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Here's Kiana's bed. Cindy sewed it. I was just the lovely assistant.
I did, however, design and paint these letters. Autumn colors for my Kiana Autumn Lee.
Dougs initials.
Doug's Big Boy Bed.
I know, the tent doesn't match... but every two-year-old needs a tent... don't you think.
Amidst these draining few weeks, I've called my therapist mother-in-law several times for advice on how to calm myself down. She advised me to indulge an activity that is gentle, calming, and distracting.
So every time Ryan calls to the backroom to ask what I am doing, I yell back that I am “self soothing.” I, of course, am on the computer. I am blogging. It helps me feel better. It helps me laugh at myself. It does the trick.
While I currently have little news to report, I would still like to coddle myself. Thus, I introduce to you a segment I call “Bethanyisms.” As mentioned in an earlier blog, Bethanyisms are small episodes that make me the eccentric woman that I am.
The following Bethanyism is the story of how I wet my pants while on a date….
I don’t feel embarrassed about it. Maybe I should be. I was twenty years old for heavens sake. I’d had decent bladder control for years. But it was really HIS fault. If anyone should be embarrassed it should be HIM.
He picked me up in his 92 Camero and we made a quick stop at his house to retrieve his wallet. Just as we opened his door, it hit me. I HAD to go. My knees buckled, I hunched over, and held that position until the sensation passed. Then, I asked him if I could use his bathroom. He turned pale.
“Can’t you wait until we get to the restaurant?” he asked shakily.
I shook my head. Any unnecessary vocalization might cause me to “spill some.”
“Our toilet doesn’t work very well.”
“I’ll use the sink,” I mustered.
He sighed and led me to the bathroom. It was immediately clear why he didn’t want me to use his bathroom. There was stale urine coating the ceiling, walls, and toilet. Apparently, my date had sluffed the lecture on “aiming” during his potty training years.
Rebel.
Still, the water beast was unleashed. It was coming. There was nothing I could do. I slammed the door behind me and squatted, taking extra precaution NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING.
I was so relieved that it took me a few seconds to notice that the brunt of my expulsion had ended up down the front of my jeans. I had peed myself good and hard... all for the sake of NOT TOUCHING ANYTHING.
I cursed my date and his sicko dungeon of urine.
I put on my coat, which luckily was knee length, and endured the rest of the evening in a puddle of my own filth.
Still, my date thought I was charming and cute. His head cold made him oblivious to the ammonia smell that was all too magnified in my own mind.
The next day he sent me a dozen beautiful roses… they were yellow. I never called him back.
Whoever said that having a Baby is Glamorous?
Okay, no one ever said that. But is what they didn’t say is that having a baby is an extremely GROSS process. You suspect it might be so when you check in to the hospital, but can never quite appreciate vast amounts of multi-colored liquids involved until you’ve actually gone through it.
While I often feel it my duty to fill others in on the most sensitive information of my life (a habit my mother calls giving “too much information”), I will spare you the gruesome details if my delivery and recovery… even though this goes against every fiber of my being.
The topic that cannot be left undiscussed, however, is breastfeeding.
Theoretically, it should be easy.
Open mouth, insert boob.
But alas, even to a seasoned breastfeeding veteran, such as myself, getting the process started can be a little tricky.
I was in the hospital for three days and shuffled though a small army of nurses. One nurse was African American, one was fromVietnam, one was Hispanic, one was white, one was Indian and one was from Iran. As different as these women were ethnically, they all had one thing in common. They all squeezed, shook, and kneaded my bare-naked boobies.
And I was grateful.
Kiana was too tired to cooperate and I was getting frusterated. Had I not had a full staff getting fresh with my girls I may have ended up in the insanity ward. Hormones… you know.
Now that Kiana and I have an understanding (I sustain her, she helps me lose those pesky baby pounds), things are going much better. Now if only I could remember which side I nursed last, left or right.
Doug is kind of interested in Kiana. 
He is all of the sudden keen on being a baby himself. He hasn't enjoyed a good swaddle in years... until today. 
When I got home from the hospital, Doug took in upon himself to "unpack" my bags in the bedroom. All of the sudden, Doug yelled "Stickers!" When Ryan went to the bedroom to investigate... this is what he found.
Don't worry. I am okay. I was discharged from the hospital tonight. The echo cardiogram showed that my heart was fine. My lungs were full of water because I was given way too much IV fluid during surgery. What a relief!
Thank you so much for your prayers. I have spent many moments in tears of gratitude for the love that was shown for my family over the last week. Thank you to my mommy and Sierra for taking good care of my babies. To Ryan for being the love of my life. To Doug for being a good boy. To my Heavenly Father, for blessing me with loving support during these scary last few days and sparing me a horrible heart problem.
I'll return with more lighthearted blogs soon.
I am back in the hospital. I thought I was having another anxiety attack—just like after I had Doug, but I wasn’t feeling upset or sad. I called the doctor on Tuesday and was advised to go to the ER just to be safe. Turns out I wasn’t having a panic attack but something called post-partum cardio myopathy. I guess sometimes after surgery, the heart swells causing fluid to build around the lungs—giving a sensation of drowning. Very scary.
So, I have been in the hospital for the last few days. The doctors have been flushing my system, loading my up on drugs, and running tests. I am so blessed to have my mom and sister in town helping out. Ryan, as usual, has been my knight in shining armor. He is my everything.
We don’t know how serious my case is yet, but I wanted to ask you to keep my dear husband, children and myself in your prayers. I’ll keep you updated as we figure this out.
