On how I conquered my vast and overwhelming fear of babies

I have always been terrified of babies.


Yes, babies.


Those sweet, adorable, cuddly, perfect, innocent darlings that no creature with even a tinge of human emotion could resist.


They terrified me.


It's not that I thought they were dangerous or evil, not at all. It's mostly that they're so . . . squishy. And breakable. And they cry a lot. And they're breakable. Like, really breakable. Like, you hold them the wrong way without supporting their little heads and they could die breakable. Like, you could bounce them on your hip too hard and hurt their brains, breakable. Who can handle that kind of pressure???? Not me. So up until approximately 9 months ago, I avoided holding babies. 


It wasn't too difficult to avoid. I didn't do any babysitting of infants growing up. I was little enough when my cousins were babies to have avoided most of the responsibilities of caring for them. We didn't have a lot of family friends with babies. And then there was the simple fact that whenever I held a baby (that some ridiculously careless parent just placed willy-nilly in my unsuspecting, untrained arms) it burst into tears of outraged confusion at this obvious show of parental neglect. Without fail. Every single time I held an infant, it recognized in me an obvious inability to protect it and began to wail. So yes, I became a little gun-shy when it came to holding babies. I literally went out of my way to avoid it.


So when I found out that I was going to be an aunt, mingled in with the overwhelming feeling of joy and excitement was this tiny little portion of my brain screaming "You're unworthy!!! You have no training!! You're not responsible enough to even hold a baby, much less be an aunt!!" Not helpful.


But there I was, a few months later with not one, but TWO little babies in my life. That's right, twins:) I couldn't get over the fact that there were two of them. The concept of twins had never been such an astonishing phenomenon to me before, but when faced with the reality, my mind seemed unable to take it in. Two babies. Two little girls nonetheless. Terrifying . . .


Kate Audrey and Ava Kay. Arguably two of my favorite little people in the universe. I will never forget the first time I held them. It just so happened that Ava was the first (Kate was having a snack at the time). I remember being overwhelmed with pure terror that I would hold her wrong, or drop her, and yet wanting to hold her so much I could hardly wait another second. And then there she was, quiet, staring, tiny (they were preemies) and beautiful. I loved her right away and it was the same with Kate. And even though I was nervous, I wasn't scared. It turns out, when you love someone that much, the panic goes away. 

Kate and Ava don't know it yet, but they've given me a gift. Well, besides the gift of just being themselves and filling me with love and pride in pretty much every thing they do. I mean seriously, they're pretty much the most adorable twins ever born into this world:)

Seriously. Ridiculously cute.

The gift they've given me is that I'm no longer terrified of babies. Babies are still breakable and they still cry. It's still a lot of responsibility to hold one. But I love my nieces and would do anything for them. And most importantly, I love them too much to be scared of them:) Blessedly, this has translated over to other babies (which is a relief, since I think there's something in the water, babies are cropping up everywhere)! I can now hold Koen and Sophie with complete and utter enjoyment. I'm anticipating the arrival of people's babies (Melissa (girl!), Gena (waiting!) and Shannon (girl!)). 

Basically, I've caught on to what everyone else already knew. Babies are a blessing and a gift. Always.

p.s. I am still on the fence about wanting to raise one of my own, however. But that is an entirely separate blog:)

Darn you, Rapunzel

I find myself taking a lot for granted. For instance, I have ten fingers and ten toes. This is something that others are lacking, but I generally disregard them, except in terms of ‘to polish or not to polish’ (those are the kind of decisions that could haunt you forever). I also have all my teeth and they are fairly straight, due to the generous nature of my parents’ orthodontic gifts. I still tend to under appreciate my teeth though, because the front two are chipped (tragic, yes?).

Another thing I’ve always disregarded is my hair. I have fairly unremarkable hair. My brother has always lovingly referred to it as “dishwater blonde, the kind with floaties in it.” Charming. It is also very fine, and has absolutely none of what those lucky few refer to as “body”. My hair has no body, oomph, or zest. Without extreme amounts of coaxing and desperate pleading, it is the general consistency of straw.

However, it’s my hair and I’m not one to obsess over the things I can’t change, so my hair has always been on the back-burner of my self-esteem issues. Until last summer, that is.

Last summer my mom was visiting and casually (kindly) mentioned that I was losing a lot of hair. I will admit to staring at her in blank shock. I had never noticed, just assuming my hair was its usual, body-less self. After some frantic self-evaluation I realized that yes, indeed, my hair was thinning.

PANIC!!

I may not be the vain type, but the notion of going through life bald was enough to make me hyperventilate. I could only imagine how complicated it would be to find a date. Who would be interested in “that bald woman”? A trip to a hair loss specialist here in Portland confirmed that I have genetic hair loss. Gulp. I will admit to having a meltdown, right then and there. There was some ugly crying going on after the doctor left the room. Her PA came in the room and asked if I was okay. I choked out my diagnosis to her. And then she gave me the words that snapped me back to reality.

“You don’t need hair to be healthy.”

Sniff, sniff, blowing nose, blank stare. “What?”

She smiled at me kindly and sat down. “Your hair loss is genetic; all your tests results have come back pretty clean. You’re healthy, in good shape, and don’t have any other overwhelming health issues. We have people coming in all the time that have lost their hair due to cancer and other really debilitating diseases. We have little girls that come in with hair loss and are wearing wigs. You are 27 years old and your hair loss is only mildly noticeable at this point. We can treat it and it will probably improve. This isn’t the end of everything.”

Oh.

I’m healthy. I don’t have cancer, thyroid issues, an autoimmune disease, PCOS, or any other of the host of issues that can cause hair loss. Hair is mostly cosmetic. I can live a full and healthy life without it. I don’t really want to, but I can.

Thankfully, the treatments that they’ve put me on have reversed the damage and it’s now very hard to tell that I have hair loss. Some creative styling, a little mousse, and a deep breath usually do the trick. I have recovered from the imagined indignity of having to buy Rogaine (only old men use Rogaine!!! Oh, and me), and have learned through research that LOTS of women my age suffer from androgenetic alopecia (that’s what I have). It’s almost as common in women as it is in men, but we find endless and desperate ways to hide it.

Why am I sharing this? Because it’s only hard to deal with when I feel like I’m hiding it and someone may discover it. I can finally speak of it with almost nonchalance to friends and family now. I can joke about finding myself the perfect, bald man someday (and let me just say, I have a whole newfound sympathy for guys who are losing their hair, it sucks!). I have allowed myself to be okay with the fact that the treatments will probably not work forever, and someday it will be a reality to deal with. I have yet to speak to one person who will admit to liking me less if my hair all falls out.

We all have physical flaws. But are they really flaws if the people who care about us don’t see them?

Breathless Anticipation

I'm not entirely sure if this is a wide-spread problem, but I'm going to assume it is. I can at least say for myself, with certainty, that I anticipate things too much. I want things, hope for things, look forward to things with almost painful intensity. It can be something as small as lunch or as random as a new book. Sometimes it involves another person, and sometimes it's an event. 


But almost without fail, if there's something that I'm intensely anticipating, it crushes me when it doesn't happen. The small things not so much, just enough to throw off the day. But those larger disappointments can feel like a hole punched in my chest, like a weight sinking down on me. I was wanting it so much, hoping for it so much, imagining how amazing it could be . . . and then suddenly it's over, done, didn't happen. 


I consider myself, for the most part, a fairly practical, rational person, but in this one particular area of life, I can't seem to control the way that disappointment hits me. I tell myself that I shouldn't look forward to things so much, or want certain things so much. I have this little conversation in my head "Don't set your heart on this, Dacia. Because if you do, and it doesn't happen, think how bummed you'll be." And every time, I ignore that little voice. How do you go through life without hoping for something? I don't think I want to be the sort of person that hopes and expects nothing, simply so they don't have to deal with disappointment. A happy medium, though, would be a good place to find.


Today in church our pastor gave a really thoughtful sermon, and it gave me pause. He talked about how much God offers us; how He gives us love, forgiveness, grace, and eternal life. And then he asked us, what do we give God in return? Like any relationship, both sides have to give for it to flourish. How crushing must His despair be when we don't reciprocate His love? And knowing how disappointment makes me feel, can I really choose to turn away from His love? I hope I don't.

The fine and delicate art of whining (and why you shouldn't overabuse the privilege).

Everyone whines.


I feel very safe making that blanket statement.


Whining is like comfort food; it's enjoyable to indulge in upon occasion. It's like choosing to curl up on the couch with a bowl of macaronni and cheese and watch So You Think You Can Dance, instead of going to the gym (watching people exercise doesn't count???). It's cozy, cathartic, and builds camaraderie between fellow whiners. It's fun for the whole family!


Except for when it makes someone else want to grab that bowl of mac and cheese and dump it on top of your head to make you "please for the love of all that's holy STOP WHINING!!!".


Whining is a fine and delicate art . . . a balancing act. When you whine internally, you're slowly but truly convincing yourself that life is unfair and out to get you. This generally results in deep dissatisfaction and leads to . . . you guessed it, more whining! All the fun of a revolving door with no way out! The best part of internal whining is that it only makes you feel bad (well, and all the people who spend their time in your general vicinity, but whatever, it's all about you anyway!).


The tricky part is communal whining; when two or more individuals get together and enjoy the addictive pleasure of bemoaning all the unfair and annoying things that they must deal with. It's all okay as long as everyone wants to whine the whole time. The trouble comes when everyone else has resolved their whining and moved on with life, and one person is still not getting the clue that life isn't fair. This is right around the time that you get the reputation for being a whiner . . . and nobody likes a whiner.


Moral of the story kids? You can't get healthy by eating mac and cheese and watching other people dance. And you can't find long-lasting contentment through whining. The result will probably be that other people avoid you and you sometimes wish you could just avoid yourself.