Why I'm raising my sons like daughters

Gloria Steinem recently posted her Christmas wish list. The list is fantastic, but one item really spoke to me as the mom of three boys. 

“I’m glad we’ve begun to raise our daughters more like our sons – but it will never work until we raise our sons more like our daughters.”

The societal expectations placed upon little girls are far from perfect. Women are expected to beautiful and nice and never, ever bossy. However, we’ve come a very, very long way from the 1950’s when getting married and raising a family were the only real life goals presented to women.

I was raised to believe I could be whatever I wanted. I was praised for having big dreams in the traditionally male-dominated worlds of law and politics. 

The same is not true of little boys today.

Little boys are taught that certain dreams are off limits. Little boys are taught in a million ways that they can do whatever they want - as long as it’s not for girls. 

Amos loves nail polish but won’t wear it anymore because people (adults and children) have told him it’s for girls. Griffin loved My Little Ponies until he got the message that that show was for girls. I hear well-educated people tell me ALL THE TIME they wouldn’t let their son wear a certain shirt or participate in a certain activity because it was “girly.” 

Girly meaning bad. Girly meaning undesirable. Girly meaning less than.

This attitude is harmful not just to the little boys being subtly told that who they are and what they enjoy is not ok, BUT also to the little girls being subtly told that who they are and what they enjoy isn’t good enough for boys. 

I recently heard Anne-Marie Slaughter of Why Women Can’t Have It All fame on Freakonomics radio and I thought her insight into this issue was spot on.

“So here’s what I realized: I have two sons, and I looked at my sons and I thought, “You know, if I’d had a daughter we’d be raising her 100 percent differently than the way my mother was raised, and even differently than I was raised,” although my father was very progressive and he raised me to have a career. But if I looked at my sons, I thought, “I’m raising my sons pretty much exactly the way my father was raised.” I mean, we’re raising them to have a more active role as fathers. My father never changed a diaper. Certainly my husband changed plenty. And I expect my sons to. But we’re still saying to men, “Your worth in society is a function of your breadwinning. It’s a function of how much money you can make and how high you can rise in your career.” And that is a very limited set of choices. It’s the flip side of saying to women, when my mother was raised you know, “Your worth in society depends on can you get married and can you have children.” And my point is all of us should have access to both. As a woman I absolutely want to be able to compete. I want to have a career. That’s been fabulous. But I sure don’t want to do that at the expense of also being a mother and a wife and a sister and a daughter. And so, what I now say to my sons is, “If you believe in equality and you marry a woman or a man, whatever, and you believe that you’re going to support that woman’s career, then it may require you being the lead parent and your spouse to be the lead breadwinner.” And that’s been the situation in our marriage. And they understand that I couldn’t have a big career unless Andy played that role. So that’s the place where I’m really saying to men, if you believe in equality, it can’t be, “Okay, I believe in equality but I’m going to take every promotion I get, and if you get a promotion, I’m not going to move for you.”

— Anne-Marie Slaughter

When we tell little boys "girly" things are off limits, we're not just limiting the toys they can play with we are limiting the very path to their own self-determination and happiness. 

We have to raise little boys to believe that nurturing and primary caregiving are just as valuable as ambition and primary breadwinning. We have to teach them the only choice that has real value is the choice that will bring them personal fulfillment. 

It's hard. It's hard to undo what we've been taught. It's hard to look at our own choices and wonder whether we would have taken a different path had it been open for us. It's hard because raising children has as much to do with ourselves as it does with our kids.

But we have to try. Let your son paint his nails. Let your daughter cut her hair off. Tell your son he'll be a great father one day. Tell your daughter she'll be a great boss. We have to allow ourselves to be uncomfortable when our children push against societal expectations - even if they'll get teased. 

People tell me often I'm setting my children up to get teased. First of all, I haven't met a person yet who escaped childhood without confronting the cruelty of their peers. I prefer to teach my children to deal with teasing - not avoid it all costs. Second of all, I don't want to teach my children that they should alter their behavior based on the opinions of others. 

In an interview recently, Gloria Steinem said, "I hope that we will one day change society to fit the unique individual, not the unique individual to fit society, but we all are in this place, and we're all trying to find our own solutions, and we need to support each other in those solutions."

That's on my wishlist - for myself, for everyone, and ESPECIALLY for my boys.

I love my boys. I love every little thing that makes them uniquely them.

They can be whatever they want to be ... even girly. 

5 Lessons from The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up

Several months ago, my dear friend Annie texted me pictures of her neatly organized drawers and told me to stop what I was doing and read Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing.

When Annie says, “Read this book. Do it now.” I do it.

I have been battling with my stuff for a long time. A few years back I announced a massive project in which I was going to declutter and inventory my entire house. Never happened. I tried going room by room and intensely declutter. Never happened. 

I would walk around my house and feel like the piles of stuff were mocking me. I would spend weekends purging and organizing but never feeling like I got anywhere.

I was exactly what I didn’t want to be. I was a stuff manager. 

The problem was I thought I already knew everything there was to know about organizing. What could Marie Kondo possibly teach me?

Turns out. A LOT.

My former "junk" drawer.

1. Everything I knew about organizing was wrong.

Tackling organization a little bit at a time? WRONG. Going room by room? WRONG. Finding just the right “system” for organization? WRONG. 

Marie Kondo throws out all the classic organizing advice bit by bit until she’s left with one simple truth. 

2. We should be choosing what we want to keep, not what we want to get rid of.

That is POWERFUL insight right there. 

For YEARS, I spent all my energy using my space to keep what I had. If I had an empty drawer, I filled it. If I collected extra supplies, I stored them. If I had space, why not?

Because the space in your house represents the space in your life and there is only a FINITE amount of it. 

Even the very back corner of a little-used closet represents mental energy and how do you want to spend your mental energy? Managing stuff? 

Well, NOT. ME.

My t-shirt drawer. BELIEVE in the vertical fold.

3. Every item in your home should spark joy.

The KonMari method requires you place every single item in your hand and ask does it spark joy? If it doesn’t, it goes!

I know that sounds extreme and she makes allowances for items that you use on a daily basis or need to but can’t afford to replace. 

However, I still think those things bring joy. My little boxcutter tool doesn’t necessarily spark joy when I hold it in my hand. But you know what does? Having it perfectly stored in its own space and seeing that space occupied by something that I use almost daily!

4. It’s about the EMOTIONS - not the stuff.

“When you come across something that’s hard to discard, consider carefully why you have that specific item in the first place. When did you get it and what meaning did it have for you then? Reassess the role it plays in your life. If, for example, you have some clothes that you bought but never wear, examine them one at a time. Where did you buy that particular outfit and why? If you bought it because you thought it looked cool in the shop, it has fulfilled the function of giving you a thrill when you bought it. Then why did you never wear it? Was it because you realized that it didn’t suit you when you tried it on at home? If so, and if you no longer buy clothes of the same style or color, it has fulfilled another important function—it has taught you what doesn’t suit you. In fact, that particular article of clothing has already completed its role in your life, and you are free to say, “Thank you for giving me joy when I bought you,” or “Thank you for teaching me what doesn’t suit me,” and let it go. Every object has a different role to play. Not all clothes have come to you to be worn threadbare. It is the same with people. Not every person you meet in life will become a close friend or lover. Some you will find hard to get along with or impossible to like. But these people, too, teach you the precious lesson of who you do like, so that you will appreciate those special people even more.”

— Marie Kondo

No. More. Stacking.

That passage fundamentally changed how I feel about my belongings. First of all, I realized that discarding something didn’t mean I thought it was worthless. Feeling like a once precious object was now worthless kept me from getting rid of it. Now, I realize I can say thank you for an object’s role in my life and then let. it. go.

The sweater I loved to snuggle up in our first winter back in Paducah? Thanks for the memories and goodbye. The book that changed my worldview in college? Thank you for the insight and goodbye. The CDs I listened to a thousand times in 2007 but never since? Thank you and goodbye.

5. Practice makes perfect.

Marie Kondo has a specific order in which you tackle your clutter - category by category. You begin with clothes then go one by one until you finally sort sentimental belongings.

Over the past few months, I’ve worked through each category with only kitchen accessories and the sentimental belongings left.

It has been FREEING.

She’s right. You get better and better at understanding which items bring you joy and which you can let go.

And, as I get better at it, I feel less like I live among my stuff and more like my home is a place of peace and joy. 

If you’ve felt weighed down by your stuff, this book truly is life-changing. 

Any of y'all already KonMarie converts? 

Stop trolling my tragedy

Last year, my family experienced a tragedy. At 20 weeks pregnant, I found out the baby I was carrying was no longer alive. It was an incredibly difficult time made easier by family and friends - and even strangers - who reached out and said they understood or they couldn’t understand but that they loved us and were there for us just for the same.

This post is not about those people.

This post is about the people who wanted to seem thoughtful or sympathetic or supportive but who were actually there for themselves - not me or my family.

I call those people tragedy trolls.

They troll your tragedy. 

These people approach you at any time and in any place and ask you how you are doing. However, they don’t really want to hear your answer. They don’t want to hear that you cry all day and that fear keeps you up at night. They don’t want to hear that you actually aren’t doing that great and you’re afraid you never well. If they wanted to hear those things, they wouldn’t approach you in the grocery checkout line or at a party.

They want you to answer that you’re doing fine and repeat some cliche so that they can go about their day but report that they saw you to anyone who asks. 

These people ask about the intimate details of your tragedy because information is like currency in sad circumstances. Maybe they just want to know what makes you different, what you did wrong, or what they would never do so they can go along on their merry way - self-assured that your tragedy is your’s alone and that they are safe and sound. 

Or they have their own tragedy they haven’t quite dealt with so they use you as a sounding board. They want to relate how they know exactly what you’re going through because they went through the same thing - except it’s often not the same thing at all.

I’ll never forget a dear friend of mine who lost both parents at a young age. She told me people would find out she was an orphan and respond, “Oh, I understand my parents are divorced.”

These people want to witness your sadness without carrying the burden of your grief. 

Brené Brown has a fantastic talk on the difference between empathy and sympathy. She says that empathy involves perspective taking, staying out of judgment, recognizing another’s emotions, and communicating that you understand those emotions. 

Tragedy trolls are sympathetic without being empathetic. They may want to help you but at a safe distance and without getting their hands dirty.

I understand that empathy is not easy. I understand that standing with someone in their grief is an incredibly vulnerable place to be. It is painful. It is intense. It reminds us of painful things in our past or the real threat of pain in our future.

And I’m not saying we all need to reach that level of empathy with every tragedy we come across. If all you can manage is a genuine “I’m so sorry,” that’s fine.  

However, I am begging you to think before you speak to someone experiencing a loss. 

If you feel obligated to say something, don’t. If you feel like you are approaching the encounter to make yourself feel better instead of the other person, don’t. 

Tragedy is hard enough. Don’t make it harder by trolling. 

Felix's Birth Story

The word STORY seems a bit of a stretch for something that took less than two hours but nothing about this child's arrival fit the mold so we'll just go with it. 

Let's begin at the beginning. Both of my other births began in the morning after a nice full night's rest. Not this one! I woke up around 12:35 am with a hard belly. I thought maybe I just had to pee but knew it was odd because I almost never have Braxton Hicks contractions in the middle of the night. On the walk back from the bathroom, I realized the hard belly was accompanied by the slightest bit of cramping. 

So, I laid down and waited to see if I would have another one. Sure enough, a few minutes later the hard belly made another appearance - this time with WAY more cramping. I decided to download a contraction counter app and call my midwife. 

"I can't get out of my driveway," she replied when I told her I was in labor. 

Oh, right! I forgot to mention. Our entire area had received historic snowfall the day before and looked like this!

I told her that was fine and that we'd just go to the hospital. For a lot of reasons, I really wasn't that upset about not having a third home birth. I love my doctor who took amazing care of me during the loss of our baby. Also, due to that loss, there was a much bigger fear factor going in to this pregnancy - probably bigger than I had even admitted to myself. Not big enough that I would have volunteered for a hospital birth mind you but big enough I hadn't constructed a complete mental block to one either. Plus, with all the snow, I knew it was a real possibility and had been mentally preparing for a trip to labor and delivery.

ACTUALLY preparing, however, was another story.

Once I realized I had absolutely no clue what to do before you go to the hospital to give birth, I called one of my best friends who has had four natural hospital births. Alas, she didn't answer. So, I called my friend Annie, who had planned to come to town for the birth. She DID answer but was snowed in as well.

She asked if she should just text with Nicholas the rest of the time.

"Well, I haven't actually woken him up yet," I responded.

I think I knew once I got up and started moving around things were going to get REAL real fast. (Spoiler: I was right!) So, I laid there a few minutes more and searched Pinterest for hospital bag packing lists. Yes, I'm serious. 

Finally, around 1 am, I went into the den where Nicholas was sleeping on the couch and said in a soft voice.

"Nicholas Holland. Guess who has two thumbs and is in labor?!?"

He sat up startled and guessed correctly!

I told him we needed to pack a bag and call my parents. Both of our cars were still snowed in and we would need my stepfather to drive us to the hospital. Luckily, we remembered our other two children sleeping peacefully and called my neighbor (shout out to MVP neighbors Kate and Tish who answered middle of the night calls for help!!!) to come sit with them.

I called my doctor and told her I was in labor. I also politely accused her witchcraft since she had predicted the baby would be born at 39 weeks and 2 days and I woke up at 12:30 am at 39 weeks and 2 days IN LABOR! She told me she'd meet me at the hospital but she had surgery at 7:45 am. I told her not to worry we'd be done by then. 

We got our bag packed (After Nicholas exclaimed "I need a list!" and I offered up my previous Pinterest search.) and headed out the door. 

By this time, my contractions were basically doubling in intensity and the breaks in between were shortening dramatically. As a result, everyone was getting on my damn nerves. My family chatted in car on the way to the hospital like we were going to a stinking cocktail party.

I finally screamed (lovingly) NO TALKING.

We got to the hospital and went to the wrong entrance (because HELLO! we had no idea where we were going!). They offered me a wheelchair but I walked to labor and delivery, which I'm sure helped things progress even faster than they already were. We walked through the doors and they had me sign a paper. Nicholas told them this was our first time at the hospital but that we had had two home births. Then, I had to go to the room by myself and assure the nurses I was not being domestically abused, using hard drugs, or had suffered any miscarriages. 

Once Nicholas and my mom got back in the room, I relaxed a small amount and had the fleeting thought that I could actually get an epidural if I wanted one. I couldn't seem to get in front of the contractions and I couldn't get comfortable and I wasn't sure how long I would last like this.

About that time my water broke and I realized I was going to have this baby in a manner of minutes - not hours as I had originally thought.

There was meconium in my fluid so they had to call in a NICU team to make sure the baby didn't aspirate any of the fluid. Then, they said they wanted to hook me up to a fetal monitor. I politely declined. 

They checked the baby's heart rate and then checked me.

I was 8/9 cm dilated and fully effaced. 

For those of you not versed in labor lingo, that translates roughly to PARTY TIME!

The nurses then told me my doctor was still 10 minutes away and to breathe through any desire to push. If I'd had the strength, I would have laughed in their faces. There is no stopping the barreling train that is a 9 pound baby, y'all. It's that simple.

So, I started to push, which is the exact moment I realized that one of the nurses WAS TRYING TO INSERT AN IV IN TO MY ARM AS MY BABY'S HEAD WAS CROWNING.

I started yelling, "Please stop! I cannot handle that right now you have to stop!"

I had the IV (and a lot of bruising) so I can only assume she did not. Fortunately, there's really only one thing you can focus on as your baby is exiting your body and it ain't a pushy nurse with an IV.

Two pushes later and Felix Robert Holland arrived at 3:02 am - approximately 17 minutes after we arrived at the hospital. He weighed 9 lbs and 6 oz and was 21.25 inches long.

They immediately assured us that he didn't aspirate any meconium and was doing great as he cried his little heart out. 

My doctor arrived minutes later pointing to her shoes and exclaiming, "I didn't even lace my shoes!" 

I delivered my placenta (after refusing help from my doctor and a nurse offering pitocin) and then asked my doctor when I could go home. She said after the baby was cleared by the pediatrician we were free to go and she'd tell the nurses to start prepping all the Against Medical Advice waivers I'd have to sign to bust out of the joint.

My main nurse Emily was really lovely - although thrown a little by many of my requests. First, I refused to let the baby leave the room and asked that his little baby checkups be done while I was holding him.

Then, I asked to take a shower to which she responded, "I don't know if it even works! Most people can't walk because of the epidural!" I told her I felt gross and could walk and needed a shower. She asked a ton of questions about my previous home births and midwife. I also asked for the head nurse who actually delivered Felix to come back so I could thank her. It just felt strange after treating my midwife like part of the family for years to not have had at least a conversation with her. 

Around 7 am the pediatrician finally arrived. He is one of the longest practicing pediatricians in our area and has great - if not a bit stern - reputation. He advised me that while he didn't recommend leaving the hospital, the baby looked healthy and it was fine to do so as long as we saw my pediatrician within 24 hours. 

So, around 8 am, we loaded up our beautiful baby boy and headed for my mother's house where we spent the next week snowed in (good timing after all, Felix!) and recovering.

Why I went back to a cheater

My first love cheated on me. Repeatedly.

And I went back to him. Repeatedly.

He was my first real boyfriend and had followed me from high school to college. (Mind you, he did not attend the college - just moved to the same town.) I was head over heels in love with him, as only a teenager can be. I truly believed I was going to marry him. Then, I found a love note in his apartment from a sorority sister — not just any sorority sister but a close friend who had taken me under her wing and showered me with affection.

It is a betrayal that still stings eleven years later.

I believed at the time I could end their relationship. I made him call her in front of me and tell her it was over. I checked his email and followed up on every story he told me. He continued to see her and continued to lie. I knew he was lying but I remember vividly calling my mother from his apartment and crying that I just could not make myself leave.

We weren't married and didn't have children. We'd only been together for two years. I can't even begin to imagine the pain of adultery inside marriage. All I remember is the self-doubt and crippling confusion.

If everything I believed about this person I loved and trusted is wrong, how can I ever trust myself about anything—including whether I should stay or whether I should leave?

Eventually, a very wise friend (who I ended up marrying) advised me that I was trying to reason with idiots and idiots don't understand reason. This was not about me. Their betrayal had everything to do with them and their issues and very little to do with me. And I finally realized nothing I could do would end their relationship (they eventually married... and divorced) or save mine.

It was one of the hardest lessons of my life and one I still carry with me. I married a man I truly don't believe would ever cheat on me. HOWEVER, I am not a fool. My husband loves me but he is not perfect, nor is he above basic human psychology. I've seen Love Actually, even the best husbands aren't impervious to a flirty, determined young woman. However, I would not be as kind as Emma Thompson. I wouldn't say I'm zero tolerance but I would add I take the upkeep of my marriage very seriously and the presence of any new women in my husband's life even more seriously. (In other words, stay away from my husband or I will cut you.)

None of us really know a marriage - except our own. And even then, when a lie makes everything you once believed was real suddenly seem fake, you can't really count on anything ... including the belief that Tammy Wynette was full of shit all these years.

This post was originally published on Salt & Nectar.

Ashley Martin and "Picture Perfect Births"

Home birth is back in the news. In early December, the British health service released new statistics on the use of midwives at home and in birthing centers. Based on these findings, they concluded healthy women were safer delivering with a midwife at home or in a birthing center than in a hospital. These findings prompted the New York Times Editorial Board to officially recommend a more welcoming approach to midwifery and home births here in the United States. 

On one of her recent shows highlighting these findings, Diane Rehm noted that there seemed to be a consensus among her guests and the medical community - midwives offer a better standard of care and real lessons on how to improve the patient experience. 

Unfortunately, despite the growing evidence that midwives and home births can be a safe option for mothers, my most recent discussions involving home birth have centered around a viral post on PopSugar entitled "What A Home Birth Is Like: My True Feelings Regarding My Home Birth Experience" by Ashley Martin. 

In the post, Ashley shares her traumatic home birth experience that led to both her and her son being transferred to the hospital. Ashley is obviously still feeling the effects of this traumatic experience and I am so, so sorry for that. 

“I have nightmares about my birth. I think about it constantly. It consumes me. It has changed who I am as a person.”

— Ashley Martin

However, I am honestly troubled by the way in which she describes her journey to home birth and I think - as valid as her story is - using it to represent the dangers of home birth is incredibly problematic. 

Ashley spends a lot of time describing the home birth experience she was expecting. 

“I went into my home birth wanting that picture perfect birth — just like all the other home birth photos showed... I wanted a fairy tale — picture perfect birth. ”

— Ashley Martin

In fact, Ashley admits to investing hundreds of dollars in birth photography. The post itself is in response to the release of these photos on the internet. PopSugar even describes the previous post as a "beautiful photographed" home birth. 

I full admit to being swept up into this newest trend. When Griffin was born, having your home birth photographed was not a thing. Not to mention, due to the legal implications of our birth, photographs didn't seem like such a great idea. Amos's birth was documented but not by a professional. However, as I saw more photos and videos of home births, it seemed like such a wonderful idea.

No one loves to document more than me! Plus, these images seemed to undo all the negative stereotypes surrounding home birth and paint a VERY different visual than the imagery surrounding hospital births. Surely, that was a good thing?

Of course, after reading Ashley's story, I see the downside of "beautifully photographed" home births, especially if they perpetuate the myth of a "picture perfect birth."

Y'all, let me be VERY clear, there is no such thing as a perfect birth. The word perfect should not ever be used to describe an event during which one can poop oneself. Period.

My births were really wonderful. I gave birth to BIG babies without a ton of hard labor and with minimal pushing. I had zero intervention and great recoveries. However, there was nothing "pretty" or "glamorous" about it. I threw up. I screamed. I cried. I was unkind to my family members. I even had a few moments of panic. 

Birth is WORK. In my opinion, it's the best kind of work - work where your mental and physical and spiritual selves align. I realized recently when reading about Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and the concept of flow (what he considers to be the secret to happiness) that that is what I experience during birth - full immersion in the process and a feeling of total focus and enjoyment.

And that's where else I take issue with Ashley's description of birth.

“We shouldn’t trust birth, we should respect it.... Birth is just about luck — making sure all the stars align perfectly.”

— Ashley Martin

I couldn't disagree more.

Birth is not about luck and implying that it is involves a passive acceptance of the process that too often leads to victimization and trauma. It is also not about blind trust in either your body or your caregiver - be they a doctor or a midwife. 

There are million factors - many we understand and many we don't - that contribute to birth. Not to mention, every mother, every baby, every birth is special and unique and no approach - be it a midwife's or a doctor's - holds the answer to every single scenario. 

There IS some trust involved and from Ashley's description it seems like her's was misplaced. 

“I was misled, lied too, and manipulated. Informed consent? Hah. I wish.

I left my birth feeling broken, beaten down, cheated. I felt like no one there really cared about the most important thing: my child’s safety and well-being.”

— Ashley Martin

Unfortunately, I've heard people describe hospital births in exactly the same way - people who left a health care experience feeling surprised and traumatized that what they considered to be their best interests were not being met. I've recently had this discussion with many of my close friends regarding not just birth but birth control options, infertility, and general hormonal issues.

You cannot simply hand over the decision making for your health to a provider - be it a doctor or a midwife. No one has the same values and priorities as you do. No one knows your body the way you do. No one is invested in the outcome as much as you are. 

None of this is to say what happened to Ashley Martin is her fault. If she was lied to or her concerns were brushed off, then there are some real problems with her midwife and care providers that need to be addressed. Not to mention, she states that "No one was monitoring my vitals or his. No one was trained for this type of emergency." which obviously is a massive danger. 

However, there are no perfect home births and we don't need perfect outcomes to decide on the safety of home birth either. Anecdotal evidence - like what happened to Ashley Martin - is not how we should assess the future of home birth in this country.

As I often say, the presence of ANY risk does not define a behavior as unsafe.

There are risks involved with ALL birth and they are not erased once one crosses the threshold of a hospital. My favorite question I get when I tell people I am planning a home birth is, "What if something goes wrong?"

The implication being nothing goes wrong at a hospital.

There are risks unique to a hospital birth. There are risks unique to a home birth. Believe me, as I plan my third home birth after a pregnancy loss due to cord injury, I have thought A LOT about these risks. 

However, I cannot let the emotional and fearful voices in my head run my life. If I did, I would never have gotten pregnant again in the first place. I can't even rely solely on my previous home birth experiences - which are no less anecdotal than Ashley Martin's.

I have to look at the mounting evidence that states home birth is safe and complications rare. I have to look at the incredible experience of my midwife who has delivered over 700 babies and has encountered almost every complication imaginable. I have to look at my amazing obstetrician who supports my decision and is there in an emergency should I need her. And, yes, I have to look to my own body and build back a trust that was lost after the death of our baby.

The one thing I'm not looking for is perfection. 

My Memories of December 1st, 1997

This article was originally published on The Atlantic in the wake of Sandy Hook.

I was 16-years-old, a junior at Heath High School in Paducah, Kentucky. Born and raised in the small Western Kentucky town, I was the fourth generation of my family to attend Heath. My great-grandparents had skipped out on a basketball game to ride the ferry across the river and get married in Illinois. My great-aunt had been the home economics teacher for years. My mother had been the prom queen.

It was a cold, gray December day, the first after Thanksgiving break in 1997. Not owning a license yet, I rode to school with my friend Beth and her dad. I remember I was wearing my brand new blue fleece from the Gap that my stepdad had given me as a reward for getting all A's that semester.

We were running late, but as we circled the parking lot, I noticed a large group of students standing outside the gym -- mostly upperclassmen, including a boy I had a crush on. One of our classmates ran up to Beth's car and pounded on the window.

"Some guy just started shooting people!" he yelled. 

Beth's dad told her to drive across the street to the elementary school and park. I told both of them I was getting out to see what was going on. I suspected some boy had gotten mad at his girlfriend and used a hunting rifle to seek his revenge. Just a few months before, a student in Pearl, Mississippi, had gone to school and shot his former girlfriend. As I walked past the group of upperclassmen, I noticed my crush looked pale and shaken. I asked him what was going on.

"I don't know, but there's no fucking way I'm going back in there," he replied.

Inexplicably, I kept walking -- past the group of students gathered in front of the gymnasium next to our high school and up the steps to the south entrance. My high school is small and contained in a single building --- one hallway on top of another, with a stairway on each side. The hallways have wooden doors that close before you reach the stairwell. I realize now I must have entered the building moments after the shooting took place, because the wooden doors had not yet been closed. I simply opened the doors and looked down the hallway to see several bodies lying in the lobby of my high school.

I turned around and walked out. I wasn't afraid. I didn't panic. I just knew that that building was not a place I needed or wanted to be. I don't remember any physical reaction -- only mind-numbing shock.

The majority of the student body was being directed into the school gymnasium, where pandemonium reigned. I remember being told a friend of mine had died, then minutes later watching her walk through the doors of the gym. Very few of us had cell phones in 1997, so I used my friend's to call my mother. As I stood in the parking lot telling my mother I was safe, another friend ran up and told us the shooter was still on the loose and we should get back in the gym. I remember the panic and dread as we waited for the classes on the second floor to be released from lockdown. Most of my close friends had been upstairs and I remember the relief I felt when I saw them for the first time.

So many had witnessed the shooting that the identity of the shooter himself was never a mystery. His name was Michael Carneal. He was a shy, unassuming freshman. Few knew him personally, but everyone knew his older sister, an outgoing and very involved senior. She and I were in choir together and both worked on the school newspaper staff.

"I didn't even know she had a brother!" were the first words out of my mouth when I found out. Months later, his sister told me he had always been known as her little brother. "Now, I'll always be Michael Carneal's sister," she said.

***

As parents and other adults began arriving, the scene at the school became even more emotional. It was as if we hadn't known to feel sad or scared until we saw the fearful faces of those who were supposed to protect us. When it had been only us filling the gym and trying to figure out what to do, we could keep up a front, but as our mothers and fathers arrived, everything changed. I still remember the sight of cars with doors ajar abandoned for miles up the road as the parents got as close as they could and then got out and ran.

I don't remember when I left or with whom. I spent the evening with friends who didn't attend my high school, telling my story over and over again as the details of the shooting and the names of those injured and killed became known.

Michael Carneal had opened fire on the prayer group that met every morning in the lobby of the school. Three of my classmates were dead and five were injured. Senior Jessica James, sophomore Kayce Steger, and freshman Nicole Hadley were gone. The injuries among the other victims ranged from minor wounds to a classmate who was paralyzed from the chest down.

We learned later that evening that we would attend school the next day. At the time, the decision seemed outrageous. How could they expect us to walk back through those doors so soon? Some of my classmates' parents refused to let them go. However, my mother, a public school librarian, told me that if school was in session, I would be in attendance.

She dropped me off at the front doors of Heath High School the next morning. Directly across the street, the media had set up camp. Satellite trucks and a thick dark line of cameras captured me exiting the car and carrying flowers into the school. I would watch my entrance play out again and again on the nightly news for the next week.

The lobby looked the same as before, except for two small bullet holes in the cement wall that the custodians had already attempted to patch up and paint over. The paint hid nothing as we all went over to peer at the only visual indication that everything had changed. As everyone filtered in, we gathered in a circle. I read a Bible verse, which I don't remember, and added the flowers I brought to the ever-growing pile.

We didn't go to any of our classes that day. There were counselors and ministers there to talk with us. Mostly, we all just wandered around and did whatever felt right. I dedicated myself to forgiveness.

The fact that the shooting had happened during prayer circle seemed significant to me. I had often attended the early morning prayer meeting, and I felt both blessed I had been late that morning and guilty I hadn't been attending the prayer circle more regularly. My simultaneous feelings of guilt and gratitude manifested in a driving desire to forgive Michael Carneal. I went to the library and spent hours making signs with several of my classmates to display in the school windows.

"We forgive you, Michael," they read. There was also the one I can never forget: "We forgive you because God forgave us."

The signs made an impact. Story after story portrayed our community as a place where forgiveness lived. I was interviewed by ABC News with two of my classmates. I held my Bible in my lap and spoke of God's love and how it allowed me to forgive the heinous actions of Michael Carneal.

In my mind, forgiving Michael Carneal meant that I could move on. Even at sixteen, I knew forgiveness was the last step in the healing process. I was not injured. I had not witnessed the shooting. I felt no anger or hatred towards the shooter. Surely this meant I was OK. 

So I carried on, and moved along, and grew up. I graduated the next year and went away to college, where I met the man who would become my husband. After graduation, we married and went to law school. I moved back to Paducah and had children of my own. For years, I considered the events of December 1st to be a part of my story, but not a part of who I was.

Small things would affect me, but I never considered them indicative of anything larger. My freshmen year in college, a student died after falling off a cliff during a camping trip. His death felt like a personal assault. I felt as though death and tragedy had followed me far from the grounds of Heath High School. The odd behavior of a trench-coated stranger in a post office would send me hyperventilating, running for the exit. I can still vividly recall the shooting scene in the 2001 film, In the Bedroom, that left me sobbing in the lobby of the theater.

It wasn't until years later that I realized the impact of that day reached far beyond isolated moments of panic. I was sitting with a group of close friends. I'm not sure how the conversation began, but I was telling them that every time my husband and I parted even for a few minutes, to run a short errand, I worried it would be the last time I would see him. My constant fear of losing a loved one in a sudden and tragic way had become a normal part of my life. Every goodbye left me imaging car wrecks or crazed gunmen. If my husband or parents didn't telephone a change in plans or late arrival, I began calling emergency rooms or police stations without hesitation.

I thought everyone felt that way, but as I looked at my friends, it became very clear that the way I felt was not normal. I could see the shock written across each and every one of their faces. I had expected reassurance that they thought the same things from time to time, but instead I received only stunned silence.

***

Over a decade after the shooting at Heath High School, I went to counseling. After only a handful of sessions, my counselor diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder. She told me that the traumatic way I had been introduced to death as a teenager had left me with an unhealthy obsession with it. I began to realize that for years I had lived in fear of December 1st. I had lived in fear of that moment that comes out of nowhere and leaves you broken, shattered, and crying on the floor. I had thought if I could anticipate that moment, if I could prepare for it somehow, it wouldn't be as bad. I realize now the absurdity of that response. The pain of a trauma cannot be lessened or protected against, and I only rob myself of present joys with my futile attempts to do so.

Of course, that realization is hard to hold onto in the aftermath of the tragedy at Sandy Hook. I am now the mother of two small boys -- the oldest of whom will be entering elementary school sooner than I'd like. A level of grief I never imagined at 16 opens up to me when I think of those parents. I knew then that losing a child was terrible thing, but I know now that it is a pain so unimaginable my brain will not allow me to process it. It's as if a security gate slams shut when I try to think about the loss of either of my children. "Do not enter," my brain seems to be saying.

I find myself asking questions that seemed silly when raised by the concerned parents of my classmates 15 years ago. "What are they doing to keep my children safe?" "What security procedures are in place?" As if there were some way to fathom the unfathomable and protect against it.

Mostly, I find myself thinking of the survivors. My classmates and I learned a very difficult lesson in high school. We learned that the world was not a safe place and that truly terrible things can happen when you least expect it. To think of more than 600 students at Sandy Hook Elementary School learning that lesson at nine years old and younger is heartbreaking. I can remember a time when I felt safe, when I didn't constantly anticipate the worst. Perhaps they never will.

They escaped with their lives. But their lives will be forever changed by December 14th. I know this. December 1st taught me.

The Best Advice for visiting the Magic Kingdom with Small Kids

Here are the lessons we learned from our first visit to Disney World's Magic Kingdom with a 5-year-old and 3-year-old!

We've just returned from our first family trip to Disney World and we had a blast! After months of planning, I have to say our day at the Magic Kingdom was indeed magical and I'm here to share all our tips, tricks, and advice. 

Click here for our complete itinerary. 

Don't get sucked in. 

First and foremost, don't get sucked into the Disney machine. When we first started planning, I felt all this pressure to DO. DISNEY. I had to stay on site! I had to spend the entire week visiting all the parks! I had to get the dining plan! I had to call at 6am six months in advance to book all the character meals or my children's vacation would be RUINED!!!

Then, I took a deep breath and calmed the heck down.

I know many people believe on taking vacations "for the kids." I'm just not one of them. After all, I have a job. My kids don't. I actually need a vacation and I had no desire to spend my much-needed vacation trudging all over Disney World.

For our first trip, we decided one day was plenty and that Magic Kingdom had the most to offer kids our boys' ages (and heights). 

Do your research.

Buy The Unofficial Guide to Disney. It's the Bible of Disney planning and there's a reason for that. This massive tome contains the best advice for visiting every Disney resort, park, restaurant, and ride.

The best part? The guide also contains touring plans with step-by-step schedules for how to see the best each park has to offer depending on how long you are going to stay and how old you are.

The book recommends linking up to touringplans.com to customize your touring plan and - at first - I was skeptical. I wasn't sure I needed a paid service for just one day.

I was wrong.

I strongly recommend touringplans.com. You can create highly customized plans based on everything from how fast you walk to when your fast passes reservations are. This website was how we were able to visit 23 of the Magic Kingdom's most visited shows and rides in only one day with barely any waiting in line. 

Full disclosure: I had a lot of problem with the site's app while we were at the park but I still think it was worth it. I do recommend printing your customized plan just in case. 

Make ALL your reservations up front.

So, turns out, "the make your reservations 180 days in advance" thing IS important, especially if you want your kids to experience a character meal (aka meet and greets with their favorite Disney characters during the meal). After surveying the character meal options, we decided to go to the Ohana's Best Friend Breakfast because my boys LOVE Lilo and Stitch.

I also decided to reserve the character breakfast for the morning after our day at Magic Kingdom 1) so I didn't eat into our touring time and 2) to extend the magic a big longer. 

My mistake was I stopped worrying about reservations after we had the character meal booked. I should have made our reservation for dinner at the park 180 days in advance as well, especially since there were seven of us. We ate breakfast and lunch outside the park but it would have been nice to have had dinner plans right as we were needing a break.

Instead, we ended up winging it. Our meal at Columbia Harbour House was fine but I think a dinner at Be Our Guest would have been better!

Build the excitement

I love a countdown. Nothing builds the anticipation like counting down the days until a trip.

After surveying Pinterest suggestions, I knew I wanted to include watching movies the most popular attractions were based on, making autograph books and other crafts, as well as easy activities like Disney coloring pages and online games.

Then, I had a BREAKTHROUGH!

Who said I had to assign a particular activity to each day? I always hate doing that because you inevitably end up with a complicate and time-consuming activity on a day when you have a mere five minutes to spare!

So, I color-coded the activities instead! 

Blue = Less than 15 minutes activities including previewing a ride on YouTube or printing a coloring page.

Red = Watching an attraction-related Disney movie

Yellow = Longer, more involved activities and crafts 

Can I tell you? It worked like a CHARM! We got our Disney shirts made, our autograph books decorated, and every Disney film watched while excitedly counting down the days to Disney!

The Day Of...

• Get there an hour before the gates open. This is not a joke. First, you beat the crowds on some of the most popular attractions. Second, they do a little show and a countdown and it is so much fun!
• Rent a stroller and attach a balloon. Unless your child is upper elementary school, the walking will most likely be too much so the stroller is a lifesaver. The balloon helps you find your stroller in the parking zone AND your party in a crowd!
• Take. The. Break. The Unofficial Guide recommends taking a 3 hour break in the middle of the day to eat lunch and rest. They are the experts for a reason. Do it. 
• See the Festival of Fantasy parade. The Main Street Electric Parade is awesome and see that as well but I think the daytime parades are a little forgotten. We stumbled upon it as we returned from our break (around 3pm) and I'm so glad we did! 
• FastPass+ strategically. I'm still not an expert on this system but luckily there are people who are. 
• I read several tips that recommended bringing your own light up necklaces to avoid paying for Disney's $12 fanciness. I hate to burst your bubble but nothing purchased at the dollar store can hold up to Mickey's finest light-up stick. Amos was unimpressed and ended up with a Mickey stick from the cart. 
• Get the Dole Whip! It's worth it. I recommend a mid-morning snack instead of mid-afternoon when the line is LONG.
• Other than the essential Disney ears (and aforementioned light-up stick), we were able to avoid souvenir purchases. We packed so much fun into the day we really didn't have time. Instead, we went to one of the nearby Orlando Premier Outlets and purchased our souvenirs at a discount! 

The Big Hits with the Hollands

We truly had a magical time at the Magic Kingdom. There wasn't a single ride or show that that was disappointing. However, there were some that were BIG hits with our boys. Amos loved Peter Pan's Flight and Under the Sea - The Journey of The Little Mermaid (also my favorite!). I think for preschoolers anything that closely recreates the film is the most entrancing and both of these rides do an excellent job. Griffin loved the Dumbo playground (not to be confused with the actual ride) where you wait until it's your turn to ride Dumbo. So, word to the wise, don't waste your FastPass here because the waiting area is half the fun. He also laughed. his. butt. off. at Mickey's PhilharMagic (also Nicholas's favorite). 

Overall, I really couldn't have asked for a better day. No meltdowns. Little whining. Lots and lots of fun and magical moments that left me on the verge of tears.

My friend Amy says every kid should take a trip to Disney around kindergarten and I have to agree. Griffin was the perfect age to enjoy the Magic Kingdom. For Amos, we're considering a Disney Cruise. Then, for the finale with baby #3, we might go all in for the week at Disney. There's no way we could cram in fun for the big boys and baby in one day and there'd still be plenty of time for mom to rest by the pool!

As we were leaving the park (at midnight!), Griffin and I were discussing how no one had more fun that day at Disney than we did. He looked up at me with a smile.

 "Thanks, Mom, for planning this awesome day!"

And THAT, my friends, was worth every penny and hour spent!

What are your best Disney tips? 

Post by Sarah Stewart Holland.