When we hear about bad news happening to others our first reaction is often to cry and think about how it impacts our lives. Our OWN lives. This isn’t to say that we aren’t so terribly sorry for the subject of the bad news, but we are human and immediately fall back on what we know: our own experiences.

In the first six months after Madeline died I had a random stranger email me every day to tell me I was a horrible person because all I could focus on was how Madeline’s death affected ME. She told me I should be more like Elizabeth Edwards, who would occasionally write lovely essays from the point of view of her departed son. I look to Elizabeth Edwards’ writings on grief as a bible of sorts, but telling someone who is mere days/weeks/months into grief that they should be as enlightened as someone many years down the road is very insensitive. I’ve constantly thought about the things Maddie won’t get to do in life, but it’s never something I’ve felt comfortable addressing from any perspective other than my own.

I heard news today and I immediately crumpled, distraught. And then I felt guilty because it’s not about me (well, it is about me to a certain respect because loved ones matter), but it obviously affects the person it is happening to a lot more. This is something I hadn’t really considered until I heard Elizabeth Edwards speak at a conference I went to six months after Madeline died. She was asked about how dealing with her terminal diagnosis was different from dealing with her son’s death, and her reply really opened my eyes.

She said that this time she was grieving the loss of her life; the loss of herself.

It was such a simple thing but it had never occurred to me. As difficult as it is to grieve for someone else, it is even harder to grieve for yourself.  Elizabeth Edwards was grieving not getting to live the life she’d always wanted and to grow old with her loved ones.

I left the conference and called a friend to say I was sorry that I hadn’t been mindful of the grief over loss of self. Until then, I’d only understood the pain of those left behind.

Despite having learned that lesson, my first thought today upon hearing bad news was to think about how it affected me. I am almost four years down this road, and while I thought I would know all there is to know about grief by now, it turns out I still have a long way to go.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Last week Annie was a little sniffly, then BAM full-blown sick with a cold. She’s not one of those kids that gets sick and just wants to snuggle and be mellow. Nope, she wants to run all over the house like any other day, coughing and sneezing on every surface while yelling, “Mama, come ‘errrrre!” Annabel with a cold is like having Healthy Annabel, but with more grumpiness and 1,000 pounds more snot.

Mike and I got sick two days after Annie started coughing. I was not pleased. We were all JUST sick, and no one is going to day care or preschool around here, so I am calling shenanigans. My parents also came down with colds last week. We had no back up! Of course, Annie didn’t care that Mike and I were sick, and our coughs and sweats and shivering bodies garnered no sympathy from her this time around. I spent many hours laying on the cool floor in the kitchen, coloring paper and probably the tile. But, it kept Annie happy and in one place, so it was a victory for me.

What is it about illness that completely messes up sleep patterns? I have jacked sleeping habits anyway, so of course I am locked in another battle with insomnia. Annabel is even worse. Like I said earlier, she doesn’t slow down at all when she’s sick. She still  barely takes one nap each day, yet she is WIRED in the evening. Mike and I have spent the last four nights re-training her to sleep. When we start her nighttime routine she immediately starts screaming. She screams through teeth, pajamas, book reading, song singing, and then she screams from her crib. It’s just been so super fun.

Don’t even get me started on the random three am wake up.

“Mama, I tie tie.” “Do you want to go to sleep?” “NO!”

She eventually falls asleep so it’s not a horrible problem, but I really thought we were past the battle-for-bed phase (at least until she’s old enough to realize all the good TV comes on after bedtime). Last night during one of her screaming jags, I walked in to discover her trying to figure out how to climb out of her crib. She was doing this jumping maneuver where she would kick out one of her legs, as if she were trying to get it up over the railing (she wasn’t even coming close). But, the climbing out of the crib thing is something I’m really surprised she hasn’t figured out yet, and it looks like she’s starting to realize it’s something she can attempt. So, do we wait for her to actually climb out of the crib before we switch her into a toddler bed, or do we bite the bullet and do it sooner? I really don’t want to do it sooner…but I don’t want her to hurt herself, either.

UGH she is going to be IMPOSSIBLE to keep in a toddler bed. I can tie her to the bed, right? Just kidding.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Rigby has been a city dog her whole life. Our old apartment didn’t have windows that looked out onto “nature,” so she rarely saw birds. Now she sees them out our bedroom window every day and loses her freaking doggy mind. We are constantly saying stuff like, “Rigby they are just birds! Chill out! STOP BARKING OMG!” One of Annie’s favorite books is about birds, and last week she suddenly made the connection that Rigby’s barking means Rigby wants to hurt the birds. This makes Annie lose her freaking toddler mind all, “WIGBY! NO BARKING! NO BIRDIES! NOOOOOO!”  It’s just so much loudness, all the time.

Last night Mike and I were sitting on the couch doing…well, I don’t know what he was doing, I had an Us Weekly so I was pretty focused. Anyway, he suddenly goes, “What’s that, is that a moth?” I managed to tear my eyes away from the magazine in time to see a pretty gigantic moth fly from the kitchen into the family room. Mike was chasing it, waving a dish towel. I’ll give you a moment to snicker at that visual. “I have to kill it, it’s gross,” he said as he fanned the moth with a cool breeze.

I’m not afraid of moths, but I didn’t need one flapping around its giant wings, leaving moth dust everywhere. I already have a hard enough time keeping up with the regular dust around here. Plus this one time I watched a TV show about people who inhale bugs and it was disturbing. So what I’m saying is, I was on board with Operation Moth Removal. That’s when Annabel joined us from the playroom. She saw the moth and yelled, “BIRDY!”

Mike was literally in the process of throwing plastic balls at the moth when she yelled this. Everything went all slow-motion as I watched the ball leave Mike’s fingers on a collision course for the moth (which I’d named Carol Anne because it kept flying into the lights and if you get that joke you are my new boyfriend). As the ball hit the moth, Annie screamed in a very low-pitched voice (because it was slow mo, duh), “NOOOOOooooooooo!”

The moth was clearly some kind of mutant, though, because while it stumbled, it did NOT fall. It did drop like 80 metric tons of dust DAMN IT, but it kept flying into the ceiling lights like a moron. I started comforting Annie. “Look Annie, the birdy, I MEAN the moth is fine! See, it’s still up there flapping its gross moth wings, flappy flappy!” Meanwhile, Mike had grabbed his old standby, the kitchen towel, and was fanning the moth and Rigby was barking. Everything was awesome.

After an embarrassing amount of time, Mike and I finally realized we should turn off the lights in the family room and turn ON the lights near the door to the back yard. The moth, sensing victory, flew down to a low spot on the wall. I yelled, “SMASH IT!” and Annie screamed, “NO SMASH BIRDY!” Mike grabbed a random party hat from Annie’s birthday and trapped the moth, then carefully carried it to the back door and let it go…only to have the moth immediately fly back into the house.

I started cursing Carol Anne while Annie cheered, “yay birdy!” and Mike started fanning the moth with the party hat. Finally, after we turned off all the lights in the house and turned ON all the lights in the back yard, the moth flew out the door and into freedom. Annie immediately burst into tears. “Oh no! Where birdy go?” We explained that the moth had to go home to its mommy. Annie was unconvinced. When we put her to bed a few minutes later, she said, “Mama…birdie go see mama? Come back?” I said, “Annie, the moth is probably on the other side of your window.” Mike was horrified but Annie looked at the window and said, “Night night birdie!”

I’m sleeping with a surgical mask on. You never can be too careful.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Two weeks ago, my friend Jen’s sweet little cousin (really, more like nephew) passed away only a few days after his fifth birthday. He’d fought leukemia for fourteen long months. When Jen told me the news, I was so sad. It’s awful that he’s gone. It’s awful that his brother will grow up without him. It’s awful that his parents and family now have a hole in their hearts and lives. Sweet little Cole, it’s so unfair.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about his family, specifically his mom, because she is the one I can relate to the most. I wanted to write to her and tell her something about my story with the hope that she could latch onto it and maybe find some comfort, like I found from other moms with deceased children. I couldn’t think of anything to tell her…our situations were so vastly different. While it’s obvious that every child’s death is so horribly and tragically unique, Cole’s passing reminded me of some strong emotions I had toward other grieving parents after Maddie died.

Madeline’s death was sudden and shocking, and Cole’s was drawn-out and, for lack of a better word, expected. In the immediate months after Maddie was gone, I was intensely jealous of people like Cole’s mom. They had time to “prepare” and to say goodbye to their children – mine was just yanked away. I would talk to my therapist about how much better off these moms had it, and how unfair it was that I didn’t get to have an experience like theirs. She would calmly listen, hand me tissues, and nod her head.

Eventually my therapist told me about another mother she’d once treated, one whose daughter had died after a long illness. This mother hated moms like me – women who didn’t have to watch their children languish until death. Moms like me didn’t have to hear things like, “at least she’s no longer suffering,” as though death was somehow the best option. Moms like me have memories of their kids playing in the park three days before they died. Moms like her have long hospital stays and agonizing days and nights blurred together as their children’s final memories.

I hadn’t thought about it that way, of course, and at the time I was resentful my therapist had shared the story with me. But with time and clarity I have come back to it many times to remind myself that no situation is better or worse. It’s manure stew or manure casserole – neither is desirable. We’ve all had to say goodbye to someone we didn’t want to say goodbye to, and regardless of how much “better” we assume others may have it, in the end we’re all just trying to choke down this awful plate.

To Cole’s mom I would say that I am so, so sorry, and I would tell her the one thing that I always like to hear – that Cole’s life mattered to me, and that I am different now from having known his story. He will never be forgotten.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

My friend Diane invited me and our other friend Tara to take a spin class with her yesterday. Diane is a spin class regular, and I am a regular at avoiding all fitness classes. But it was one of those rare days where the stars aligned and the three of us could all make it, you know, if I didn’t want to sleep in. But then Tara agreed to go, so I had to go, because they put peer pressure on me and also there’s a Trader Joe’s next door to the spin class. Mmmm, Jo Jo’s.

I was the last person to arrive to the class (of course) and I saw that Diane and Tara saved me a bike in the back row, on the farthest end. They know me so well. Diane helped me adjust the bike, which was good because I had no idea how to do it, and the seat was raised up to my eyeballs.

I climbed onto the bike and sat down, and I realized immediately that the class was going to be painful. Not because of the exercise, but because the seat was the most uncomfortable thing I have ever sat on in my life. There’s a lot of joke potential right there but I’m just gonna let that one go because my dad reads this blog. The seat was padded, but it just hit me in all the wrong places. It felt bad instantly, and even after some adjustments it still hurt. I figured I was being a wuss, so I just said a quick, “whoa, my vagina doesn’t like this!” to Tara and Diane and then class started.

The lights went off and music started blasting, and there was a woman at the front of the room shouting instructions to us. It was kind of like a weird foreign film. The instructor would yell out things like, “third position!” and I was like, “I’m supposed to do ballet on this bike?” but then Diane showed me it was a different way to ride the bike. There were little knob things to turn to add resistance, and the instructor would should out, “Give the knob two twists! Twist your knobs!” It’s a good thing I was in the back, because sometimes I am a twelve-year-old boy.

My crotch was on fire the entire time. I would be sprinting on the bike and…things…would start to go numb. Then we’d be told to stand up and peddle, and all the blood would rush back to those things, and it felt like I was peeing my pants. Every. Single. Time. I would look down to make sure I hadn’t, like I didn’t figure out the first time that it was just my blood pumping. I’m pretty sure I am the only person who liked the segments where we stood up to peddle.

After the class, Diane looked at Tara and me and said, “you’re going to be sore tomorrow!” and I was like, “yeah, there’s already some tenderness happening down in my special area.”

I’m pretty sure I now know how vaginal birth feels.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Even though it’s winter, my backyard is in bloom. We have a large green bush with a group of non-edible red berries on it. The berries are only growing in one spot, and it happens to be right in front of my bedroom window.

Annie loves to go out and look at the fruit trees, and so do I. We had limes when we moved in, and now we have lemons, too. To Annie they’re all “balls” and she just wants to throw them.

There are a few random white daisies growing near the kaffir lime tree, maybe three or four total, seeds brought in by a gust of wind. Annie and I leaned over to smell one when I noticed its dazzling center.

Annie was quickly distracted by fallen fruit, so I sat on the wall and watched her play. After a bit she came over to me and said, “Mama, look!” and pointed behind me. I was 99% certain there was a bear, or a large spider. Instead, I saw greenery. “What am I looking at, Annie?” I asked.

“Maddie flower.”

In a sea of green, a lone purple flower is tall and strong. I don’t know how long it’s been there or how long it will stay, but I really don’t know how Annie came to call it a Maddie Flower. We’ve been very careful to not single out purple as something that is Maddie’s – after all, Annie’s middle name is Violet. Maybe Mike or my parents came across the flower first and named it that. I haven’t asked. I haven’t wanted to.

We stared at it for a while, until Annie said, “Flower pretty, mama,” and blew it a kiss. I blew it a kiss, too. It felt right.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

When I became pregnant with Madeline I didn’t have an obstetrician. At that point, Dr. Looove had been doing all my girlie things so I hadn’t needed a Lady Business doctor. She suggested a few OBs, but I decided against them because they delivered their patients at the old, rundown UCLA hospital. That wasn’t appealing to me. I wanted what the stars had! This is LA, after all. So I found me a doctor that delivered at St. John’s Health Center in Santa Monica. You may remember that hospital from such notable births as Katie Holmes’ daughter, Brooke Shield’s daughter, and Tom Brady’s kid that he didn’t have with Giselle. I knew if it was good enough for these celebrities, it would be good enough for me. (I hate that I cared more about what celebrities had given birth at the hospital than what level NICU the hospital had. I was just clueless. St. John’s is a great hospital but it wasn’t great for our situation. ANYWAY.) While I was there on bed rest, Dennis Quaid’s twins were born down the hall in a fancy birthing suite. Dennis was seen by tons of my friends and family, walking the halls and riding in the elevator like a regular dad. He even spoke to some of them. GASP!

I’m telling you all this not to brag of my fanciness (I think it is well-established that I am not fancy), but to say that I have some experience in the whole “celebrity birth stories” realm. Dennis Quaid is definitely not in the same stratosphere of fame as Beyonce and Jay-Z, but the hospital DID up their game when he and his children were on the maternity floor. Mike and my other visitors said there were paparazzi outside of the hospital when the twins were born, but the hospital’s security kept them far enough from the entrance to the hospital that they didn’t bother anybody. Every visitor had to check in with security in the lobby, and then again when they reached the maternity ward. There were extra security guards patrolling the floor. It was a tight-ship, but it was all done without disrupting any other patient or patient family.

There are tons of rumors flying around about the birth of Babyonce: They rented out an entire wing of the hospital, they put tape over the security cameras, they renovated an entire suite for their personal use. And don’t even get me started on the rumors that Beyonce was faking the pregnancy and actually had a surrogate. The story that’s getting the most traction involves a family that claims security guards allegedly prevented from seeing their premature infants in the NICU (I say allegedly because the hospital denies this claim).

Now then. I AM fancy when it comes it NICU experience. I actually have been prevented from seeing my child in the NICU – four times, to be exact. Every time it was because there was a dire medical emergency going on in the NICU and NO parents were allowed in. The night Maddie arrived in the NICU, no other parents were allowed in for THREE HOURS.  When you want to see your very sick baby and you can’t, it’s upsetting, even when you know it’s for an extremely important reason. If what the NICU parents at Lennox Hill are saying is true, they have every right to be LIVID. If it had been me, the scene I’d have caused would be the stuff of legend. Jay-Z would be rapping about a crazy lady taking down security guards with her bare hands.

Here is my biggest problem with this whole rumor-laden fiasco – the hospital blew it. They lost control of what was happening on their maternity floor. The hospital has confirmed that Beyonce and Jay-Z had their own security detail. I don’t think that should have been allowed. It’s a bunch of guards completely unfamiliar with how Lennox Hill’s maternity floor operates. These private guards were only there to protect the interests of ONE family, at the expense of all the others. Lennox Hill should have been like, “Yo Hov, we got this. We’ll provide our own security guards who understand this joint, and we’ll add it to your hospital bills bills bills.” Experienced Lennox Hill security staffers would never have prevented family members from seeing other patients. They would have known better.

I hope that Beyonce and Jay-Z are mortified by these claims, and do their best to apologize for any inconveniences others may have faced due to their presence – rumored or not. And I really, really hope Lennox Hill learns from this and does it better the next time a mega-famous family delivers a child in their hospital. Regular non-famous parents deserve better.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

I’m suffering through another round of insomnia. It’s very frustrating. I’ve always been a night owl but after we moved, I started rising early, before the rest of the family. It was nice to have the whole day stretch out in front of me. Then I got sick before the new year and everything got all jacked up. I slept for…I dunno, maybe three straight days? And ever since, I can’t fall asleep like a normal person – or at least, like a normal Heather.  I am usually asleep by 2am, but for the last week I have stared out my bedroom window, watching as the sun changed the sky’s color.

I have been trying to use my awake time for good and not evil. I’ve been taking down Christmas decorations every night. I think I put up something new every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve…there is so much stuff! And for all the fun of putting up the decorations, taking them down is no fun at all. My sweet dad came over on New Year’s Day and took down all my outside decorations – the snowman, the lights, everything. I think he did it 95% out of kindness and 5% because he knew I was sick and wouldn’t be able to go on the roof with him. Annie is NOT doing well with the decorations coming down, even though I tell her that when all the Christmas stuff is gone it means her birthday is here. She’s like…”Christmas Birthday Cake?” Nice try.

DAMN. I should have made her birthday party Christmas themed! Next year.

Speaking of her birthday party…well, my insomnia is coming in handy there, too. I have been scouring pinterest, looking for food ideas, and as I search for different things I am coming across craft ideas and….I’ve been CRAFTING. My reputation is ruined! OK to be fair, I’ve done ONE craft (this balloon wreath, so easy), and cut out about 187 things from card stock. I am great with scissors. I secretly want to be really crafty but 1) I have a short attention span, 2) I already forgot number 2.

We asked Annie five different times, four different ways what she wanted her birthday party theme to be. “Annie, do you want a princess party, Dora the Explorer party, Yo Gabba Gabba party, or a rainbow party?” We’d shuffle the order, and every single time she said, “Gabba birthday! Gabba birthday!” That works out well because she already has a bunch of Gabba stuff we can use as decoration. WINNING.

Here is what a week of no sleep looks like:

That is vintage 2:23 am right there. Not one part of that picture that looks sane.

I think I need some unisom.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

One of the reasons we moved to our new town in the suburbs was to be closer to family. Mine, his, ours.

My parents help us out a lot, and we are so thankful. I like to think they get a little something out of it too – namely time with their best girls (and Mike, too).

We are all finally recovered from our illnesses, it took me a while to get my energy back. By the end of last week, Annie needed to burn some energy and I needed to get out of the house. We went to the park, and thank goodness my parents came along. I could not have kept up with this girl by myself.

It appeared to be the perfect time for the park, it was quiet and almost empty. Annie had full reign of the place and she! wanted! to! slide! I knew it wouldn’t end well…

(her only possible injury was to her pride – I couldn’t stop giggling.)

There was a bench in the middle of the play area, so I parked myself there while my parents chased Annie from activity to activity.

She kept talking about the “grumpy troll” until I finally realized she was referring to the bridge in the park (it’s a Dora the Explorer thing…sigh).

I need to somehow build a bridge in my house because she walked back and forth, back and forth, and would still be walking back and forth on it if my dad hadn’t distracted her with a pretend picnic.

When eating pretend food proved tiring, she got a lift back to the car.

For the rest of the day and for much of the next, she couldn’t stop talking about “the park with Bampa.” When I am missing my old city neighborhood, I just have to remind myself…”the park with Bampa.” THAT is why we moved.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Yesterday I took a day to be just me. Well, an afternoon. I went to the mall, where I could be just me, surrounded by a bazillion people.

I walked around. Tried on clothes and bags and shoes. I went into stores with breakable things and I didn’t have to worry about anyone breaking anything. Well, anyone besides me.

I emerged from the mall as the sun was going down, and it looked glorious.

Southern California never fails when it comes to January Sunsets.

I stood on the roof of the parking lot for a while, under the orange sky, breathing the cool air. It was time to go home.

As I drove up the street before mine, the giant full moon suddenly came into view. It was shining like a bright white sun. I sped past my house and drove up to the top of the highest hill in our neighborhood. I got out of the car. The view was perfect. The moon lit up the whole valley.

I was still just me. I didn’t want to be just me anymore.

I jumped back in my car and drove back to my house. I ran through the front door, grabbed the dog, and told Mike and Annie to come with me. I didn’t say where we were going or why.

As we drove up the hill through the neighborhood, I smiled to myself. This was going to be so perfect. We’d make the curve at the top of the hill and the moon would come into view. Mike and Annie would be so amazed by the moon’s size.

In my head, it was going to play out like a scene from a movie.

We arrived at the same spot I’d been in just a few minutes earlier. I pulled Annie out of the car and Mike climbed out. “What are we doing in this parking lot?” Mike asked.

“LOOK.” I said pointing. “Look how beautiful the moon is!”

Annie didn’t want to look at the moon. She made it loudly known that the only thing she wanted was her princess book still in the car.

Mike didn’t want to look at the moon. He wanted Annie to chill out and not disturb the houses nearby.

It was not like a movie.

I wanted them to see what I saw – the moon as bright as I’d ever seen it, and so big and close it looked like I could pluck it right out of the sky. It was too spectacular to keep to myself. At least I tried.

But maybe next time I try I won’t get my hopes up.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.