpa54L4nPDk3ofD9RRDA/s640/blogger-image-1813218292.jpg"></a></div><br></div>It is now ten days until my maternity leave ends and I return to work. Part of me feels ready to be reunited with my desk, with my Google calendar and daily emails and responsibilities and deadlines. The other part of me gets caught up in staring at Erez's face, hoping he will be okay in daycare, and feeling my heart break a little in advance of our separation. I wish things were different, that maternity leave was longer, that I could be present in a more complete way to witness his daily milestones. I ache that I won't be. But I also love my job and don't want to sacrifice it, or make a change in my career, or give up the second paycheck that benefits everyone in our family. It is a shame and wrong that our country isn't better about these things, about giving parents ample time to be with their babies without having to choose between their jobs and their children.<div><br></div><div>The past seven weeks with Erez has been everything: beautiful, rewarding, exhausting... He is and always will be my miracle baby. When I look at him, I think about my surgery last February. I think about the hard decision I made to give up pieces of my body in order to hopefully up my chances of a prolonged life, of being there for my kids, and how I was strangely rewarded by the universe with a pregnancy, as if I was being told my decision was a wise one for yet another reason. Erez is also proof that my body rallied after a crazy ordeal, and how lucky I am, at forty, to have had yet another healthy and uncomplicated pregnancy. He is my "everything happens for a reason" baby and my "expect the unexpected" baby.</div><div><br></div><div>Here is just a little of what I have learned about Erez over the past seven weeks: he is a better sleeper than either of my other children were; he loves to touch and hold fabric; he loves it when I gently touch his forehead; he really dislikes having a poopy diaper; he sleeps with his eyes open sometimes (creepy); he raises his left eyebrow a lot, like he is already highly skeptical of the world; he makes noises all the time - when eating, sleeping, peeing, breathing; he likes when I talk to him in a Minnie Mouse voice; he enjoys looking at lights and curtains; his resting face is that of an 87 year old man, but when he smiles he looks like a baby; he loves snuggles; he hates burping; he seems to notice all the artwork on our walls, and seems to especially like the tree art piece that I made that is hanging above his crib; he hates his car seat and bouncy chair but loves his rock n' play; his one left dimple is possibly the cutest thing in the entire world.</div><div><br></div><div>I hope that even when I return to work, I will feel like I have adequate time to notice lots of new things about Erez. I hope I will learn lots of new ways to make him smile and laugh, that I will appreciate his new sounds and movements, and especially that I will have enough time to show him how much I love and adore him, and how grateful I am to be his mommy.</div><div><br></div><div>I plan to make the most of these last ten days, and to try and embrace these hours as much as I can, knowing they won't last forever.</div>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-3653159014672165222016-03-16T11:02:00.001-07:002016-03-16T11:42:34.569-07:00Acting Like A BabyMy five week old son is adorable and is the love of my life, but let's face it, some of his behavior is AT BEST questionable. This morning I spent a few minutes (or maybe more than a few... I AM on maternity leave and DO have some time on my hands) fantasizing about what it would be like if a "Freaky Friday" situation happened and me and my baby suddenly switched bodies. It would be so incredible to be able to get away with half the stuff he gets away with, even just for one day.<div><br></div><div>For instance:</div><div><div><br></div><div>- At night, once every two to three hours, I would be able to wake up all of the members of my household with a bout of hysterical, rageful crying. And in the morning, they would miraculously still love me.</div><div><br></div><div>- I would smell like a combination of sour milk, spit up, poop, baby oil and Desitin, but everyone would still hug me without wincing.</div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">- I would be able to cry like mad every time I farted or pooped.</span></div><div><br></div><div>- People would spend hours upon hours trying to amuse me and make me smile, and I would reward them by looking at them like they are a bunch of a**holes. </div><div><br></div><div>- I would be able to wear cute little onesies with pictures of smiling dinosaurs or vintage race cars without need for justification.</div><div><br></div><div>- When driving, I would start crying every time the speed of the car dropped below 15 miles per hour. </div><div><br></div><div>- I would be able to make this face after finishing every meal:</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzBqyndOkDc3iEfLqBwEpmXEEB30oAuuePUceHGXOjHS9Ajc59uomuYoY6NymScG3siLn8pJ5BU_gVEQoBFcvKSvOYF1KIg9KlnkVK8gj8zbKsTDALa6sn-J2FDqD83_63UmS4-maoqA/s640/blogger-image--863459672.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzBqyndOkDc3iEfLqBwEpmXEEB30oAuuePUceHGXOjHS9Ajc59uomuYoY6NymScG3siLn8pJ5BU_gVEQoBFcvKSvOYF1KIg9KlnkVK8gj8zbKsTDALa6sn-J2FDqD83_63UmS4-maoqA/s640/blogger-image--863459672.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- People would be PROUD of me for napping.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- I would suck on a hard rubber object all day WITHOUT folks suggesting I need therapy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- I would be able to perfect my animal impressions, including angry screeching pterodactyl, and stuffy-nosed heavy-breathing pug dog.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- People would think my slightly furry body and disproportionately large head are soooo cute.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- I would have no awareness of the current presidential race.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Of course, there are DOWNSIDES to being a newborn baby (I am specifically thinking of not being able to ingest caffeine or alcohol), which may outweigh the benefits. And who knows? My son probably stares at me all day wondering why I am behaving like such a freak, and wishing he could switch bodies with me for just one day.</div><br></div></div>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-52496164034620312222016-03-13T17:35:00.001-07:002016-03-14T08:10:50.906-07:00Party of Five<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">'<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixaqwzYU0yBDk7u93Qum2WIU7qlaG3MmTQf5C1821uqcu5aMivUPskl3SDBWNYm55clSjdCMyRbD2wIP3ck-vSYQFrcnGPOGmAa5BjgiL3cc6lrIIO_gb8CwH_BdGf4r7q0CLLYBFBsSQ/s640/blogger-image-609095840.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixaqwzYU0yBDk7u93Qum2WIU7qlaG3MmTQf5C1821uqcu5aMivUPskl3SDBWNYm55clSjdCMyRbD2wIP3ck-vSYQFrcnGPOGmAa5BjgiL3cc6lrIIO_gb8CwH_BdGf4r7q0CLLYBFBsSQ/s640/blogger-image-609095840.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>And then there were five of us. <div><br></div><div>It's still so strange to me, because for many minutes of almost every day, I still feel like I am my twelve year old self... Just with a job and a few wrinkles and car keys and a mortgage... And THREE kids. THREE.</div><div><br></div><div>In the months leading up to Erez's birth, I was told by many friends, acquaintances and strangers that the third child CHANGES EVERYTHING. I was told that my husband and I would henceforth be outnumbered and powerless in our own household, that we would instantly age by about ten years, and that the only way to get through parenting more than two children is to not care about anything. I always half believed these folks and half thought "meh, it can't be THAT bad!"</div><div><br></div><div>And it's not. THAT. BAD. But in the month since Erez was born, I have come to nickname our home "Casa de Chaos" as a term of endearment. Our bundle of joy came with a bundle of adjustments for everyone in our family, and we are all still acclimating, slowly but surely.</div><div><br></div><div>Erez himself is adorable. He is tiny, cuddly, sounds like a pug dog, and has eyes that seem to fill up his entire face. For the first week of his life, Erez was such a super calm baby that I almost thought something might be wrong with him. Then I brought him home from the hospital.</div><div><br></div><div>I honestly feel bad for the kid. He went from the cushy warmth and serenity of my womb to the quiet sterile tranquility of the hospital to the absolute madness of our home. His siblings love to get right up in his face and squeal at him or shake things at him, try to dance with his tiny body, and seem to have screaming contests whenever he is trying to nap. </div><div><br></div><div>And then there are the digestive issues. His first formula made him gassy and fussy. The second formula made him constipated and fussy. He went from being a happy baby to a very very sad and cranky baby right around week three, I believe mostly because his system just wasn't dealing with the nourishment he was taking in. The third formula seems to have made him a much happier, calmer baby again. Fingers crossed. </div><div><br></div><div>Generally, Erez seems like my "old soul" baby. I can't quite describe why I feel this way, and maybe my perception will change as he grows, but his little face seems wise, serious, concerned. He smiled at me this morning and I was so thrown for a loop, because I have gotten so used to his furrowed brow and pensive expressions.</div><div><br></div><div>As for the rest of us, well, Oren probably had the worst of it. He went from being my baby boy to needing to compete for lap time and hugs. Shortly after Erez came home, Oren started waking frequently at night, having more nightmares, throwing more tantrums, getting more boo boos, and just generally being super sensitive. He seems to have settled in to the new normal a bit and the anxiety seems to be waning, but my heart definitely broke a little bit for him. If I could somehow add hours to the day, I would add an hour where I could just hug Oren and make sure he knows that he is (and will always be) my beautiful little boy.</div><div><br></div><div>Ember has been awesome. She has taken on the role of older older sister like a champion. She wants to hug the baby, feed the baby, carry the baby, and I think she thinks she could do a better job than me raising Erez. She has acclimated and compromised without much fuss, just the occasional need for lots of attention. Her ability to adapt to a pretty enormous change has really impressed me.</div><div><br></div><div>Chris is doing well, other than continuing his ongoing battle to get adequate sleep. He has been an amazing partner, doing all the stuff I have no time to do anymore, kissing my forehead and hugging me when I seem overwhelmed, and keeping this parenting gig light and fun and silly, even in the stressful moments. It goes without saying that I wouldbe nowhere without him. Actually, scratch that. I would totally be in an asylum without him.</div><div><br></div><div>And me? After getting over the initial shock of what it is like to care for three kids, I am doing really well. I'm finding my groove. Yes, I still spend a great deal of my time feeling guilty over my inability to breastfeed the baby, over my upcoming return to work and Erez's daycare attendance at such a super young age, over my lack of availability to Ember and Oren, over my talent for eating a crap ton of chocolate even as I finally attempt to reclaim my body after five years of pregnancies and surgeries. The list of things I feel guilty about is truly endless. But I have always been rather good at beating myself up over things I both can and can't control. The good news is I am also getting better at recognizing my own limitations, patting myself on the back for staying sane and positive (most of the time), and appreciating all that I have, which is SO VERY much, especially now that we are a party of five.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-38477374473256984482016-02-09T17:55:00.001-08:002016-02-09T17:55:57.335-08:00A prayer on the eve of my third baby's birthThank you for bringing me to this moment, and for giving me this miracle - I know it is not to be taken for granted. Thank you for the love in my life, my caring and amazing husband, my beautiful children, my family, my friends. I know they are not to be taken for granted. Thank you for giving me this body, and the ability to have children - I know it is not to be taken for granted. <div><br></div><div>Let me have the presence of mind to fully appreciate this moment, and to focus not on the anxiety of birth but on the beauty of it. Let me make wise decisions in what I can control, and let me understand the decisions that are not mine to control.</div><div><br></div><div>Life is divine, fragile, complex, and mysterious. I am filled with awe and wonder.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-47895085057611001232015-10-26T12:28:00.001-07:002015-10-26T12:28:25.432-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.change.org/p/american-cancer-society-reverse-american-cancer-society-s-new-breast-cancer-screening-recommendations" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWQJOwVrGBsynwBnQsfaTPMyGjfKFvOdG7VUkL-7cC2KN9Yz1qkApY4RIqrdFl4gMKnrUS0ZCGktuID24o4Zkf9Mt2fuWfb2CYRL_K4kghGnHXeBgPhxuB7VGj6bXFRcCaTtBByKC_P4/s320/acs+ad2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-30120397173890295052015-10-22T17:55:00.001-07:002015-10-22T18:14:56.989-07:00A Time For Change<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1Zf1uslvQ5gSYYMv_v87yYx200Uo2yJc8ilfOdREfBT2bIUTWy_eC9UzWHapSyIBcBc7oZHldffTn0UwaMEqyDBpUzXyJ8-EQnzBnHcb9_0Nb5mYpfS4vgB6WLeCkdGHakhelgMWOPg/s640/blogger-image--2146728678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1Zf1uslvQ5gSYYMv_v87yYx200Uo2yJc8ilfOdREfBT2bIUTWy_eC9UzWHapSyIBcBc7oZHldffTn0UwaMEqyDBpUzXyJ8-EQnzBnHcb9_0Nb5mYpfS4vgB6WLeCkdGHakhelgMWOPg/s640/blogger-image--2146728678.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>I have always been one of those people who avoids conflict and confrontation like the plague. I grew up in a house where I was the least skilled at arguing and debating, so I didn't bother advocating for myself very much. Instead, I spent my time trying to keep the peace between family members. Later in life, this translated into not arguing with friends and co-workers, not sending food back at restaurants even if it was frozen, and waiting for three hours in a doctor's waiting room before inquiring about an obvious delay in care.<div><br></div><div>Then I had kids, and I discovered that motherhood REQUIRED that I advocate my kids, especially before they had developed language skills. This helped me gain confidence in voicing my opinion.</div><div><br></div><div>Then I learned I had the BRCA1 mutation, and I discovered that I needed to be my own best advocate - in researching the options I had for preventative care, in fighting for coverage for the prophylactic procedures I was choosing, and in finding and communicating with health care professionals. The experience gave me even confidence in speaking up for myself.</div><div><br></div><div>I don't like arguing for arguments' sake, but when something or someone is worth advocating for, I now feel justified in fighting a good fight.</div><div><br></div><div>The American Cancer Society has just recommended that "average risk" women begin having annual mammograms at the age of 45, rather than at the age of 40. They have also recommended that the annual mammograms continue only until the age of 54, at which time they would take place every two years. They have ALSO recommended against clinical breast exams for all </div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">These new guidelines make no sense to either my head OR my heart. My heart aches for the many "average risk" women I know who were diagnosed with breast cancer before they turned 45, whose prognosis would have been far more grim had mammograms not been available to them. My head wants to argue the facts: </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">For the past 25 years, the rate of deaths from breast cancer has been decreasing. The largest decrease in death from breast cancer has been among women age 50 or younger. This is largely attributed to the widespread access and encouragement of early breast cancer screenings, screenings which were supported by the American Cancer Society’s prior recommendations. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This is why I have started a petition on change.org, opposing the American Cancer Society's new recommendations for breast cancer screenings. It is a fight that my heart and mind believe is more than worth fighting. I hope that others will bring their voices, their emotions, and their experiences to this petition, and that a collective voice of opposition to these recommendations will strengthen and grow.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">If you are a cancer survivor, if you are a previvor, if you have a relative or friend who has battled cancer, if you are a citizen who is concerned with the influence these recommendations may have on future insurance policies and women's health, please consider signing this petition. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><a href="https://www.change.org/p/american-cancer-society-reverse-american-cancer-society-s-new-breast-cancer-screening-recommendations?recruiter=405271196&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink">https://www.change.org/p/american-cancer-society-reverse-american-cancer-society-s-new-breast-cancer-screening-recommendations?recruiter=405271196&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=copylink</a></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-79850811180289405562015-09-22T13:46:00.000-07:002015-09-22T14:25:03.909-07:00The Very New Year<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQvtP_wRmhozPhXXCwDiI_OVogA2fdwHM7IaDI0aoe5jKzHllcmcAUX1VnSLJIr8r3saP_ORQII0IRl3FR1Ujst_eU5ObwboFIeJ-NDonMEivz37fa5xuVDaua8huy5nEsCeosezgo5g/s1600/family+amusement+park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQvtP_wRmhozPhXXCwDiI_OVogA2fdwHM7IaDI0aoe5jKzHllcmcAUX1VnSLJIr8r3saP_ORQII0IRl3FR1Ujst_eU5ObwboFIeJ-NDonMEivz37fa5xuVDaua8huy5nEsCeosezgo5g/s320/family+amusement+park.jpg" width="320"></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It happens quite often. My birthday coincides with one of
the major Jewish holidays pretty much every year. This year, my major milestone
40</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> birthday will be taking place on the holiday of Yom Kippur,
which is seriously the most serious Jewish holiday of them all. It’s a day of
fasting, repentance, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">self-reflection and
groveling. Sounds like a real party, right?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About eight months ago, while I was planning my major
surgery, I was simultaneously fantasizing about throwing a big, blow-out
birthday bash for my fortieth. I felt like I deserved it, and like I wanted to
celebrate life and living via an evening of semi-debaucherous activities, which
would include fancy cocktails and karaoke and dancing and cupcakes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, about four months ago, when I found out I was
pregnant, those plans flew out the window. And after going through the past
four months of morning sickness, heartburn, weight gain, and other various
bodily discomforts, I have changed my vision of how I would like to celebrate my
upcoming birthday, especially realizing that my birthday falls on Yom Kippur. Instead
of painting the town red, I am now picturing a quiet evening with my kids
(Chris will be on-call tomorrow night, which means he is unlikely to get home
before 10 pm), eating a bagel and a few celebratory carrot sticks with dip
(luckily us pregnant ladies are not required to fast – I’d never make it past
10 am), and seizing the moment to really reflect on the blessings of this past
year (and decade), and the hopes for the year (and decade) to come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because, MAN, my thirties were CRAZY. I met my husband,
married my husband, gave birth to two children, held three different jobs, lost
my mother, my father-in-law had a stroke, we bought and sold our first home,
bought a second home, I had major cancer-preventing surgery, and got pregnant
AGAIN. That’s A LOT of activity, energy, and emotion to fit into one decade. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And here I am on the cusp of my forties. And I want to take
the moment to focus on all that I have going in to this new decade of life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a beautiful, amazing daughter who will be turning
five in a month. Ember has blossomed in countless ways over the past year. She started kindergarten! And despite her
slightly nervous, slightly fearful personality, she seems to really be enjoying
it. Last summer she was scared to death of swimming; this year we could not get
her out of the water even if we tried. I think she actually has become a mermaid.
She still plays by herself beautifully, making up amazing storylines and truly
diving deep into her pretend worlds (we are going to enroll her in Drama Kids
International to see if her imagination can bloom even further). She is an emotional, sensitive, creative spirit, through and through. And she is a
great older sister to Oren. Granted, some days it is easier for her to share
her toys than others, but that would be true of any kid. Generally speaking,
the two of them are wonderful to watch together – they share their made-up
worlds, are concerned for each other’s well beings, and are truly good friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As for Oren himself, he is an incredible 2.5 year old boy.
At school, his teacher calls him “the professor.” Truly, he astonishes with his
vocabulary. And as I like to say to my friends, the only way I know Oren is
asleep is that he stops asking questions. I imagine that the inside of his
brain looks like a super highway, with cars moving in all sorts of directions
simultaneously. But besides being a super smart kid, Oren is one of the kindest
hearted children I have known (and I am not at ALL biased). I am glad to say
that the hugs, cuddles, and general love that he bestowed upon me as an infant
has not gone away, and in fact it may have actually grown in the past few
years. Oren is totally the cheerleader of our family. On days when the rest
of us are tired and dragging our feet, Oren is singing songs and excitedly
cheering us on with jokes, laughter, and silly faces.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then there is my husband. Chris is my LOVE – despite
his hectic and exhausting work schedule, he has been a true partner in
parenting, and our adoration and friendship only continues to grow as our family
grows. Granted, I would love to spend more time with him. Last night we snuck a
few minutes of pillow talk into our evening before both of us fell fast asleep,
a moment I totally treasured. I know that finding moments to connect with Chris
is going to only get more challenging with three kiddos in the house, but we
will figure out a way to do it (calling all amazing babysitters – WE NEED YOU)!
And I have some pretty solid plans for us to finally go on our honeymoon when
we celebrate our 10<sup>th</sup> anniversary in 5 years... I may just start counting down the days now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And this little being growing inside my body? What an
unbelievable surprise he was, and what a beautiful 40<sup>th</sup> birthday
present he will be (god willing). He will join our family in 2016 and will be another
source of joy, of love, and inspiration in our home. Chris, Ember, Oren and
I will all learn that our hearts are capable of so deeply loving yet another
human being, another family member. As much as I complain about the not-so-fun
side of being pregnant, when I feel the little pitter patter of the growing boy
running around in my body, I know for certain I am incredibly blessed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is also my health to be thankful for. And our
brilliant extended family. And our wonderful friends. And our home. And our minivan
(yup, we are THAT family now). So very much to reflect on with abundant gratitude.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So while my fortieth birthday celebration might not qualify
for Bravo Channel’s “My Fab 40<sup>th</sup>,” I feel no loss. I’ll take this
quiet moment of celebration, reflection, and appreciation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And who knows? Maybe I will have a raucous 41<sup>st</sup>
birthday party ;).</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-26012331580908895132015-07-17T17:35:00.001-07:002015-07-17T17:35:34.378-07:00A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to My Surgery<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDNeTYiDYeFtLWWdA4IkP6FJ4Da4tJ6wm1cB5_KlCy0Gq5IeU6y6x99ZsthwrTCBQcjAWIBPJPnawJ4qd9RHTQjkE4W6kJrdPxa7zSGvLOGX67mJxTfgUxPIpwf12NG0HGkvFuhqbh3k/s640/blogger-image-152549447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDNeTYiDYeFtLWWdA4IkP6FJ4Da4tJ6wm1cB5_KlCy0Gq5IeU6y6x99ZsthwrTCBQcjAWIBPJPnawJ4qd9RHTQjkE4W6kJrdPxa7zSGvLOGX67mJxTfgUxPIpwf12NG0HGkvFuhqbh3k/s640/blogger-image-152549447.jpg"></a></div><br><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">don’t feel like my life has ever followed a predictable script, and I see that as a positive. If I have developed any skill in life, it might be the ability to “roll with it,” no matter what curveball has been thrown my way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Well, it seems we have been thrown another curveball.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Chris and I travelled to San Antonio in mid June for the second phase of my reconstructive surgery. The surgery was something I was looking forward to, and having been through the first phase of surgery so recently, I wasn’t really nervous about going through with it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A tropical storm had been hitting San Antonio the week of my surgery, so I rearranged our flight to get us in to San Antonio the afternoon prior to my scheduled operation. Chris and I arrived in Texas, ate some delicious Tex Mex food, and checked in to our hotel. We walked around the neighborhood, relaxed, and I did my scheduled pre-op prep work: showering with antibacterial soap, no eating or drinking after midnight, etc.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The morning of the surgery, we woke up early and drove to the hospital in the rainy remnants of the storm. As I was waiting to be admitted to pre-op, I met a lovely woman who was also going to be going through her second phase surgery with another surgeon from the same surgeon’s group I was using. We spoke about how wonderful our experiences have been with PRMA, and compared notes about the recuperation from the first phase of surgery. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I was then called in to pre-op, where a friendly nurse administered my IV port, and spoke with me about my reasons for traveling all the way to Texas for surgery. Another nurse came in and got my urine sample and asked me several questions about my health history. She then left the room for a few minutes.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Another few minutes passed. And then another few. I began to worry because the clock seemed to be ticking closer to my scheduled surgery time, and I had not yet seen my surgeon.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The nurse came back in. She was holding two familiar looking objects in her hand, and had a strange look on her face.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“I did the test twice,” she told me. I then realized she was holding pregnancy tests.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My jaw dropped open. I covered my mouth and screamed. It was THE LAST THING I would have ever expected to happen.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“I think I am going to go get your husband now, so you can tell him the news” the nurse told me. I looked at her and shook my head. I still had no words.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When Chris came in the room, he took one look at my face and said “what’s going on? Is something the matter?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And then I broke the news to him. And we both sat there, dumbfounded, joyful, confused, floored by the unexpected news of our pregnancy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I don’t know if I believe in dreams, or signs, or if I just think sometimes the world presents very strange and uncanny coincidences. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">About three weeks prior to our trip to San Antonio, Chris came home from work a little late one night, while I was giving the kids a bath. He came into the bathroom and told me that something funny had happened at work. He said one of his co-workers, a guy he hardly works with, had come up to Chris and told him he had had a dream about me being pregnant.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I just laughed. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Chris told me if, for any reason, I WAS to become pregnant, he wanted me to be assured that he was okay with having a third child.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I laughed some more. I told Chris there was no way I was pregnant, or would become pregnant, and that he should go tell his co-worker to not waste his dreams on me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This crazy news comes with a whirlwind of emotions. I am thrilled to be pregnant. I totally thought I had closed the book on that chapter of my life when Oren was born. I love babies. I love my kids. I am 100% sure that I have room in my heart for another child, and I am psyched for Emmy and Oren to have another sibling. I am amazed by my own body, actually kind of PROUD of my body, and by its ability to get pregnant just three months after a really intense, invasive surgery. But I also feel guilty that it is so easy for us to get pregnant, as other friends struggle to have their first or second children. I’m also sad that I won’t be breastfeeding this baby. I am also worried about being 40 and pregnant. I am also nervous about having a third c-section. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It’s crazy. It’s amazing. It’s silly. It’s strange. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I guess I’m just going to do what I do best, and roll with it.</span></p><div><div class="gmail_signature"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><p><br></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p></div></div></div></div></div>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-29610113369813720122015-04-20T20:45:00.000-07:002015-04-20T20:45:12.091-07:00The Story of My SurgeryIIt occurred to me tonight, while looking through my past few posts, that I never actually wrote about what getting the DIEP flap surgery was like for me. It's funny because I feel like I have written about it twenty seven times, but I must have only been thinking about it in my head. 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About ten weeks ago, my family and I flew out to San Antonio for my surgery. In the weeks prior to our travel, I had come down with a cold, but it wasn't a terrible cold. I wasn't hacking up a lung or anything. It was your standard, run-of-the-mill cold that generally just goes away within a week. I thought it was a nothing.</div>
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As it turns out, it was not a nothing. On the flight to San Antonio, my little cold turned into a horrible earache that made me want to tear my ears right off of my head. And then it turned into a sinus infection. And strep throat. When I went to the hospital on the day of my scheduled surgery, the nurse in admitting took my temperature and then gave me a look that said "how the heck do you think you are going to make it through surgery with a 102 degree fever?!"</div>
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My amazing, kind, lovely surgeon came and spoke with me. He told me I was fighting an infection, and I was not in good shape for such a strenuous surgery. He told me if I was HIS wife, he would not want me operated on that day. So, through tears of disappointment, we planned to reschedule the DIEP flap surgery for the next week. I was incredibly lucky that Dr. C was able to fit me into his schedule, and that rescheduling did not require me and my family to fly back and forth to San Antonio again. I was given some pretty hefty doses of antibiotics, and for the next week, my body worked on getting better.</div>
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On the day of the actual (rescheduled) surgery, one week later, I went to the hospital at 6:30 a.m. to be admitted. I remember having my temperature taken, getting my blood pressure taken, and getting an IV. I remember Dr. C coming in to talk to me and my husband about the surgery and to reassure us, as my intravenous "cocktails" started to work. I don't remember much else, honestly. I think I remember being rolled through the hallway. And I think I remember my body being lifted from one surface to another, though I don't know if that was pre or post surgery. The rest of the surgery is like an eight hour parentheses in my life.</div>
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I woke up at some point in the late afternoon that day and saw my husband by my side. I had been told by several women who had been through this kind of surgery that I would not be lucid at all until day 2 (or at the very least, until very late on the night following surgery). But I was actually quite with it upon waking. I was able to have a conversation with my husband, which really surprised him, because he also thought I would spend my first wakeful hours thinking I was the Queen of England.</div>
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I remember the next few days in the hospital as being quite challenging. Probably the hardest thing I have been through physically in my life, but not impossible. Not HORRIBLE. Just HARD. I think, in my head, I had believed the recovery would be akin to the recovery I went through with each of my c-sections: the discomfort, the stiffness, the exhaustion. It WAS like that recovery, but way more intense. Walking my first steps post surgery felt like I was totally re-learning how to walk. And I had to rely on other people sitting me up in the hospital bed because I had very limited arm function. It was weird. It was tough. But every new little thing I was able to do post surgery was a mini-milestone that was celebrated.</div>
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The hardest part of the surgery for me was the itching. Apparently, I don't do well on morphine. Or maybe morphine doesn't do well on me. It took me a while to realize it, but the morphine drip I was on for pain management gave me the craziest itchy feelings I have ever encountered. I begged Chris to scratch my entire body over and over again. When he scratched, I could feel every little sensory nerve on my skin reacting to his touch. But despit the scratching, the itching never really went away, and it made it hard for me to sleep. I asked the night nurses to put hydrocortisone all over my skin, which they did. Sometimes the nurses would just come and scratch my legs for me (which made me love them).</div>
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The drains were the other not-so-fun part. I had one drain coming out of each breast, and one drain coming out of each side of my belly. Blood and gunk drained out of my body into the bulbs that hung down from me. I felt like a really gross octopus. When I took my first shower, and saw myself undressed for the first time since surgery, I nearly fainted. It was a lot to take in: the scars, the drains, the scratch marks from all of my itching. But I also noticed my flat belly, which was flatter than it had been in four years (two c-sections) and I noticed my new "foobs," which were now so much less likely to be a harvesting station for cancer.</div>
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And as I was lying in my hospital bed, itching like nobody's business, and pretending to be a disgusting octopus, I kept thinking "I would rather be itching than dying of cancer." Really, anytime I experienced a little pain, a little discomfort, or anything slightly "off" during the recovery process, it was very easy for me to say "this is way better than radiation. This is way better than chemotherapy," and it kept my expectations in check. Saving my own life was not a cake walk. It wasn't supposed to be easy.</div>
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I was discharged from the hospital five days after the surgery. Leaving a hospital after being tended to and cared for twenty four hours a day is a scary thing. But the more I got immersed back into real life, the less scary it became. I rested a lot. I drank a lot. And the lovely people of San Antonio fed me and my family very well. Within another week, we were ready to return home, and I was feeling remarkably healed already, just two weeks after surgery.</div>
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And now, here I am, eight weeks later, feeling almost completely back to normal. I still have my scars, but to be honest, I kind of like them. Every time I see my stomach, or look at my new "foobs," I see the story of how I made a very brave decision, went through an amazing surgery, toughed it out through a hard recovery, and saved my own life.</div>
Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-33684450247448960712015-04-02T03:30:00.000-07:002015-04-02T03:30:01.740-07:00Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman<div class="s2" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">Every day, when I pick Ember up from preschool, there is a pile of about 20 drawings in her cubby. I flip through the multi-colored construction paper pages and m</span><span class="s2">arvel over her</span><span class="s2"> fire-breathing dinosaurs, the decked-out princesses, and the families of penguins </span><span class="s2">she</span><span class="s2"> has cre</span><span class="s2">ated. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">Ember has talent. She draws beautifully, filling every inch of her page</span><span class="s2">s</span><span class="s2"> with characters and objects. If you watch her draw, you will hear her tell a story as she puts her marker to the paper. Her stories are elaborate, sometimes </span><span class="s2">a little </span><span class="s2">hard to follow, almost always quite emotionally charged.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">It is an amazing thing to watch the artist as a young woman. To be honest, I am just a little envious of her abilities. She sits down at the kitchen table, takes a pen in her </span><span class="s2">hand,</span><span class="s2"> and her imagination just kicks in to high gear, with visions and ideas pouring out of her fingers. It comes so easily to her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">For me, it is not as easy. I mean, I went to art school, and spent four years of my life intensely immersed in an environment that fostered my imagination. But now I am a working mommy. When I sit down at the kitchen table, I am thinking about my grocery list, and getting my kids enrolled in summer programs, </span><span class="s2">and doing the laundry, and surgeries, and… the list goes on. It is so hard for my mind to put reality on pause, even for a few minutes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">But, inspired by Ember and her talents, I have ventured to take</span><span class="s2"> a</span><span class="s2">pen</span><span class="s2"> </span><span class="s2">in hand again recently. I haven’t quite been escaping my reality, but I have been drawing my reality. </span><span class="s2">And though my drawings are not quite as imaginative as Ember’s, it still feels really good to draw.</span><span class="s2"></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s2">Thank you, Ember, for being so magnificent with your own imagination, and for inspiring me to giv</span><span class="s2">e my creativity an outlet. I look forward to seeing your creativity grow and flourish, and to sharing our pens, pencils, markers and paper for many years to come.</span></span></div>
Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-57834849456703575662015-03-24T18:17:00.001-07:002015-03-24T18:18:11.219-07:00Jolie and Me<div>
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Two years ago, when Angelina Jolie brought national attention to women who are BRCA mutation positive by writing "My Medical Choice" in the New York Times, I was just beginning to think seriously about getting my own prophylactic mastectomy and reconstruction. After reading Angelina's thoughtful and brave article, I was filled with gratitude. It felt like the world had given me a strange but very meaningful gift. A beautiful, confident celebrity the same age as me had JUST gone through the same surgery I planned to go through, and she was really PROUD of her decision.<br />
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Five weeks ago today, I went through my own nine hour prophylactic surgery, reducing my risk of getting breast cancer by around 90%. </div>
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The morning of my surgery, I was not fearful. I had been anxious in the weeks leading up to my surgery, but as I entered the hospital, filled out the paperwork, and got my IV, I was very calm. I know it may sound strange, but I thought A LOT about Angelina Jolie that morning. In my head and heart, I felt connected to her. I felt brave, and confident, and clear in my decision. I felt PROUD of what I was doing, just as I had imagined she had felt.</div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In the five weeks that have passed since my surgery, I have not had a single moment of regret or doubt. Not a SINGLE moment. I am so proud of my decision, and I know I made the exact right decision for me. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Now, having the bulk of the mastectomy, reconstruction, and recovery behind me, I have just begun seriously thinking about and planning the timeline for my oophorectomy. I know I need to get it done. My doctors have urged (almost begged) me to do it. My maternal great grandmother died of colon cancer, and four of her sisters died of gynecological cancers. My grandmother and mother both had oophorectomies, too. There is no doubt that this too will be the right decision for me, if I want to try and live and see my children grow into adults.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But it doesn't make getting the surgery done any easier. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So when I heard, today, about Angelina Jolie's decision to get an salpingo-oophorectomies, I again felt like the world had given me a gift. I again felt indebted to this woman I have never met, but feel very connected to, by virtue of our shared genetic mutation, our shared decisions to be proactive, and our ability to be PROUD of our choices.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Angelina Jolie's article is beautiful and truthful. It is not about being self-pitying or self-aggrandizing. It is about gaining knowledge, and using that knowledge to make powerful decisions, so that you can be proud of the decisions you make.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Thank you, again, Angelina Jolie, for sharing your journey with the world, and for being PROUD of your decisions. It makes it that much easier for other women, like me, to share and be proud, too.</span></div>
Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-59771450541399685102015-01-21T17:12:00.001-08:002015-01-21T17:12:41.191-08:00Micromanaging a Microsurgery<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJq2uBoMmHbJWSppvgRalgG8jAx5S9kMPRWC4l-N1P_Ufk5TvAv4VECvohBY84Dw5tEtI8Ofudfr7cILQU0VGP1B4obTaXZaInfAvVv14pQVHSSFhyphenhyphen75-i6kS5p1PJlE8WMuKE4ynFuQ/s640/blogger-image-17434363.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJq2uBoMmHbJWSppvgRalgG8jAx5S9kMPRWC4l-N1P_Ufk5TvAv4VECvohBY84Dw5tEtI8Ofudfr7cILQU0VGP1B4obTaXZaInfAvVv14pQVHSSFhyphenhyphen75-i6kS5p1PJlE8WMuKE4ynFuQ/s640/blogger-image-17434363.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The countdown has begun. My prophylactic mastectomy and reconstructive surgery is coming up awfully soon.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My mind is going a little nuts with anticipation, anxiety, excitement… MORE anxiety. Seriously, I have begun worrying about EVERYTHING.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">What if I get sick with the flu the week before surgery? What if my daughter totally freaks out when I am not with my family for five nights? What if there is a horrible snowstorm right before my surgery date? What if my surgeon sneezes while he is operating on me and cuts me in half? What if my two year old cries for 6 straight weeks because I cannot hug him/hold him? What if a freak tornado hits at the exact moment I am having surgery done? What if my husband mixes red clothes in with the white laundry while I am out of commission? What if the surgeons discover an alien living in my body? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">See? I worry about EVERYTHING.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I also worry about dying on the operating table. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I also worry about looking like a rag doll post-surgery.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And truthfully, I also worry that I am going to go through with this surgery, and will look like a rag doll, and then I will get breast cancer anyway. Or ovarian cancer. Or melanoma. Or tongue cancer. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But “Que sera, sera,” right? I should give up on all this unproductive worrying because it is so… UNPRODUCTIVE! I should listen to the words of my daughter’s animated idol, Elsa of Arendale, and just “Let it go! Let it go!” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And yet, because I have been anticipating this surgery for months now, and because the anticipation has involved all aspects of my head, my heart, my soul… I just can’t let it go.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Generally speaking, honestly, I am totally a no-drama, easy-peasy lemon squeezy kind of gal. This kind of thing just brings out my inner Woody Allen.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So in an effort to combat all the negative thoughts that swirl around in my brain and distract me from being my normally optimistic self, I have been doing what I know works best to help me calm down and be less freaky. No, not yoga (yoga makes me antsy). No, not meditation (meditation makes me loopy). No, not self-medication (drugs make me queasy). </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My therapy of choice? The OneNote app.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Planning, and uber-planning, and micro-planning every aspect of this upcoming surgery has been my means of self-soothing over the last several weeks, and I've done it all on the cute OneNote app. In my OneNote notebook, I have created a plethora of lists related to the surgery, each filed under a different beautifully colored tab. I have created a “packing list” tab, an “important contacts” tab, a “places to go” tab which lists activities for Chris to do with the kids in my absence, a “shopping list” tab, a “sample schedule” tab (providing Chris with a basic outline of the children’s day), and a “preparing the house” tab. All of these tabs form a beautiful rainbow of preparation, and it is oh so calming for me to look at them. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">If I am feeling panicky, all I have to do is add a pastel colored new tab to my OneNote notebook with a list of books to read or movies to see while I am out on sick leave. As I focus on compiling a list of dramas and comedies, my worries start to dissipate, and I start to see my upcoming sick leave as an opportunity to catch up on all the Oscar-nominated contenders. Voila! It’s like magic.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I know what this is about, of course. I’m no fool. I am trying to control what I CAN control, because the thought of giving up ALL control as I am laying on the operating table, getting my anesthesia cocktail administered, is totally frightening to me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Obviously, in a short period of time, my surgery is going to be a reality, and not just tabs and checklists in a OneNote notebook. Obviously, I have to face my fears, or “embrace the tiger” as I like to say, and just trust that everything is going to turn out okay. I have an amazing surgeon and an amazing team performing an amazing surgery. I have an amazingly supportive family, and an amazingly supportive group of friends, who are all going to be pulling for me and praying for me (and maybe preparing food for our family, which is double amazing). I have made an amazing choice, and I am following through with the choice I have made. All in all, this is an amazing opportunity, and I can see it as just that, if I simplify everything in my head and heart. Because really, deep down inside, I know I am a strong person, and I trust my strength, and I trust in God, and I trust that everything will be okay. Really. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But for now, I also trust in the OneNote app. It will get me through the coming weeks, and will provide me with a trusty little haven of pretty colored tabs.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-56532729139505698182015-01-09T18:41:00.001-08:002015-01-10T03:02:00.710-08:00Standardizing Emmy<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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Chris and I got called in to Em’s school today to talk to her teacher and pre-school director about some recent observations they have had regarding Emmy. When I got the email, asking if we had time to come in and talk, I totally panicked. Millions of questions ran through my head: Is Em acting out? Are other kids picking on her? Is she light years behind her peers in her academic development? Has she started screaming “I hate mommy!” and running through the school halls naked? Is she starting a coup d’etat among the four year olds?<br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As it turns out, they told us Emmy runs funny. Em’s teacher and pre-school director informed us that the PT worker at the school had noticed Ember turns her feet inward when she moves quickly. She also seems to have some balance issues (which we have witnessed around the house, too, sometimes). She also doesn’t hold a marker or scissors the way they want her to. She also doesn't finish puzzles as quickly as other kids...?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And because she does not run perfectly, or hold her marker or scissors perfectly, or balance perfectly, they are recommending that Em be screened by our school district to see if she qualifies for physical therapy.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My first reaction to this was absolute relief. What they were telling us was NOT any of the horror stories I had conjured up in my head. And they went on to tell us that emotionally and socially, Em is well-adjusted. She is doing really well with her learning, and the teacher has seen lots of development across the board as she has transitioned from a three year old to a four year old. Awesome.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She is just a little… klutzy? Unique? Not perfect?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And now I am wondering, a few hours later - is it necessary to screen Ember, just because she runs a little funny? Isn’t it okay that she holds her marker in a creative way? Aren’t these things she might just grow out of eventually? Aren’t these the little imperfections that make her unique, and cute, and maybe a little silly as a four year old? Do they need to be trained out of her?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I’m torn. On one hand, I don’t want Em to trip over her own feet all the time, of course. I would kind of like her to hold her marker the right way, the way the other kids do. And I am so appreciative that the school teachers and staff are REALLY observing and noticing Emmy and offering us their observations.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But on the other hand, I feel like this screening is just another way that the education system is set up to “standardize” our kids, making sure they all write the same way, read the same way, think the same way, and act the same way. It makes me think of my parents’ era, when being left-handed was thought of as a bad thing, something you needed to be trained out of. Why? Was it SO necessary that there be NO left handed people in America? And now, is it SO necessary that my daughter run exactly how the other kids run, with their toes pointed straight forward?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Do I think the screening is going to harm Emmy? Of course not. Do I think it may actually be helpful? Kind of. I am curious to know what an objective “screener” sees in our daughter that we fail to see, because of our proximity to her and our love for her. But do I think Em really needs therapy to train her out of her slightly silly run? I’m not sold on it. Yet.</span></div>
Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-84970772671229851132014-12-24T17:41:00.001-08:002014-12-26T17:39:44.609-08:00Realistic Resolutions<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk7SENfCw2vWrtI4HVRMKt8_hYFehwuMVnGVwcspE_lUbo3kSQKDLUXQldrWTQBAM_BFYRYseXOotZ8vvpfImujK1XvkL67wY9s9pLeXzPlflg8wbKo83SFxvHmeFoDM0xAMItdhDMPP0/s640/blogger-image--497960614.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk7SENfCw2vWrtI4HVRMKt8_hYFehwuMVnGVwcspE_lUbo3kSQKDLUXQldrWTQBAM_BFYRYseXOotZ8vvpfImujK1XvkL67wY9s9pLeXzPlflg8wbKo83SFxvHmeFoDM0xAMItdhDMPP0/s640/blogger-image--497960614.jpg"></a></div><br></div></div><div><br></div> I am kind of OVER making New Year's resolutions. Because I know the way life works, and that if I super-pinky-swear promise myself on December 31st that in 2015 I am going to get back to exercising for at least 30 minutes EVERY day, on January 1st I will come down with pneumonia and will be bed-ridden and lethargic for three weeks.<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> If I tell myself 2015 is going to be the year of meditation and gluten-free foods, by January 3rd I will surely realize that meditation makes me anxious and gluten is the key to all my happiness. </span><div><div><br></div><div>So instead of aspiring (and failing) to live a life that would get the Gwyneth Paltrow seal of approval, I have come up with the following list of "keeping it real" UNresolutions for 2015. </div><div><br></div><div>These are not meant to inspire you. If they DO inspire you, you are weird.</div><div><br></div><div>1. I promise I am NOT going to eat kale at every meal, but I will THINK about kale at every meal. </div><div><br></div><div>2. I will try to exercise for thirty minutes every day OR I will exercise until one of my small children decides to sit on my head while I attempt to do ab exercises (which is usually about four minutes into my workout).</div><div><br></div><div>3. I promise to use my Facebook posts as a way of bringing attention to important socio-political issues (like how many times Oren has gone poopy on the potty in one day).</div><div><br></div><div>4. I vow to take less time deciding what I should wear in the morning, by throwing out everything in my closet that is not black.</div><div><br></div><div>5. I promise to spend more quality time with my children, as long as quality time involves ice cream.</div><div><br></div><div>6. I swear I will cook more homemade meals for our family. Reheating counts as cooking, right?</div><div><br></div><div>7. I promise to read more (interviews with celebrities).</div><div><br></div><div>8. I will give up caffeine. Except for coffee. And soda. And chocolate. </div><div><br></div><div>9. I promise to spend less money on silly toys that my children don't need. Until Disney releases Frozen 2. Then all bets are off.</div><div><br></div><div>10. I vow to appreciate what I have. I also vow to REALLY appreciate a winning lottery ticket.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>What are your New Years resolutions, and when do you intend to give up on them?</div><div><br></div><div><br></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br></div>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-49613345830414371992014-12-20T18:23:00.001-08:002014-12-21T03:58:22.810-08:00A Year in PicturesIt's true. I have basically failed as a blogger this past year. So how can I quickly sum up the beauty of a year that has gone by virtually undocumented in writing? Through pictures, of course! Here, my friends, is the Koelling Clan year in review...<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vKzSqMFYRQdoVupY9_6Asz9JbplJjj7HWKHrKKbPzvbfciZhA9V3uOOX-M8h68eLtBK-79wUkw3XUPphjqJb4TZrLnE5jT1KkVsFyawibk2CiU5BxEN-rkLdo4gEF7PNyI7OfrCR9gM/s640/blogger-image-580165590.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vKzSqMFYRQdoVupY9_6Asz9JbplJjj7HWKHrKKbPzvbfciZhA9V3uOOX-M8h68eLtBK-79wUkw3XUPphjqJb4TZrLnE5jT1KkVsFyawibk2CiU5BxEN-rkLdo4gEF7PNyI7OfrCR9gM/s640/blogger-image-580165590.jpg"></a></div>Ember has evolved from a three year old into a "four going on fourteen" year old. She uses sayings like "what the heck?" and picks out her own outfits (which always involve at least three different colorful patterns and sparkly shoes). When I ask her how her day was, she tells me her mouth needs to rest. But she still needs cuddles before bedtime, and hugs. Lots of hugs (which we also LOVE giving her).</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBspq3VTFnVaF3AKEhwiBxnRWMbSbKZx3nCjoCKm-VgapjOwoy-tMW7XV0478wFW19odg2-6CvwXRFGAwOZH9k9cNCNWspa-D9XYdZZjCcAlopbitzsf_gb2D7paJvWGNlnZZKOEHVaUc/s640/blogger-image-750121017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBspq3VTFnVaF3AKEhwiBxnRWMbSbKZx3nCjoCKm-VgapjOwoy-tMW7XV0478wFW19odg2-6CvwXRFGAwOZH9k9cNCNWspa-D9XYdZZjCcAlopbitzsf_gb2D7paJvWGNlnZZKOEHVaUc/s640/blogger-image-750121017.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Oren has grown from a babbling baby into a very verbal, expressive toddler. He continues to be full of giggles and charm, and his favorite pastime is pretending to be a dinosaur. And then a kitty. And then a dinosaur. Oren gives million dollar hugs. Seriously, if you are ever sad, come over to our house and ask Oren to give you a hug. You will instantly feel better (until we charge you a million dollars)! He is a champion napper. He is amazing at puzzles. He ALWAYS has a cold or allergies. And he LOVES the YouTube video of "one potato, two potato."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCVu4qCxsz5SzUc-sQFD_O2ZFQ5GjZSmDNNiX3dBe1NhlMSwHIAgJdfEOPm95v0sJCy4IWzKjgPhmlCcj7aJTFvWzrSXM2xbH9lZ8TZ_OuVDw1UA8ki5-zlBCuc1PX2oyljtObYcZlgp8/s640/blogger-image--506910047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCVu4qCxsz5SzUc-sQFD_O2ZFQ5GjZSmDNNiX3dBe1NhlMSwHIAgJdfEOPm95v0sJCy4IWzKjgPhmlCcj7aJTFvWzrSXM2xbH9lZ8TZ_OuVDw1UA8ki5-zlBCuc1PX2oyljtObYcZlgp8/s640/blogger-image--506910047.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This photo is a rare family photo of all four of us, taken during the summer. I tell you, there are annoying sides to parenting, like the fact that dinner is always chaotic, and there are always twelve loads of laundry to be washed, dried, and folded. But when the four of us huddle together like this, and our world is just a tiny microcosm of pure love, parenthood is perfection.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE37lZE_u6bKgZTKD57DJZ9daaw_yr3MhlPnYQgLeJNNvS0xEXiB0yT0u7s4w3IhG1sHI2PPsIv1haYqWWovpAhvTA9osjqE8JTwm4QssGmDzXngl7WjYGNB-fvfh5U7W_lIHxvguUGEk/s640/blogger-image--1269187391.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE37lZE_u6bKgZTKD57DJZ9daaw_yr3MhlPnYQgLeJNNvS0xEXiB0yT0u7s4w3IhG1sHI2PPsIv1haYqWWovpAhvTA9osjqE8JTwm4QssGmDzXngl7WjYGNB-fvfh5U7W_lIHxvguUGEk/s640/blogger-image--1269187391.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A photo of me and the kids. See, I told you that we hardly ever have a photo of the four of us!! This was taken at Em's camp this summer, which was a transformative experience for her.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxJcUSIe1rRztBL9lNcpe1x5l_tSiY6YiKqzHpkp2vt8ocPlOwDBtwyrqdoYdBle1xuEk9INzzVVpu1IFu2VBqQ5DvKXe5dkXVy0-Wnk2q9vI3GG1uZ3XYX_VuxXIBlxbWNPyYccqpA4/s640/blogger-image--933349449.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxJcUSIe1rRztBL9lNcpe1x5l_tSiY6YiKqzHpkp2vt8ocPlOwDBtwyrqdoYdBle1xuEk9INzzVVpu1IFu2VBqQ5DvKXe5dkXVy0-Wnk2q9vI3GG1uZ3XYX_VuxXIBlxbWNPyYccqpA4/s640/blogger-image--933349449.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Perhaps my favorite photo of the year, because it just says a lot about life, about having children, and about how beautiful the world is. This was taken on our vacation at the Cape, which we were generously invited on by my amazing Aunt Ellen and Uncle George.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRgz7ji6QloFx6qiy7cHCwkMP0XxEnebXnXAlR7NPYKNh3SJG_a_x8Ckv8FYC4CqEex3kwIzy7q66lIT6zmKTak8f74bYxRSPJgAmt4mk1b7FGii66pNODoVBTgdsz0lQ__zi_T835Xk/s640/blogger-image-1521814446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRgz7ji6QloFx6qiy7cHCwkMP0XxEnebXnXAlR7NPYKNh3SJG_a_x8Ckv8FYC4CqEex3kwIzy7q66lIT6zmKTak8f74bYxRSPJgAmt4mk1b7FGii66pNODoVBTgdsz0lQ__zi_T835Xk/s640/blogger-image-1521814446.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The children love playing outside, and the fall was a perfect time to enjoy our new backyard, playing with bubbles and piles of leaves. And worms. Big, fat, juicy worms. Oren especially loved making two worms out of one worm and making his mommy gag.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfC2Y5hA-lp8NTHC0m1kRP2M5L5iSmWYlLHT2BmUs36j-yQdJQLqbv4EYHGRr_bPXokj6ctL642ftgqg7X_aeSa6A11hgsm2GlgdY0PWWgMUf5N6-gXM32ZRaOfGI6IWpdfFavtq6nGn8/s640/blogger-image-1888887475.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfC2Y5hA-lp8NTHC0m1kRP2M5L5iSmWYlLHT2BmUs36j-yQdJQLqbv4EYHGRr_bPXokj6ctL642ftgqg7X_aeSa6A11hgsm2GlgdY0PWWgMUf5N6-gXM32ZRaOfGI6IWpdfFavtq6nGn8/s640/blogger-image-1888887475.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Our kids being themselves, which basically means Oren creating a humongous mess and loving every minute of it, and Ember hamming it up and using her imagination to make the ordinary extraordinary.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrjstwocT8s-s0baTrkXM7DYrypU48Aihf1VJXcjfDX4CQ9uh8Rk4Kh8NiH8K7HmjhuCl5NN8VlF-lFm4jLSSA9hTeffWntPDW4vMGzdY2LfdyVgwG-gJWzcYOsG4sRjEO_oGXImjqxew/s640/blogger-image-1477613785.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrjstwocT8s-s0baTrkXM7DYrypU48Aihf1VJXcjfDX4CQ9uh8Rk4Kh8NiH8K7HmjhuCl5NN8VlF-lFm4jLSSA9hTeffWntPDW4vMGzdY2LfdyVgwG-gJWzcYOsG4sRjEO_oGXImjqxew/s640/blogger-image-1477613785.jpg"></font></a></div><br></div>I am not a huge fan of winter. Ok, I am not at all a fan of winter. I see winter as a five month long torture device that allows me to appreciate the months that are NOT winter. But what I DO love is seeing my kids LOVING the snow, and catching snowflakes on their tongues, and making snow cones. They are allowed to love winter, because they don't have to drive in it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QaGTyybiubeadmQlRSpNO_OmADc4S9S4Hk86M3-VNxwcGYHU565ycxi2ZgvlT1XOx4h8zROq-RfyMksM2dUDNc99CEuaj03M-nXXc8X6i2-H-OvjKT6FweSOAU1GqaZ4-iuBK6O0bsE/s640/blogger-image--873621511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QaGTyybiubeadmQlRSpNO_OmADc4S9S4Hk86M3-VNxwcGYHU565ycxi2ZgvlT1XOx4h8zROq-RfyMksM2dUDNc99CEuaj03M-nXXc8X6i2-H-OvjKT6FweSOAU1GqaZ4-iuBK6O0bsE/s640/blogger-image--873621511.jpg"></font></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And THIS is what every parent looks forward to seeing at the end of a long day. Even if your four year old daughter is wearing a bathing suit on her head, as long as she is peacefully sleeping, it's all good.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">There it is. A year in photos. 2014 was beautiful. 2015, here we come.</span></div><br></div>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-74500114100046905782014-12-17T18:05:00.001-08:002014-12-20T10:15:32.116-08:00Turning a Positive Result into a Positive Decision<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxR_osnR8wN_iQlqVzrktRgUu7po2S9wPn7RBqCxiJ5QtcrsR0LivzC7RaHxkaRFrMauqenWvICp0CCMKjv3-j9SiaYfi_oObb49Jv03PCAOyPXre9kxYSyyYwjWKVVfeuRiNt1GPf3rg/s640/blogger-image--1460676533.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxR_osnR8wN_iQlqVzrktRgUu7po2S9wPn7RBqCxiJ5QtcrsR0LivzC7RaHxkaRFrMauqenWvICp0CCMKjv3-j9SiaYfi_oObb49Jv03PCAOyPXre9kxYSyyYwjWKVVfeuRiNt1GPf3rg/s640/blogger-image--1460676533.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>Approximately two minutes after I found out I was BRCA1 positive, I knew I would be planning a preventative surgery to help drastically lower the odds of my getting breast cancer. Knowing that my mother had had a clear mammogram just months before being diagnosed with Stage 2 cancer made me want to aggressively fight my odds of getting an especially aggressive mutation. I knew that vigilant monitoring through mammograms wasn't for me, and that I would lose sleep for weeks (or months) before each yearly exam. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So surgery seemed like the best option. Or maybe the "breast" option?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But At the beginning of this journey, I had no idea </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">how many options are available for mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I first visited with three local surgeons. Each one of them kindly told me I was a good candidate for implants, and discouraged me from thinking about other alternatives. They gave me pamphlets to read, and I read them and tried to wrap my head around the idea of implants. Honestly, the thought of an implant didn’t sit very well with me. Mostly, I couldn't picture myself as a 70 year old woman with implants. When I asked the surgeons if I would need to replace the implants as my body aged, they said I would, as if that was a given, and did not seem to acknowledge the fact that it would be a HUGE inconvenience to have to go back for repeated surgeries. Upon further investigation, I found out that many women have complications with their implants, ranging from minor to major. I just didn’t feel confident going that route.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So I decided to widen my scope. I turned to the support group FORCE (Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered), created for those who are BRCA mutation positive. Through various message boards and posts on the FORCE website, I found out about the DIEP FLAP surgery, where they use your stomache tissue (sparing the abdominal muscles) for the breast reconstruction. It involves microsurgery and reattaching blood vessels, which of course sounds scary and intimidating, but the women who have braved these procedures, overall, seem MUCH happier than those who have opted for implants. Many FORCE members recommended two breast reconstructive centers, one in New Orleans, and one in San Antonio, for this type of surgery.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I reached out to both centers, and got two very different responses. When I contacted the Center for Restorative Breast Surgery in New Orleans, I was asked for my contact information and was told I would get a call back... which never happened. When I contacted PRMA in San Antonio, I was immediately connected with the patient advocate, Courtney, who was incredibly welcoming, informative, and an absolute pleasure to speak with. She made what could have been a very uncomfortable, stressful conversation a very easy, very comfortable one. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Based on surgeon recommendations I saw on the FORCE website, and my two very different experiences with New Orleans and San Antonio, I asked Courtney if I could set up a consultation with Dr. Minas Chrysopoulo at PRMA. We scheduled a Skype consultation in October. I expected to speak with Dr. C, as everyone calls him, for maybe ten minutes (that was about the length of time my other consultations had lasted). Instead, Dr. C spent at least 45 minutes to an hour talking to me about my decision and the DIEP FLAP surgery. I was so impressed with his patience, attention, and care. And he didn't talk to me like I was a PATIENT. He talked to me like I was a HUMAN BEING. One of the first things he asked me was whether or not I have children, and when I told him I have two little kids, ages 2 and 4, he said, "that BY FAR is going to be the biggest challenge of having this surgery." He got it. He understood the effect of this surgery, far beyond the borders of the operating room. And we had only been talking for two minutes. Dr. C also did everything he could to set realistic expectations for what I would go through, and what the outcome would be. He was transparent. He didn't romanticize anything. He was confident but humble. And by the end of the conversation, I knew I had found my surgeon.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Following the consultation was the long and anxiety provoking wait to hear whether my insurance would cover the surgery. I may have emailed PRMA six or six hundred times to check in on the status of the approval. But when the call finally came, and Courtney told me I was approved to schedule a date for the surgery, I truly felt like screaming "hallelujah!"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So I set my date for the surgery. I have gotten my insurance approval, gotten the ok from work (thank goodness for understanding employers!!), booked our flights, reserved a hotel, and rented a car. I have requested the help of my Eema, my stepmother, for the days following the surgery. I have had conversations with brave, beautiful women who have gone through this surgery and have generously offered to share their experiences. I have had a CTA scan in preparation for the surgery. I have had several conversations with lots of folks who only know about prophylactic mastectomies because of Angelina Jolie, which makes me more grateful to her for going public with her decision. I have scoured the Internet for packing tips, tips on how to prepare (mentally, physically, emotionally) for this surgery, tips on what to expect in the days following the surgery, and tips on where my husband can take the kids in San Antonio (though unfortunately a lot of attractions seem to be closed in the month of February). </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And now I am actively working on staying calm, staying healthy (a big challenge in this household of tiny children), getting organized, and becoming as well-informed as possible. And being a wife and mommy. And working full time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> It's a lot, but I think I can handle it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-42965497797230046162014-12-17T16:50:00.000-08:002014-12-17T17:20:21.347-08:00Back to the Blog<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-DRXahP_CMaO2caXljEYjqCBrcmpVMLpYYXNOlsw5Vepoi3L3VWp6hCgVPPKBKcA8wZAB3VvDvEDQHViKUwTrMS7ViXa-HC_6pl16PAE6h5DRduv_p973gatLhW6bn25FYIqDmY0Ong/s640/blogger-image-485287987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-DRXahP_CMaO2caXljEYjqCBrcmpVMLpYYXNOlsw5Vepoi3L3VWp6hCgVPPKBKcA8wZAB3VvDvEDQHViKUwTrMS7ViXa-HC_6pl16PAE6h5DRduv_p973gatLhW6bn25FYIqDmY0Ong/s640/blogger-image-485287987.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">It was just about four years ago that I flew out to San Jose to see my mother for the last time before she passed away in February of 2011. It was just about four years ago that I got to hug her for the last time, kiss her face for the last time, tell her I love her for the last time, and most importantly, make sure she knew I forgave her for not being a perfect parent. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Unfortunately, a very busy life does not leave much time to mourn. Rather than putting aside time each year to grieve for my mom, I have let the comprehension of her death sneak up on me and surprise me at very random times, in very random places. I will be driving to work, or putting the kids to bed, or emptying the dishwasher, and a sense of loss will creep up behind me and put me in a choke hold. Suddenly I will be crying, and feeling like a child, and remembering my mom standing there, with sewing pins dangling out of her mouth while she worked on a craft project. She was almost always working on a craft project.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My mother was 63 when she died, after an eighteen year long battle with breast cancer. She was BRCA1 positive.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br></div>
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In February 2015, just two months from now, I will be commemorating the four year anniversary of my mother’s death in a unique way – by getting a prophylactic DIEP FLAP mastectomy in San Antonio, Texas. The journey to making this decision, ever since discovering my BRCA1 positive status in October of 2011, has been long and complex, but I am glad to have a plan, and a set date for the surgery. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br></div>
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I haven’t written much on this blog for some time now, and I feel immensely guilty for not better documenting our family’s life the past couple of years. It seems like the minute Oren was born, any free time I had for blogging went out the window. I know it is so unfair to him, that I have this tome of writing describing in great detail Ember’s first few years.. and what? Maybe three posts about him, since he was born? This lack of writing is no indication of lack of love. I love Oren far beyond words. The lack of writing is just a testament to how busy we have been.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br></div>
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But once I decided on having this surgery in February, I decided that I REALLY want to reboot this blog, and to use the surgery as an opportunity to start writing again. I know that blogging will be immensely helpful to me, to my healing, and to just keeping me busy while I recuperate. I know I will have lots of “down time” coming up, and that I will be able to use the time to write about the kids and our family. I ALSO want to document my journey, so that it might be helpful to other women who are choosing to go through the same procedure I am going through, and so that, God forbid, one of my children has inherited this genetic mutation, they will know more about the choices I made to try and improve my odds of not getting cancer. In preparing for my own surgery, I have searched the web and found many invaluable pearls of wisdom from other BRCA positive women who have had mastectomies, and so blogging will be one way through which I can “pay it forward.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br></div>
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So welcome back to Mooshkatoo. I hope you enjoy reading my upcoming posts as much as I will enjoy writing them. </div>
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Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-24052423096255621262014-06-10T13:59:00.001-07:002014-06-10T13:59:28.232-07:00It’s All About the DADA<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_w1IqcMBMs0KXQo-OCcnh831A-KmdsJvWiNZNbPkJbK5hb2NX566NM5IOL0u3O_EwFyb9Gc5crJbZFRg42puAmvvGNOVzoE5KypSnZXDYD9L53urygcG5TshBwBxvix7cT53Vip2hd4/s1600/Chris+and+Em.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_w1IqcMBMs0KXQo-OCcnh831A-KmdsJvWiNZNbPkJbK5hb2NX566NM5IOL0u3O_EwFyb9Gc5crJbZFRg42puAmvvGNOVzoE5KypSnZXDYD9L53urygcG5TshBwBxvix7cT53Vip2hd4/s1600/Chris+and+Em.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
So, for the first two and a half years of Emmy’s life, she
was virtually attached to my hip. Often, she was LITERALLY attached to my hip,
clinging to my neck with one arm, shoving her other arm and hand down my blouse
to make sure her breast friends were still there, and locking her little legs
around my waist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t think I really begrudged Em’s attachment to me. I
mean, it kind of felt nice to play the role of “Center of the Universe” in my
daughter’s life. But I DID feel bad for my husband. Most of the time, Em saw
him as just another person who was trying to get between her and her mommy.
When I would hand her off to C so I could take a five minute shower, she would
begin howling like a wolf, would squiggle out of his arms, run to the bathroom
door, and would then scream my name through the door for the full length of
time it took me to clean myself (and I would be chanting “take me away, Calgon”
the whole time). <o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, the days of the Mama Love Fest are apparently over. WAY
over. I am definitely NOT top dog in our household anymore. I have taken off my
crown and sash, and handed them to my husband, because it is SO official: Dada
Rules.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course, part of the reason WHY Dada rules is because with
Dada, THERE ARE NO RULES. Whereas I employ the “I’m gonna count to three,”
rule, the “this is your second warning,” rule, the “you cannot play until you
finish your lunch,” rule, and the ever-popular “because I SAID SO” rule, Dada
is a lot more lenient in his governing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The kids were home sick (with PINK EYE! YUCK!) a few weeks
ago, and my husband generously volunteered to stay home with them so I would
not have to take time off from my very new job. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, if I had stayed home with the kids, despite being ill,
they still would have had to eat a decent lunch, help clean up their playroom,
and take a bath. With Dada in charge, our house becomes a frat house, with the
kids running around in togas, doing keg stands, and screaming so loudly the
neighbors call the cops on us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ok, maybe it’s not THAT bad. But when I called home from
work to check in on how my husband and the kids were doing on their day off
from school and work, my husband gave me this run down:<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, we played with the bubble machine for four hours.
Then Em and I went to the movies, and we got popcorn and a huge bag of gummy
bears. She ate the whole bag. Now we are going out for ice cream.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Excellent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If we were to hold an election for President of the
Household, Dada would win hands-down, campaigning with slogans such as “Want Chocolate
Cake for Breakfast?” and “You Look Great with Underwear on Your Head! Vote for
Dada!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course, Dada can be a serious parent, too. When I am home
with him and the kids, he is an AMAZING partner, volunteering to get the kids
bathed, making sure the kids get dressed for school, brushing their teeth, AND he
reads Emmy her bedtime stories EVERY NIGHT (when I volunteer to read Emmy her
books instead of Dada, she starts to whimper and then has a panic attack). My
husband somehow makes even the daily grind seem more fun and silly than I ever
could. As I prepare dinner downstairs, I hear Dada making silly jokes and the
kids giggling hysterically as they get their pajamas on upstairs. Even with a
simple task like getting the kids into the car to go shopping, Dada somehow
makes it a fun and magical experience. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s not that I don’t have fun with the kids. I TOTALLY do.
But it is very apparent, from the adoration and enthusiasm the kids have for
Dada, they CLEARLY have more fun with him than they have with me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I get it. If I had to choose between myself and my husband,
I would choose him in a SECOND. Kind of why I married him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, this is where things stand. I had a great run as the
Center of the Universe. I now enjoy watching my children follow my husband around
the house like two little groupies begging for autographs. I love seeing him
sitting on the couch with my daughter tucked under his arm and my son sitting
on one knee. I think it is great that the first thing the kids say when they
wake up in the morning is “where’s Dada?” and the first thing they say when we
get home from school is “where’s Dada?” and that the other night my son
screamed “DADA!!!!!!!!!!!!” instead of “MAMA!!!!!!!!!!” when my husband and I
went out to dinner for our anniversary. Most of all, I love that my husband is
getting HIS moment in the spotlight – after all, he had to wait patiently
through three long years of Mama Love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do I feel slighted? Sure, a little. Does it sting? Sure, a
little. But I am discovering there are perks to being the parental wallflower.
I get to shower and pee without a baby sitting outside the bathroom door crying
because of my momentary absence. I get to check my emails while Dada reads
bedtime stories. I get to go through the day without a child physically attached
to my hip.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe the pendulum will swing back in my direction in a few
months, or years, or decades. Maybe it won’t. For now, I’m ok with the fact
that it is all about the DADA, and endlessly grateful that my husband is such
an amazing dad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-10340707128545947752014-04-11T18:24:00.000-07:002014-04-11T18:30:37.049-07:00Get Back to Work!<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgNo61Bu8tjv36KxiUFJx6ySE6wuJaPMsm4_K2IpkAG27NTN6iy8K0JsX2a5uBQC1ufcEBv1I8TugIPBn04x7PdY78KkAIKuY9EOvM4QnWzAHKxOVWKOeyuK03qN8jhCNK9oPnSW8tLM/s640/blogger-image--935553493.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgNo61Bu8tjv36KxiUFJx6ySE6wuJaPMsm4_K2IpkAG27NTN6iy8K0JsX2a5uBQC1ufcEBv1I8TugIPBn04x7PdY78KkAIKuY9EOvM4QnWzAHKxOVWKOeyuK03qN8jhCNK9oPnSW8tLM/s640/blogger-image--935553493.jpg"></a></div><div><br></div>So, I'm going back to work. Full time.<br>
<br>
It's such a crazy feeling, to be on the cusp of this major change. I'm elated, on the one hand, because I got offered a job that seems challenging and interesting in an environment that seems incredibly positive and supportive. I will no longer just be known as "mommy" or "Ember's mommy" or "Oren's mommy." I will have a valid reason to wear something other than sweatpants and a t-shirt. I won't have to fill my co-workers' sippy cups with apple juice every ten minutes. I will be able to have actual adult conversations, and not just daydream about them.<br>
<br>
But I'm also sad and worried. In ten days, I will no longer be singing "Let It Go!" with my kids every five minutes. I will no longer be taking the kids to the toddler story times at the library every day. I will no longer be the person who is with my kids each time they reach some huge or tiny developmental milestone. I will no longer have my sweet little hand-clapping, feet stomping, head-bobbing entourage with me throughout the day.<br>
<br>
My kids are amazing. They can be difficult to manage every hour of every day, but they are amazing. I am so proud of who they are, even at only 16 months old and three and a half years old. And even though I am having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that the intense period of mothering that I have experienced as a stay-at-home mom is coming to an end, I know they are going to do really well in this next phase of childhood. Because they are amazing.<br>
<br>
So this is my SAHM swan song. It was the best of times, it was the craziest of times. I learned a boat load about my children, about myself, about parenthood, and about life, and I wouldn't trade the past year and a half for anything in the world. I wish I had had the time to better document all the adventures the kids and I had together, but I was just too busy being a mom to document anything.<br>
<br>
On Wednesday night, while I was putting Emmy to bed, I had one of my (all too frequent these days) spontaneous emotional breakdowns, and tears started streaming down my face as I sang Em her lullabies.<br>
<br>
Em looked at me and asked me why I was crying.<br>
<br>
"Well, you know how I told you I would be going back to work, Em?"<br>
<br>
"Yeah."<br>
<br>
"Well, sometimes I get sad when I think about going to work and not being with you all day, because I know I am going to miss you very very much."<br>
<br>
"Well, mama, you don't have to be sad, because remember that your heart is right next to my heart, and even if you are at work, our hearts are next to each other."<br>
<br>
I had used that explanation to get Emmy to calm down one day when she was telling me how she didn't like going to nursery school because the boys would growl like tigers at her. I told her my heart was always next to her heart, even when I wasn't standing right next to her, and that my heart could help her not be scared.<br>
<br>
Of course, hearing Em's comforting words just made me bawl even more. So she held out her two favorite stuffed animals.<br>
<br>
"Maybe you could bring puppy or pink reindeer with you to work, so you won't be so sad."<br>
<br>
And I of course started crying even harder.<br>
<br>
"Thank you, Emmy. Mommy is going to be fine. I promise."<br>
<br>
And I will be fine, I know I will. It might take me a few days, or even a few weeks, to adjust to not being around my kids all day, but I know I will be fine.<br>
<br>
Still, if you ever come visit me at my new work place, and you see a pink reindeer sitting on my desk, don't ask questions. It is there for a very good reason.<br>
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<br>Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5484983282908707575.post-5757512265742469142014-02-28T17:29:00.001-08:002014-02-28T17:29:22.687-08:00I've Been Trapped Under a Snowbank (and other excuses for not blogging recently)<br />
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<br />
So, the kids are asleep and C is at volleyball. I have the option to use this time wisely in a couple different ways:<br />
a) I could go to sleep right now, THIS second, and could try to score more than my average four or five hours of sleep a night. This would make the bags under my eyes look less like, say, carpet bags and more like, say, chic little purses.<br />
b) I could fold laundry. Because there is ALWAYS laundry to fold. I have come to the realization that I will probably spend at least 80 billion hours of my life folding our family's laundry. I don't exactly EMBRACE the idea, but I haven't burned all of our clothes yet, or suggested that we move to a nudist's colony. <br />
c) I could write a very long overdue blog post about this absolutely insane winter, and about my absolutely insane (but hysterical and beautiful) children, and about the many revelations I have had while basically snowed-in during these long, cold months.<br />
<br />
Sleep, I guess you are going to have to wait. Laundry, you can fold yourself for one night. This mama has got to blog.<br />
<br />
Ok, let me start off by saying that had I known, back in June, that the first winter I would experience as a stay-at-home mom would be a record-breaking, snow-up-to-my-nose, frostbite-within-seconds-of-leaving-the-house, eight-month long season, I probably would have stayed employed.<br />
<br />
It's not that I haven't enjoyed bonding with my kids, or getting to see and experience Oren's first year on this earth in such a complete way. I really really have. I feel like I know my kids SO well now, and that is incredibly valuable to me.<br />
<br />
But this winter has been the winter from hell, and has proven very clearly to me that I am a seasonally successful stay-at-home mom. In the summer and fall, I would say I do a relatively good job as a SAHM. I find ways of making the days entertaining and educational, while actually ENJOYING my responsibilities. But in the winter? I suck at life AND motherhood. I spend most of the day staring at the window, cursing at each and every snowflake and icicle while the children juggle knives and strangle each other somewhere in the distance. I have TRIED to get out of the house, when possible, but other than outings to the library and indoor play parks and pet stores, there really hasn't been much to do. <br />
<br />
But enough about the winter of my discontent. Let's focus on the kids.<br />
<br />
The kids. Seriously. They are crazy. And they are A-MA-ZING. And they are COMPLETELY crazy.<br />
<br />
Ember is no longer Ember. By that, I mean she honestly spends 9 hours of the day playing the role of Elsa from the movie Frozen. And because Elsa has the magical power to freeze people, I spend 9 hours of the day pretending to be frozen. So if you are in need of a living statue, look no further. I have had LOTS of practice. I'm your gal. <br />
<br />
Ember is also EMBER. By that, I mean even though she is only three and a half years old, she is so much her own person and personality. I think it actually took having a second child for me to realize how unique Emmy's personality traits are to her. She is SO creative, and SO sensitive, and SO funny, and sometime also SO difficult. My biggest challenge with her is getting her to LISTEN and pay attention. She gets caught up in her own thoughts and imagination and needs, and it is sometimes very tough getting her to step outside her own circle. We are working on it, though.<br />
<br />
And Oren? He's a delight, and he's a joy, and he's a very silly, very mischievous boy. He is very quick to smile and laugh, and is SO good at cuddling. He loves dancing and music and balls and lights and eating crackers and smushing crackers into the living room rug. He also LOVES climbing up on chairs, couches, tables, shelves... and sometimes he loves climbing INTO shelves. He loves finding the most dangerous object in the room and using it as a drum stick. He loves trying to flush large objects down the toilet. He loves running around naked. He loves digging through the garbage to find small plastic items to choke on. In short, he loves giving me small heart attacks on an hourly basis.<br />
<br />
Oren is talking - saying quite a few words already, and then grunting to make his needs known the rest of the time. His vocabulary is telling of his personality: mama, dada, ball, uh-oh, kick, cracker, no (with the intonation of "no"), no (with the intonation of "more"), down, and all done. It's amazing how much we can communicate using just these ten words.<br />
<br />
I feel guilty (SO guilty) for not having blogged more about his growth, his milestones, and his personality. He truly is a gem, and a love, and I feel like I have cheated him by not recording his first year in a more complete manner. But it is what it is, and I can only try to try harder.<br />
<br />
And in other news, we have sold our house and are moving to a bigger home, just about eight miles from where we live now. The whole buying and selling process has been so incredibly stressful for our whole family. It is SO not easy to show a house when you have a one year old and a three year old. I turned into a maniac from the moment our house went on the market, and became vicious about keeping the house clean and tidy. Every time the kids took out a toy to play with, I would get a nervous tic. It was NOT good. But we were incredibly lucky in having our home sell in 15 days (we had multiple offers, which was pretty thrilling considering we were selling in the dead of this stupid winter, and in this rather dead economy). So now we just have to get through the next month of the closing process, which I am sure will feel like the longest month EVER, and then we will be in a new home, with lots more room (and a second bathroom - yay)!<br />
<br />
I think the whole country is ready for this winter to be over, so I am in good company in aching for spring's arrival. I cannot WAIT to bring the kids to the playground again, and to feed the ducks and the fishies at the pond, and to not have to dress them in eight layers of clothing every time we leave the house. If, in the future, I ever start to lose an appreciation for the warmer weather days, and start to take them for granted, I hope I re-read this post and pause to give thanks for the grass and sun and flowers and how much easier it is to parent when it is NOT wintertime.<br />
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Dvora Koellinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09800456417809572290noreply@blogger.com0