Fannee Doolee

I Open at the Close

39 1/2 Weeks, originally uploaded by Fannee Doolee.

After this post, I plan on posting only one more - a birth announcement, with perhaps a short account of the labor/delivery experience (for those of you who want the details), but really more of a post-script to this journey that started in the coffice some eighteen months ago.

As I come to the end of this blog, I realize how much it has come to mean to me--not only as a memoir and somewhat satisfying piece of multi-media literature, but as a means of communication that has kept me connected and re-connected me to family and friends near and far.  Fannee Doolee is more than just my musings - it is a product of every person who has read or will read it, whether you've joined in the fray of commenting, sent me private e-mails, or remained one of the many "stalkers" who silently stop by and reflect on my ramblings only in your own private thoughts or prayers.

As I come to the end of this pregnancy, I realize that the journey has led me down a far different path than I had plotted for myself.  I embraced this pregnancy as a "sign from God" that I am worthy and capable of mothering one more child.  Foolishly, I set myself up for failure by believing I would either breeze through a healthy and manageable pregnancy while escalating my career and being everything a mother could be to my family, or somehow finding the strength to do so despite sickness and discomforts.  I have done neither.

And yet, my reward at the end of this path is far greater than being deemed some sort of ordained Supermom.  Not only do I realize that I will never be the perfect wife/mother/lawyer/person, but much more importantly, that I don't have to.  Rather, my reward is a far more valuable realization:  help is there for those who need it (to quote J.K. Rowling once more).  Like a lost driver who finally, finally, breaks down and asks for directions, I see what a blessing it has been for me to follow the path before me, despite the bumps and challenges, because it led me to the inevitable place where I have no choice but to ask for help.  You can't imagine how difficult that was for me to do--and what an epiphany it has been to learn to do it.  In asking for help, the greatest blessing has been revealed to me in the overwhelming support from those closest to me as well as the most unexpected sources.  I am entirely surrounded by people who love me, despite my flaws and my needs, who walk with me along similar paths of uncertainty, who lead me with the wisdom of their own experiences, and who wait for me at the end of the road.

The Strength to Bear It

An leaves for Vietnam tomorrow.   She and I just finished a grueling but invigorating week leading a first grade class through vacation bible school. 

As glorious as our recent role-reversal has been, Patrick and I are still trying to figure out how all the bills will get paid, and adding to that the possibility of the additional considerable expense that comes with our realization that private school may be the best fit for Logan next year. 

Kiki is on the verge of turning three, although some days, it seems more like fifteen. 

Charlotte/Frances/Megan/Lucy/Sophia continues to kick and squirm more tumultuously each day (though none of her pokes and prods give me any indication as to which of the aforementioned name possibilities she prefers - feel free to cast your votes through comments as I am taking all the naming help I can get at this point).

In sum, I am feeling stronger yet more challenged than I have in a long, long time - possibly ever.  I have never wanted to give and do so much for my children--more than I feel I know how to do, and yet, I cannot quite believe that I am bearing as much of this glorious cross I have been given as I have so far. 

I spent much of last night pondering and woke this morning thinking Why?  Why all of this at the same time?  Isn't the challenge of just raising our own two children enough?  Will I really have what it takes to bring a third precious child into this mix without detracting from what I have to give to the others?  Can I possible give An even the tiniest bit of insight to get her through what she must go through this summer and help her to return next fall? 

How would I feel if I were being called upon to do less?  This is certainly not an area in which I'd want to underachieve.  At the risk of sounding like a completely unworthy martyr, I'll share the thought that came to me this morning -- the penultimate scene of the move Schindler's List. 

Schindler saves hundreds of Jews from death during the holocaust, and yet, when it's all over and he looks back on what he's done, all he can think of is why didn't he do more?  Why wasn't he able to save more people?  It certainly was not for want of effort - I won't re-tell the story, but through the tale of this one man who put more than his own life on the line to save others, I realize when you are called upon to do something for the most valuable reason there is, you can't help but yearn to have done more when you finally get to the point of laying down that cross. 

I have always been somewhat of an over-achiever (or at least an over-attempter), and my children mean more than anything to me.  I've known since we first thought of having another baby that I did not want to get to the end of my child-raising years and wonder if we could have had a third.  I also accept that, while I may have doubts in my own abilities, I know I would not be called on to do a job where children are concerned if the Big Boss didn't feel I could handle it.  Now, it's just a matter of convincing myself. 

Transitions

As most of my family and friends now know, in a spur of events that has led me to significantly alter my About page for the first time since starting this blog, our family is transitioning from the Working Mom/Stay At Home Dad model to that of Working His Butt Off Dad/Stay At Home Full Time and Work Part Time to Stay Sane And Make Ends Meet Mom model.   And as much and as long as I've waited for the day to come when I could finally doff my "Esq." for the "S.A.H.M.", it's all a bit scary right now.

Reading back over my last post -Mothers' Day - just a week ago, I can't help but think it was all a rouse.  Even then, they were secretly plotting how they would bombard me with trivial dilemmas that rapidly escalate to screaming fits of such sheer magnitude that within days I will be locking myself in the bathroom and slowly peeling the skin from my face just for relief.  I comprehend why people beat their kids.  Or drink.  Or disappear. 

Yes, it's been three (3) whole days, and already I am here.  As much as I hate to write this all out publicly, I have to think that somewhere, sometime, some other moms or dads have felt or will feel this way.  Sheer Hell loves company.

Not that my kids are any less amazing, precious and dear to me than they have always been.  (Nor, as far as we know, do our kids suffer from anything more serious than typical sibling/toddler issues - albeit to behavioral extremes - but thank God they are healthy and "normal" because I don't know how I would deal with any additional challenges.)  In fact, I realize that it is because they are everything to me that the toll is so great.  It's not what they won't do, but what I can't do that cuts me to the core.

So my prayer now must be, Please God - let this be the lowest point.  Things can only get better from here.  If I made it through this day, please let me somehow make it through again, and again, and again if I have to.   Let this day be the low water mark that makes any other day that we all get through alive seem like a cause for celebration.  As I figure this out, please let there be no lasting harm to my children, for surely if I'm doing the best I can and can't be blamed for my failures, neither should they.  If they remember anything at all of this transition time in particular, let it be how much I love them, and how hard I tried to make this work.   And God, if there's a kiss and hug and an "I love you mommy" at the end of every day as there have been even for these worst of all days, that will be enough.  Amen. 

The Greatest Gift

So Lucky, originally uploaded by Fannee Doolee.

I feel so lucky this Mothers' Day.  I couldn't be more aware of the love, appreciation and support from my family, especially my children.  Click on the photo above to see more great shots in my flickr photo stream, including some truly inspiring artwork from the kids (and Patrick). 

More Signs

More words of wisdom from a nearby church marquee:

"Pray hardest when it's hardest to pray."

Amen.

The Third

Yes, I'm incubating again.  Surprised?  That's what most folks ask me when they hear the news.  The answer:  A little, not that this pregnancy was in any way unintended. 

After Keelin was born, Patrick and I never reached the point of feeling "done," but I, at least, remained apprehensive about having another baby.  I had no doubts that it would be a right fit for our family, I just didn't think I could do it again. I "what if?"ed myself to an unhealthy state - What if I have horrible morning sickness again?  What if I suffer another kidney stone, end up on bed rest, or - like too many of my peers - develop breast cancer?  What if I end up with sever post-partum depression?  What if I just don't have enough energy to take care of a baby and two others (and myself)?  Am I too old to be plunging into the pool one more time?  I hated the thought of abandoning the idea of having another baby out of fear, though.  So instead, I chose hope.  I chose to believe in myself rather than my fears. 

I owe this re-discovery of my self-confidence largely to An.  The weekend that An became a part of our family jump-started my maternal super-powers to a level that assured me that yes, I can do this.  I can find the energy, the strength, determination, patience and faith to take care of a child, even in challenging circumstances.  I saw clearly that our family's bonds are strong enough and flexible enough to withstand the change of growing.  Patrick and I both have been reminded of the invaluable lessons we learned the first time we were ever given a newborn to care for - that amazing time period where we stood on completely level ground and had no choice but to lean on each other, both being equally clueless and yet determined. 

And so now, even as I accept that some of those "what if?"s have already come true even before the end of my first trimester, I can't help but feeling a bit spoiled - like I've been given a gift I don't quite deserve.   It's almost like some higher power is saying, "Silly girl - I would not give you another baby if I did not think you could take care of it!"

I find my mind frequently returning to a gift I received from my Grandpa when I was seven or eight.  It is a small, mirrored plaque engraved with etched writing atop a frosted waterfall.  It reads "You are never given a cross without the strength to bear it.  You are never given a dream without the power to make it come true."  Those folks at Hallmark sure know how to turn a phrase.

The Third, originally uploaded by Fannee Doolee.

Happy V.D., Part II

Nothing says "Happy V.D." quite like the telephone call I received last Tuesday, the day before Valentine's Day: 

"Yes, this is your doctor's office calling - your test results came back positive for Gonorrhea and Chlamydia."

"My - say wha?"

"You've tested positive for Gonorrhea and Chlamydia, and it's very important that we get you started on some antibiotics right away."

"Hm. Ok - could you hold on just a moment?

Honey?  I need you to come up here NOW. . . . Is there something you want to tell me?"

After I explained to Patrick the reason for my question, he promptly and almost laughingly assured me that, no, there was nothing for him to tell - did I have anything I wanted to tell him??  "Seriously?"  I thought - I think I was almost flattered that he'd even ask.  And despite the alarming nature of the telephone call, we quickly reached the mutual conclusion that there must have been some mistake at the lab, if only for the reason that neither one of us could think anything other than "Really - when would he/she have the time??" 

Still, there's nothing like reported V.D. to throw a couple into the marital crucible.  I immediately requested that a repeat test be taken, but that would have to wait - of all the times for something like this to happen, we were in the midst of a serious snow/ice blizzard that shut down most of the city, including my doctor's office, for several days.   

However, the neighboring metro health department was a little braver.  When I called the next morning (Valentine's Day - how perfect) to inquire about walk-in screening with same-day results, they said, "sure - come on down - there's no wait right now."  Perhaps because we were still in the middle of a Level Three snow emergency?  Nonetheless, I decided to brave the roads and the humiliation, donned a baseball cap and some dark glasses and headed to the city. 

The main roads were fairly clear, and I finished the trip in relatively good time.  Mercifully, the parking lot was almost empty, and the waiting room near the area marked "SEXUAL HEALTH" was deserted.  Completely deserted - no one was even at the reception desk.  I heard someone shuffling around in the next office, and I waited, and waited, until finally a clinic worker walked out, slipped on his coat and barely smiled at me before shutting off the light.  It was then that I noticed the sign that said "Wednesday Hours:  8 a.m. - Noon."  It was 12:45.  Like, could they have even mentioned that on the phone?  Alas, the ordeal would continue.

The next day, I tried again.  However, this time I'd had to attend a hearing in the morning, so I was forced to make my trip to the much busier health department and very busy STD clinic waiting room in my not-so-inconspicuous standard issue lawyer attire.  I knew there was no way that this was going to be quick or painless. 

The receptionist calls my number, then speaks to me in a voice so soft and discreet, I can hardly make out what she's saying without reading her lips.  No, I don't want to be tested for HIV - that's already been done and came back negative, I explain.  "Can't I just get tested for these two things?" I say pointing to the "C" and the "G" words on the slip of paper she's been referencing.  Unfortunately, they do not offer "ala cart" screening and I will have to be tested for the entire smorgasbord of usual STDs.  And no, it's not just a urine test - it'll be a complete physical exam.  Won Der Ful. 

But before that fun starts, there's the matter of payment.  The fee is based on whatever income I am willing to disclose.  The receptionist quotes me a nominal dollar figure and asks, "Can you pay?"   "Fine."  I say, pushing my credit card toward her.  Not that easy.  I have to take that slip of paper - the one marked "SEXUAL HEALTH CLINIC" across the top - downstairs to the cashier and pay her, then bring my receipt back to sign in.  Great.  Be right back. 

I go downstairs and hand my slip to the cashier, trying to discretely cover the words "SEXUAL HEALTH" with my credit card.  "Sorry - cash or check only."  I should have known.  But wait - there is an ATM machine in the lobby.  An ATM machine that for some reason refuses to complete my transaction and instead spits out receipt after receipt that reads "TRANSACTION CANCELED."  I take a deep breath and walk back to the cashier.  "I can't pay."  I tell her.  She tells me to go back to the clinic receptionist and talk to her.  In the elevator, I smack my head against the wall and repeat aloud, "I will not cry.  I will not cry."   I talk to the receptionist.  She gives me an envelope and tells me to mail in my payment later.  She marks something on my form and asks me to have a seat again.

The wait is not long, and I am soon escorted back to an exam room by a very loud-speaking nurse with a heavy eastern European accent.  She begins asking what I guess must be the typical questions:

"Ya havink any burnink? Dischawge?  Anyting?"

"Ya have muwtipal zex patnas?"

"Ya havink any da owal zex in da past tiwty dez?"

I answer "no" to all of her questions, hoping that's the right answer.  The doctor comes in (a no-nonsense, seen-it-all female, thank God) and I again explain to her that I'm just there for some verification - there's been a mistake, a mix-up at the lab or something.  Maybe because of my demographics, or my right answers to an additional battery of questions (or maybe she asked me again the same questions the heavily-accented nurse asked me just to be sure - Have I had sex with a prostitute?  No.  Have I had sex in exchange for drugs or money?  No.  Please, lady, do I look like I have that kind of excitement in my life?) but, for whatever reason, she actually seems to agree with my theory that there had been a mix-up at the lab. 

With one brief, unexpected exception, the rest of the exam is quick and uneventful, and the preliminary results come back negative.   Not to be underdone, I still go to my OB's office that afternoon to have them do a re-test as well - after all, I don't want those records to go uncorrected - and yes, both the final results from the health department and from my own doctor come back clean and clear.  I REPEAT:  NO VD HERE.  We do not nor have we ever had V.D.  Whew. 

Looking back with the little hindsight I now have, I am thankful that Patrick and I spent those few days in the crucible reassuring each other with humor rather than letting suspicion and worry eat away at our relationship.  Not that it was an easy thing.  Our marriage, like many, is a worn and weathered being.   I think of the trust element of our relationship in particular the way you might think of a bone that's suffered a fracture but has healed to be even stronger than it was before the break.  I think of our children as the super glue that bonds us even tighter, for their sake if not ours.  And I am especially grateful for the endless support and empathy Patrick showed for what I had to endure to get to the bottom of this (particularly the unexpected anal probe, pardon the pun.)  And believe me, he would have been right there with me at the health department for his own share of the fun had the kids not had a snow day.

And that, my darling, dear third-child-to-be, the child that I will now and forever more think of as my child of hope, is how I begin to chronicle your existence.   

Do Not Open Until X-mas, 2021

Alternate title:  This One's For You, Grannee Doolee

This year, my mother's family started a new holiday tradition.  We created a time capsule to be opened on Christmas day fifteen years from now.  My Aunt Nancy sent out an e-mail a few weeks ago asking every member of the family to bring something to contribute.

At first, I thought about reviving my ultimate shock-value stunt of whipping in to the bathroom, cutting off all my hair, and emerging with a long, red pony tail to toss in to the large Tupperware box-slash-time capsule.  But, I'm actually kind of attached (pardon the pun) to the long locks this time around, and I think the pony-tail trick really worked best for ex-boyfriends. 

So, I more or less made a last-minute scramble to come up with something for myself and a few items for the kids that would be entertaining and meaningful when viewed again in fifteen years.  I tried not to get too stressed about it.  I figured half of my relatives would forget or be to lame to participate (I mean, if they wouldn't karaoke . . . )

Boy, was I wrong.  Not only did every single person bring something special, everyone came prepared with their own little "speech" about their item and why the selected it.  Not a single "lame" contribution in the bunch. 

The overwhelming theme of our Family Time capsule is just that - Family.  The parents (and grandparents) in particular selected items that reflected their love for their children, and the children themselves selected equally sentimental items representing significant accomplishments from their childhood.  (Yes, Andrew, even though you parted with your drum sticks because they are too short, it's still sentimental). 

So, what were my final selections?  I contributed this picture that I colored when I was in college fifteen years ago, in hopes that it will trigger as strong of a Crayola-scent inspired flashback in 2021, and a sealed envelope containing something that represents a significant decision in the works that I hope not to regret and would like to reflect on in fifteen years.  I think I captured everyone else's contribution with MY NEW AWESOME CANNON EOS DIGITAL REBEL CAMERA THAT SANTA BROUGHT ME AND THAT I'M JUST A LITTLE BIT EXCITED ABOUT, so click here to see what the others brought. 

Praise to Buddha

Alternate title:  Confusious say two crazy-happy Vietnamese sisters named Mai will lead you to supreme enlightenment.

During the first weekend that An and I really met and endured great trauma and drama over whethero r not An would be able to come live with our family or would have to return to Vietnam, we made a promise that, if everything worked out all right, we would go to a Buddhist temple.  And then to DSW.  Tonight, An and I visited the Linh Son Pagoda, a Vietnamese house of worship in Columbus. 

I was not sure what to expect, other than to leave my shoes at the door.  We arrived as an evening service was starting.  There were four women and one man reading from what looked to be a Vietnamese hymnal.  They weren't exactly singing - more like chanting.  One woman kept a rhythmic beat on a small drum, and another clanged a small bowl at the end of each verse.  An said that the words they were chanting told stories.  We sat and listened for a few minutes, then we each took several sticks of incense around to different stations where we said prayers and then stuck a lighted incense stick in an urn of ashes. 

The inside of the pagoda was impressive - interesting, yet somewhat indescribable.  The floor was covered with thick rugs, where we sat behind ornate, carved wooden hymnal holders.  At the front were elaborate altars decorated with crystal, fresh flowers, trays of oranges, many ornate Buddhas and other deities, and a bag of Hershey's kisses (I whispered to An, "apparently, the Buddha likes chocolate!")  In the middle of it all was a larger than life Buddha, seated in his traditional pose, and behind him stood three "back-up singer" Buddhas, each one in a different pose holding a vase or a bird or some other decorative item.   The Buddhas were shiny and appeared gold-plated, but something about the entire arrangement made me think of McDonald's or Disney World:  very manufactured, in a Vegas sort of way.  When we made the final stop on our pray-and-deliver-incense-tour in front of the main Buddha, I noticed two cordless microphones resting near the bottom of Buddha's alter, and I could just picture Buddha and his back-up singers launching in to an automated performance of "Atomic Dog" like some bizarre take-off of Disney's Country Bear Jamboree.

We stepped out of the main part of the pagoda to speak with two woman greeters - Mai, and her sister Mai.  They also mentioned that they have at least one other sister named Mai.  I did not ask their last name, but it must be Nguyen, because something like 60-70 % of Vietnamese people share that surname. 

Well, Mai and Mai could not have been nicer!  They were so overjoyed that we had come to the pagoda, and so proud of An for leaving her family and coming to the U.S. to study at such a young age.  Mai Also thanked me profusely for being helpful to the Vietnamese.  Then, Mai presented me with a gift - a large bag of oranges like the ones that had been placed on the alter as an offering to Buddha. 

We talked more, with An and the two Mais switching back and forth between English and Vietnamese.  Mai and Mai have lived in the U.S. since 1975.  Having a pagoda in Columbus has been a life-long dream of theirs, realized last year when the Linh Son was completed.  I asked them how long it took them to get used to the cold weather here after the moved from Vietnam.  Then they and An talked in Vietnamese a little more, and the older Mai went in to the next room to get something, against An's protests.  She returned with her and her sister's winter coats, proceeded to empty the pockets, and insisted that An try them on.  An tried to explain that she had other coats (I think she has at least 5 now) but the two Mais vehemently insisted that she take their coats.  "They are nothing to us - we can get other coats!"  After a few awkward rounds of trying to politely refuse the coats, it became clear that An would not be able to leave without taking at least one of the coats, a fact which seemed to overwhelm the two Mais with joy.  Then we all hugged, and the Mais again thanked us for coming and said some very meaningful things about An's experience here. 

As we were heading for the door, the older Mai again signaled for us to wait while she went to get some food from the kitchen in the basement.  After a few moments, we followed her down and the two Mais began rummaging through the freezer, packing up grocery bags and containers full of Asian vegetables and seasonings I have never heard of.  Mai offered An a bag of what appeared to be frozen fish fillets that they had ordered from California, but she took it back after we told her that I did not own a hot plate that could be used to cook the fish in the garage, because she did not want to stink up my house with strong fish smell.  They also threw in a package of veggie burgers - vegetarianism is big in Buddhism. 

Then, I kid you not, Mai took some containers from the refrigerator, set a pan on a small hotplate on the floor, and cooked us a dish right then and there - some sort of veggie - noodle stir fry.  The other Mai pulled out a styro-foam "to go" container and wrapped it up for us.  All in all, we left the pagoda with two shopping bags of food, a bag of oranges, and a new coat.  Again, Mai tried to explain to me the wisdom of Confucius.  I can't paraphrase it exactly, but I understood that they wanted to do something that would make our visit to the pagoda meaningful, and that their act of giving us these things meant far more than the things themselves.

Needless to say, we'll be back to visit the pagoda again, next time with empty stomachs!

A Prayer for Fanneedoolee

One of my all-time favorite books is A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving.  It's this totally goofy, unbelievable story of this very memorable character who experiences multiple unique and puzzling events throughout his life and culminates in a climactic event which profoundly demonstrates that everything that ever happened in Meany's life happened for a reason and enabled him to fulfill his purpose in life. 

This past week, in a series of events that may well make an equally entertaining and meaningful book someday, I also experienced the realization that everything happens for a reason.  In this case, the fitting together of many puzzle pieces resulted in Patrick and I becoming the temporary parents to a 16-year old Vietnamese foreign exchange student.  Meet An [pronounced "on", and not to be confused with "Anh", the name of An's best friend in Texas, which is also pronounced "on" but a little quicker and intoned more like a question:  "on?" ]:

I'm not exactly sure why or how the planets aligned to bring An to our home, but the experience has been a true blessing that has opened our hearts and our minds, filled our bellies with warm Vietnamese soup, motivated us to clean out our closets and expanded our vocabulary an An's. 

An's arrival in our home coincided perfectly with a previously-planned ten-day visit from Nana 911, who has enrolled Patrick and I in her toddler-parenting boot camp in hopes of taking the Mr. Hyde out of Logan and transforming him from a pint-size temperamental emperor back to our pint-sized loving little boy.  Fortunately, she also has worlds of experience with parenting teenage girls, particularly strong-willed and highly emotional teen-age girls. 

To see pictures of An's first American Thanksgiving, click here.