Tuesday’s Gone, My Baby was Gone

The day before I left for Hawaii in 2016, I found out I was pregnant with our second child. We’d only been trying for a few months, but I decided to pee on a stick for kicks and giggles to find out if I was pregnant before leaving my husband and son for a week. I used the digital test this time and that exciting and terrifying word “Pregnant” popped up on the stick. I ran out of the bathroom and told my husband and he turned red and smiled. We only told our parents and my close coworkers because I’d be working in close quarters with them the next week while in Hawaii.

The moment I saw the word “Pregnant”, my heart swelled and I immediately planned for this little baby and how they would bring so much more joy to our family. I held on to my joy for 7 more weeks. When I hit week 6 in gestation, I didn’t get morning sickness. This concerned me since I was so sick with my first son, but everyone told me I was lucky and every pregnancy is different. I smiled and nodded that they must be right, but deep down something didn’t sit right.

I had to push back my 8 week appointment to 9 weeks since I had to travel for work again. I was sitting in a training for our leadership of our association that I work with when I felt like I’d wet my pants. I went to the restroom and saw 3 spots of blood. Immediately, my heart sank and I called my doctor. My sweet on-call nurse told me to rest and drink lots and lots of water. She said “When you get home I want you really well hydrated.” I came in for an ultrasound and the doctor as soon as I got back from St. Louis.  I waited for the ultrasound to find my little peanut’s heartbeat, but nothing.  The doctor took some blood because little peanut  was only measuring at 5 weeks, I should have been 9 weeks by then. I had to wait out the weekend to find out there was no heartbeat for sure and this baby didn’t make it past 5 weeks gestation. My doctor was sweet and supportive, she gave me something to pass what was left of the pregnancy and told me to rest and grieve how I needed to. My appointment was on a Monday. I wore an adult diaper, watched my favorite movies from the couch while my toddler climbed all over me and I passed what was left of my baby from my body. I lost my baby officially on a Tuesday, so I named it Tuesday and listened to Lynard Skynard’s “Tuesday’s Gone” to mourn. I ate comfort food and cried until I couldn’t anymore. I slept so much I thought I’d never need to sleep again and I sat staring at nothing for so long the silence was deafening.

My doctor told me I would probably “heal” physically in about a month and then I could try again, so we did. I found out I was pregnant the last weekend of February. Glad I didn’t have to wait so long, until I was sitting at my desk and felt the same familiar leak, I’d felt last November. I left work and my friend took me to the ER. We sat for two hours just for them to tell me that I’d “missed an abortion,” meaning that my body had already aborted the pregnancy before anything grew “significantly.” That pregnancy was significant to me and my family. This time, we hadn’t told anyone that I was pregnant except my husband and boss (in case I got sick.)  I was sent home again to pass what was left of the pregnancy AGAIN.

I didn’t know my heart could break like that. I didn’t know I could handle that much grief. I didn’t know I could hate myself for “miscarrying” my child. I didn’t know that I’d find happiness again in pregnancy or the thought of having another child.

With lots of love and support from the people that love me and our family, we survived.  I am pregnant again. I’ve felt her bouncing around in there, I’ve seen her little fingers and toes, and I’ve heard the beautiful sound of a heartbeat. Fear still lingers, every second of every single day until I hold a safe and healthy baby girl in my arms. Every movement I feel from within brings me a little more back to life.

I blamed myself a lot in the past year for the losses of my pregnancies. I wanted them. I loved them. They were real to me and my family. I am not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for losing them even though I never did anything to cause them, or planning the future they’d have in our family. I do know that I am incredibly blessed to have them in the next life and they’ve already blessed my life in so many ways. I know the only way I survived that horrific grief was through Christ’s baring my burdens for me and my incredible husband and partner. Friends and family let me talk about it when I wanted to, or not talk about it when I needed to just sit in silence. It was not part of God’s plan, it was not something I did, it was simply something that happened and I’ve survived.

 I am 1 in 4.

 1 in 4 pregnancies are miscarried. If you’ve had a miscarriage, it’s not your fault. That won’t stop you from blaming yourself. If you know someone that’s had a miscarriage, all they need to hear is that  you love them and you’re there whenever needed.  That’s it.

I Wish Satan Didn’t Know Me

Before the world was created, there was a Great War in Heaven. A Great War over our agency and God’s glory. In the war, Satan took 1/3 of all the souls in Heaven with him, so they will never recieve bodies or have celestial bliss of living with Heavenly Father again. I’m here, breathing, so I know what I chose. 

It’s crazy to me that at one time Satan lived with us in Heaven and for who knows how long. What’s worse about that, is how well he knows us. 

I wish he didn’t know me. I wish he didn’t know how destroy my confidence or make me doubt my worth. I wish he didn’t know exactly the images that make me feel like a failure. I wish he didn’t know exactly how to rock my faith on the rough days. I wish he didn’t know the words that would destroy love I have for others and create wounds that may never heal without intense repentance. I wish he didn’t know how to steal my joy I have in service to others or my maternal privileges. I wish he didn’t know how to use my mental weaknesses to make me doubt my purpose. I wish he didn’t know my strengths, so he couldn’t use those against me. I wish he didn’t make forgiveness such a hard task, and pride so easy. 

Some days I’m so overwhelmed with joy and gratitude for all of the many blessings I’ve been granted that I may forget the little things that protect me from the Adversary . I know I have a Father in Heaven who loves me, a Savior that bears the burdens with me, and the Holy Ghost to guide me. 

Sometimes it’s easy to get wrapped up in your joy and desires that you forget to fortify your foundation. Satan waits for these moments to steal your joy, contaminate your righteous desires, and distort your understanding of your divine role. Every day, I am reminded that I need to prepare for the Adversary , give love freely as the Savior would, and remember who I am and what I’m capable of in an eternal perspective.  One of my prayers holds more power than a million attacks Satan can take. 

I know I’m not the first to ask, “Lord,is there no other way.” I know I can do all things with Christ, I just wish Satan didn’t know me so well…

5 More Minutes?

There are some people that just come into your life like they were always supposed to be there. One summer I came home from college and my Mom had reconnected with the mom of one of my sister’s friends from elementary school, Kathigene. She was recently separated from her husband and her family naturally blended in with ours and that’s the past ten years in a nutshell. 

She picked out my dress for my college graduation. She entertained my drunken voicemails telling her how pretty she was and how much I loved her. She rejoiced in my triumphs and mourned with me in my grief, right beside my parents. She showed up early to help with my wedding and left late after clean up. She was at every Holiday and every family function with a carrot cake in hand. She babysat my first son and walked my puppy. She sent me on a trip to Charleston, despite being tight on cash because she thought I deserved a vacation. 

She had the best laugh! She always threw her head back,  slap her knees, and say, “that’s hysterical!” She walked with her legs and feet slightly turned in. She drank Mt. Dew like it was going out of style. She loved to listen to my husband sing. She was a true competitor at Mario Kart. She loved dogs, babies, and my chicken enchiladas.  She always answered the door when Loren and I’d go for walks to her house for a visit. She loved when Emma played pranks on her. She loved Emma and Patrick more than life itself. 

Family is so much more than blood, it’s the people that show up. I know I’m better human for knowing Kathigene and to have her in my family. I’m so blessed to have had the privilege to have been a part of her beautiful life. I love her for how she loved my family and made us part of hers. I love her for how much she loved my Mom, her person. I love her for how much she loved me, even when I wasn’t very lovable.

 What I’d give to go back a week and hug you longer, tighter, and tell you how much I love you just one more time. What I would give for just 5 for minutes with you. I wouldn’t take for granted that you always show up no matter what. Until we meet again KG, now you can watch over your family from a better view. ❤️

My Little Man

Keeping track of bowel movements, obsessing over what they eat, and various other behaviors that would in most circumstances be considered creepy, it’s normal because I’m a parent. I watch my little guy sleep all the time. I sit there in awe of beautiful he is and wonder what I did to deserve something so perfect. Come on, you know you’ve done it. We love to watch babies sleep. 

My little guy isn’t a baby anymore. He’s turning two and turning in to a full fledged toddler. I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want to accept it. Among the greatest things I’ll ever be blessed to do is hold this little boy. We’ve taught him manners, we’ve taught him affection, and will continue to try to teach him to be a good man. A good man that serves others. A good man who treats others with kindness and respect. A good man that remembers to call his mother, but golly do I miss my little baby.

I hope one day he knows how amazing he is and what a miracle he’s been in our lives. We were a happy couple and then became a happy family when he came into our lives. In the past two years, we learned more about compassion, patience, and pure joy than I’ve ever experienced in my lifetime. It’s in this time as a Momma to little Loren Fly that I’ve even begun to understand on even the smallest scale how much our Savior and Father in Heaven love us. Prophets have said there’s very few circumstances that the love of the Father can even begin to come close to being mirrored, but a mother’s love is as close as it gets. We bear them, we share in bearing their burdens, and we get to share in their joy.

I hope my big boy know just how much his smile sets my world on fire, gives me strength, and gives me courage. It has since the first time I saw his face. It always will. 

I hope he knows that even though I never knew I wanted children, now I never want to lose him. Being his mom is a privilege.

I hope he knows how much my heart wants to just explode when he gives me all of his kisses and tells me he loves me. I hope he always will want to love his Momma. 

Anyway, in a few days I lose my little baby, gain a toddler and will just cry my eyes out with bittersweet tears. Happy Birthday my big boy! I love you more than words! 

Okayest Mother’s Day

When I was pregnant, I depended on a lot of holistic and natural remedies. My husband spends a lot of time accusing me of being a hippie, but the truth is I trust God’s natural remedies most days more than lucrative pharmaceutical companies.  God gave us all the resources and I’d like to exhaust those before I take a man-created chemical.

I wanted to cloth diaper. Zach said he wasn’t washing poop diapers with our clothes. I breastfed for the first 6 months, until I lost my milk. Then I had to feed my baby diary formula. I made all of his baby foods with organic Whole Foods, but he wouldn’t eat it. Now my baby eats Doritos with dad and eggs and chicken nuggets every night for dinner. I made my own baby wipes, butt paste, and uses oils to soothe his aches tummy. Now I buy my diapers and wipes at the Satan consumed Wal-Mart and my son takes allergy meds every day. 

I’ve been called a lot of things in my lifetime but the first time my little guy called me Momma I lost it. Now I have days when I’d like to change my name, and not tell him what it is. (Seriously though) I never thought I’d have a house full of toys and baby socks strung all over. 

I always thought if I did to the whole mom thing, I’d be Super Mom and the homemade outfits, crazy organized birthday parties, and my kid would be learning 6 languages at 2. That’s not me. Some days I have it together and other days I’m licensed to drive the Hot Mess Express, but every day I’m grateful for the blessing of being a mother. There are so many women that this may never happen for and I know it’s a gift. 

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers that came before me and all the Mothers who want to be Super Mom but have to sometimes settle for Okayest Mom. Elder Holland reminds us, ” you’re doing better than you think you are.”

Happy 28th DFly

Today is just another day to most folks. To some, today is a day to celebrate my day of birth. For me, today is a day to celebrate life. I’ve survived life for 28 years. 

Let me first say, I have not had a rough life. I have not had a bad life. I’ve had a million and one wonderful opportunities and blessings in my life. I say I’ve survived because there were dark days. There were dark days when depression and anxiey stole my joy and lust for living. There were days when depression and anxiety told me I was worthless and I wasn’t worth the oxygen I was breathing. There were days when my failures felt like they would consume me. There were days when depression, anxiety, and heartache threatened to destroy my soul. 

There were many days I thought I’d lose the war with depression and anxiety. Instead, each day I win a battle. Today is a victory lfor me! I’ve had 10,220 days, 28 years, and a innumerable thoughts driven my hopelessness and grief. Since I’ve learned more about treating the beasts of depression and anxiety I rely on these three things. 

1. The Atonement of Jesus Christ. The knowledge that I’m never alone. Christ has felt everything I’ve ever felt – my grief and joy. I can change and become better or worse. It’s my choice. It’s truly my saving grace. 

2. Say yes and no. Say yes to some of the things you fear. Conquering fear brings hope and confidence I never knew I had. There were days I was terrified and anxiety told me to submit, instead I told myself “Okay Dailey, time to be brave.” I’ve never regretted being brave. 

Say no. Say no to things and people that hurt you. We all have to do something’s that are unpleasant, but all in all we always have a choice. You teach people how to treat you. I say no to people who abuse me, regardless of who they are. I started saying no when I couldn’t deliver. Sometimes you just have to say no to an opportunity to care for yourself. Anxiety and depression prey on the weary. 

3. Get your hands dirty, Dailey Fly. Service and hard work are the cure to idol hands and minds. I love working outside and hard work. I love finding someone that needs just a little help and the extra mile. I’m famous for wallowing in my pain. While you’re in the Service of others, it’s hard to focus on your own nonsense because happiness is contagious. Love begets, love.

Ten years ago, I didn’t know I had depression and anxiety. I just thought I sucked at life. I couldn’t get help or treatment, but now I have. 

Everyday can be a battle or a blessing. It’s my choice to decide. Happy Birthday Dailey! 28 years of battles, blessings, and brave! 

I am still here;

The first time I remember a “spell” was when I was probably around 8 years old, sitting in my room huddled in a corner pulling strands of my blonde hair out. As I watched the long strands fall to the ground, I gasped for air. It felt like an elephant sitting on my chest. (Okay, I was eight so maybe a really small elephant). The weeping was tense and gave me a headache. If you have anxiety or ever had an anxiety attack, you know the feeling.

Once you finally settle yourself down, you start to doubt your own sanity. On many occasions, I had to evaluate myself and ask, “Am I crazy?” Maybe, a little? These attacks would become innumerable throughout my life and unfortunately part of who I am.

Anxiety came first, then depression followed in my teenage years. There was lots of journal entries during these years. While reading these journals and notes with my best friend, between the boy craze and volleyball practice it glared at me from the page. “I don’t want to be here anymore.” “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” “Sometimes I hate myself and “I just want to just end it.” “I don’t deserve to live.”

Sometimes it was just teenage angst over a boy other times it was just a sadness I couldn’t explain or escape. I didn’t hear voices or anything but I told myself, plenty of things. I told my young and vulnerable self horrible, horrible things. “You’re not good enough at sports.” “You’re not pretty enough.” “You’re not smart enough.” “You have no worth.” “Everyone would be better off, if you weren’t here.”

I’ve been told I am an overachiever. Apparently, my kind is very prone to this type of mental illness, normally self-induced due to the stress we put on ourselves. It wasn’t until college, after talking to my suite mate and a professor that recommended seeing a professional for help. I thought I’d conquered “all my inner demons” when I moved away from home and the bullying and heartbreak.

Then I got into a very emotionally strenuous relationship, with a guy who was very emotionally aggressive. I don’t like to throw around the word abuse, but there were definitely eggshells to be walked on when dealing with him. When I would get anxious, he would stand over me and yell at me for crying or tell me I was crazy. That’s every woman’s fear right? To be labelled as another crazy emotional woman, or be asked if I was getting my period because I was acting “crazy”. I finally got help. I saw my doctor, she gave me my first prescription for medicine to level out the anxiety. It made me feel foggy and tired, so I stopped taking it. I convinced myself, I was being too sensitive and I needed to toughen up like my ex-boyfriend tried to bully me into. This was a bad life choice, I repeat BAD LIFE CHOICE. I tried to escape the anxiety and sadness with a little streak of partying and abusing my body by depriving it of sleep and binge eating.

After relocating in Texas and getting my first job of my professional career (post college) I started down the same path. I dated another emotionally aggressive. It was during this time, I learned that I teach people how to treat me. I don’t have to allow others to dismiss me or tell me I am not good enough. I also started going back to church during this time. I investigated the gospel of Jesus Christ. I started running regularly. I started to eat better.  I started spending quality time with quality people. I counseled with my doctor about another subscription to help manage the rest of the anxiety and stress.

I felt like I was finally starting to wrangle my illness. Yes, there’s that word – illness. I am mentally ill. This was something I never wanted to admit about myself, for the obvious reasons. I didn’t want the label. I didn’t want to the crazy girl. I’ve come to realize that having depression and anxiety is no different than having a disease or cancer. While some diseases are preventable and there is argument that some cancers are avoidable, you can’t help an illness you were born with or prone to.

In the past few years, I’ve battled depression more often than not. Cycles of anxiety and depression threatened to consume me.  This is where I choose to make the difference.

Since I have allowed myself to admit I have mental illness, I have allowed myself to be treated. I have allowed myself to get the care I need. I find the care I need in a little pill I like to call my happy pill. I find the care I need in meditation and prayer. I find the care and counsel I need from church leaders and priesthood blessings. I still have bad days and sometimes even bad weeks, but I am not bad. I try to be the kind of person that makes the world or the people around me better because I am here.  I am a daughter. I am a wife and mother. I am a runner. I am a friend and cheerleader to those around me. I am more than my illness. I have an illness, my illness doesn’t have me.

That’s my huzzah moment for today. It feels like I’ve been beat this week, but this week’s craze can’t have my joy. I am still here;

What Happens When You Shower

First let me start with the disclaimer: It’s awesome to have a blog again! Also, this is not a Dailey fishing for compliments post. You don’t need to tell me I am pretty or whatever. I just wanted to shares an experience and some thoughts.

And no this isn’t a dirty post…

This morning I woke up after finally getting enough sleep for the first time in days, and felt refreshed. I got in the shower, listened to a wonderful talk by President Uchtdorf of the First Presidency of the LDS church, and did what little make up I had time for: little bit of blush and mascara with some golden eye shadow. I knew I didn’t have time to dry my hair and I threw on a maxi-skirt and tee shirt. I’d had a wonderful morning, but I looked like I got hit by a train.

I got to work still in a great mood and with damp, frizzy hair. I went into a co-worker’s office to share a new protein shake recipe I’d tried. His response made me laugh out loud in his face. All he said was, “Wow you look nice today, are you going to a job interview?”  I explained the deception of the maxi-skirt: they look nice and dressed up, but really they are crotch-less yoga paints. Score one for the ladies!

As the day progressed several of my lady co-workers commented on how “pretty” I looked today and how today was a good look for me. UM…HELLO PEOPLE I am wearing virtually no make-up and no product in my lion’s mane of thick hair.

I am not saying that I need to hear that I am pretty to feel pretty, but it’s amazing how critical we as humans are to our bodies. I look at my wedding photos and all I see is a “fat girl” dancing in a beautiful gown. Your wedding day is supposed to be the one day in your life that you look and feel gorgeous. Not the new Mrs. Fly.  Also didn’t help that a member of the family told me, “You look different today, you look pretty.” OUCH!

 In college, I went to a body image workshop and got some of the most influential advice about body love I’ve ever had. We were instructed to write down what we thought about our bodies. Of course my list was something like: “fat, top heavy, ugly cellulite, ugly skin, too pale,” and probably something like “jacked-up teeth” in there somewhere. (I know these by heart, because I’ve had the same body issues my whole life.) Our instructor asked us to read the list and imagine saying all of those things about our best friends.I cringed, because I would never ever talk about my best friends like that. I love and admire my best friends so much and in so many different ways. That was exactly the point; if you wouldn’t talk to some you love like that, then why would you talk to yourself like that?

I read an amazing article recently about a Mom who was mortified that her children wanted to post a picture they’d taken of her at the beach.  She absolutely hated the photo and claimed that it didn’t flatter her and she said something about “looking like a beached whale.” The woman’s children told her how beautiful she looked in the picture and just doted on her during their lobbying campaign. At the end of the article the women appreciated the way that her children looked at her.

What I took away from it is this: Our expectations of beauty aren’t always fair to other people and mostly ourselves. I loved that article so much. I miss the perspective and candor I had when I was a kid. Everything was fascinating and beautiful, even if it didn’t fit into what society deemed beautiful.

Society will keep up the battle thigh gap versus no thigh gap, but the truth remains that our own body image is our own responsibility and choice. Body love always makes me feel happier and more beautiful than body shaming.

You can see my acne and the bags under my eyes, and the fat on my face but for some reason people think I am pretty today. I can live with that.