Today is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life...It's Time to Do Some Cleaning

This year, March 21 marks the 20th anniversary of my father's death. Knowing his time left on this Earth was short, before he died, he shared his wishes to have his funeral service held at dawn. He explained how he felt that holding it at the beginning of a new day would symbolize a new beginning. It seemed only appropriate that he died on the first day of spring, in the early morning hours...a new beginning.

Each spring reminds me of his attitude. The anticipation of something new. The beginning. The old expression "Today is the first day of the rest of your life" reverberates with me in the spring more than any other time of year. I challenge you today to do a mental "spring cleaning." People make New Year's resolutions to lose weight, to save money, to quit bad habits...let the spring time be your time to clean out the brain clutter that prevents you from living the happiest, most fulfilled life you can.

Take some time over the next few weeks to ponder what really makes you happy. What keeps you from happiness? What can you do right now to gain more happiness and fulfillment?

This looks like different things for different people. For me, here are three things I have done to help me find my happiness. Get inspiration from these--or find your own. Pursue it with passion.

1. Find your mantra. For me, I needed to deal with anxiety. My mantra is simply, "Breathe." In the midst of a crushing crisis, a dear friend said, "Stop. Breathe." I took a deep breath and another and another. In that moment, calmness washed over me. When life overwhelms me, I turn to that simple word: Breathe.

2. Don't wait on your dreams. For years, I always thought, "One day when I win the lottery, I'm going to paint in a studio by the ocean." Thankfully, a friend of mine offered a painting class. With a little encouragement, I decided to try it out. To my surprise, it is something that I enjoy immensely. I may not paint in a studio by the ocean, but I paint. And it brings me joy. Go after that "some day" dream. It may not be exactly the way you envision it, but go after it anyway.

My first painting...see more at Deb McDonough Art.

3. Take care of yourself. So often, I find I focus on other people's needs and wants, pushing my own to the side. While this can work short-termed, in the long run, this can drain the happiness from you. Taking care of yourself can be committing to eating better, getting exercise through a walk in your neighborhood and noticing the sights and sounds around you. It can mean reaching out to a friend and making the time to spend with them for an hour or two. It can mean asking for help when you need it and not taking on everything yourself. It can be saying "no" when it's not helping you reach your goal of happiness. Take care of yourself, without apology. You are important.

Thinking back to my dad's final wishes to have a new beginning, I am grateful that I didn't wait until my life was over to start pursuing my happiness. Do some spring cleaning...pursue your happiness...now.

Debbie McDonough is a mom to two great kids, ages 10 and 13 and wife to her husband of 15 years, Matt. She works full time as a first grade teacher. In addition to writing, she loves painting, reading and finding the perfect cup of coffee.

The Courage behind “Congratulations”

Sometimes even good things hurt.

My husband always reminds me “perception is reality.”  This is something I’ve thought about a lot.  It helps me remember the world doesn’t revolve around me. And it encourages me to not assume I understand how other people feel, or why they do and say the things they do.  But it also helps me find peace in my anxiety, as I over-analyze and try to apply my own experiences to someone else’s.  In the end, our experiences are our own, only our own- even when shared.  They are perceived through our own lens- our own perspective.  And they become our truth. 

I don’t know if you’re aware- but we’re in standing in the middle of a very large, very pregnant, “Baby Wave”. 

A “Baby Wave” is what many people call a period of time when it seems like everyone and their mother, (forgive me…I couldn’t resist) is pregnant and/or having babies.  It’s remarkable really. And it’s beautiful.  This phenomenon (I believe it’s phenomenal anyway) has the potential to create an instant bond between women, as they symptom-swap and exchange battle stories of past pregnancies.  Then one by one, they give birth to their beautiful little ones, and the cycle resets.  Then all is calm, until the next wave.

“Don’t drink the water!” is a joke commonly heard during these wave-times, exchanged between individuals who are not looking to join the preggo-club for a variety of reasons.  It’s a happy time full of wonder, swollen bellies, and hope. 

But there are some women- who aren’t making jokes.  Who quietly smile on the sidelines through the “Oh my gosh! When are you due?!” conversations.  The women who would give anything to drink the water, no matter how bitter the taste.

It’s uncomfortable to acknowledge that there can be pain even in the most beautiful times.  Especially when that pain is selfish, and that pain is our own.

So, in the interest of being transparent, here is my perception/reality: 

(hold on folks- it’s going to be a long, bumpy ride!  Go ahead and take your phone with you if you need to take a potty break. I won’t judge.)

I was naïve, 21 years old, and about to begin completing my three required internships to become an elementary school teacher. (spoiler alert: I never actually ended up teaching elementary school.) My husband and I didn’t have a real “plan”- but we’d been married two years and deeply desired to start a family.  Summer seemed ideal timing for a having a baby within my teaching schedule.  And so our journey began!

“Aunt Flo” was late that very first month- and I took a test. It was negative.  I cried.  A lot.

The next day I came home to flowers brightening our, tiny, dingy (seriously disgusting… but cheap) apartment; and my husband telling me he would love me no matter what.  My period still hadn’t arrived, and he convinced me to take another test. I did so grudgingly- and left it on the bathroom counter to process while I laid on the couch in despair.  (I wish I could say I became less dramatic with age, but it would taste like a lie.)

The next thing I knew- my husband was whooping and hollering for joy as he came bounding out of the bathroom to come shower me in kisses.  It was positive! We were having a baby!  For the next nine months, I felt like I was glowing.  I felt set-apart. I have never known as much joy as I did in then.  There were a lot of tears, but far more smiles, and I walked on clouds.  I was so proud- and so excited.

Pregnant with our first baby!

Four days past our due-date in June, we delivered our oldest- (a boy!) via Cesarean Section at 9lbs 3oz.  I hadn’t progressed, 0cm dilated 0% effaced- without a single “real” contraction.  He was “sunny side up” (meaning his face was out toward the front of my belly instead of back toward my spine) and his head was lodged in my pelvis making progression unattainable. 

I didn’t handle the C-section well.  I was still only first-learning how to cope with the anxiety/depression cocktail that is my mental health, and had an anxiety attack on the operating table.  Technically, the surgery still went flawlessly, but emotionally, it sent me spiraling into a depressive state.  Because of my sensitivities, I struggled with the juxtaposition of pain and numbness that followed, and to hold my baby.  At times everything was dark, and I felt angry.  I was so tired.  I was in so much pain. And I just wanted it to end. 

Eventually I began to heal, and feel like my old self- but I was terrified to experience that feeling again. 

The pain faded, and my desire for a baby outweighed my fears.  When I was 23 (working as a Middle School Science teacher) my husband and I found ourselves planning for another baby!  We were aiming for May to maximize the amount of time I would be able to spend with the baby.  That first month I found myself in familiar circumstances.  My period was late, the test was negative.  I tried not to worry, because this had happened before, but the next day instead of flowers and a dance for joy like my first pregnancy- I broke into a new box of feminine products.  I wasn’t pregnant.

I braced myself for the storm.  There were tears- but I tried to put my circumstances into perspective. I realized it wasn’t realistic to expect a positive pregnancy test right away.  It was amazing that it happened the first time with my oldest, but I needed to practice patience. I knew better than to assume things would always go 100% according to plan. That particular lesson however was short-lived, as the following month found us reading two pink lines and expecting another June baby! 

Pregnant with baby number two!

My second pregnancy was a little more difficult than the first. I felt cautious.  I was happy- but I was also scared.  Over the last two years I had many friends who experienced miscarriages, birth defects, or other complications.  I felt convinced something was going to go wrong.  As the due-date came closer, I began to feel a little more calm, but still anxious about what was going to happen.  I walked and walked and walked, and two days before his official “due date”- I delivered our second little boy, 7lbs 4 oz, with a flawless VBAC delivery.  (Vaginal birth after cesarean.) 

It seemed my fears were unconfirmed, and I allowed myself to cling tightly to this new little life.

Two years later- I was feeling empowered after my positive VBAC experience. I had been feeling strongly about having another baby, and secretly hoping for a “surprise” pregnancy ever since my youngest self-weaned at 8 months.  I was just SO sure we had another little one ready to join our family, and I couldn’t wait to meet them.  So at the comfortable age of 25, my husband and I decided to aim for an April baby.  We joked that was how we would get another summer baby to compliment my teaching schedule. (Since it took 1 month with our first baby, 2 months with our second baby- it would probably take 3 months with our third baby, and we’d get all three of them in June!)

We played it cool, but after the third month irrational worry started to creep in.  I kept my fears to myself, because I knew with my anxiety I wasn’t being logical.  But as time passed- I started to internally panic, and it became harder to keep to myself.  I asked a few close friends and family members to pray for us, but still no baby.  I felt guilty for mourning each month.  I felt I didn't have a real right to complain after having it "easy" with my first two.  After 6 months we decided to take a break.  My niece had be diagnosed with Morquio (MPS IV-A), and my husband was going to have some genetic testing done before we continued trying to conceive.  We couldn't afford IVF, so I was terrified a positive result would mean postponing having another baby indefinitely.  Thankfully- his tests came back clear- so we resumed our baby-trying.  Everything always seemed to work out just right for us. Except, no baby.  I couldn't wrap my head around it.

I went to the doctor who ran some standard blood work, but assured me I was young, and because we had two successful pregnancies before “the plumbing worked”.  I offered an uncomfortable courtesy-laugh at his joke, but I didn’t feel like it was very funny.  He told me I shouldn’t be concerned.  It had been a year since we started “trying” for baby #3, but because we had taken a short break- I didn’t qualify for additional fertility tests, and he was confident I didn’t need them.  In fact, I was told that pursuing unnecessary tests could actually hurt my chances of conceiving so it was best to just keep trying and waiting.  “Next time I see you, you’ll be pregnant!” he told me.  I smiled hesitantly in my paper gown and waited for the room to clear so I could get dressed.

I was 26 by now.

And then I was 27.

I was struggling.

I watched the baby waves ebb and flow.  I told myself to relax.

Everyone told me to relax.

• “You have two beautiful boys, be grateful for them.”
• “It will happen as soon as you stop trying.”
• “You haven’t been trying that long- just be patient.”
• “It will happen when you least expect it.”
• “I had real infertility, you’re not infertile.”
• “You’re so young, don’t rush it.”
• “It took us X amount of time to get pregnant, everyone is different.”
• “Two is a good number.”
• “So many people have it much harder, they never have a baby at all.”
• “Are you really trying? If you haven’t done XY&Z for ___ amount of time you’re not infertile, you’re just not trying hard enough.”

Truth blurred with doubt and I was miserable.  I began to spiral.  I hated my job.  I pushed my husband away.  I felt like an awful and unworthy mother, like I was neglecting the blessings I had been given by wishing for something more.  There was nothing physically wrong, so it had to all be in my head- which meant it was all my fault.  I became angry with myself, frustrated at the cycle of worry I had both created & become trapped in.  I tried to remind myself that my children needed me.  I told myself I was being selfish.  I pushed myself to wake-up, get dressed, and do the things I was supposed to do.  I all-but invested in stock for home pregnancy tests, as month after month I peed on those stupid plastic sticks.  I'd forgive them quickly though, always convinced I was just testing too early, or that next month would be different.

I went to the baby showers.  I sat on the theoretical shore as a supportive, smiling face, for the passing baby waves- but I quietly hid the feeds of my pregnant Facebook friends.  Especially the ones who “Oh my gosh- we weren’t even trying!” 

It wasn’t their fault.  After all- I’d been there.  Both our previous babies were meticulously planned, but they had come so easily.  It can be surprising (and even scary!) when you get the news.  Surprising, scary, & exciting!  They wanted to share- and that was their right.

But here’s what I realized. 

Here’s where I remember that “perception is reality.”

That same beautiful moment, from a single pregnancy announcement, has been shared, copied, and even tainted.  While the emotion of happiness surrounding that experience is genuine & overwhelming, the ripples through perception are not uniform.  My lens of unfulfilled dreams took my ripple of joy and welcoming for this new life, and laced it with pain.  The news was full of light, but also shadows of bitterness. 

These moments aren’t fair.  But they are real.  They are individual, and they are all valid.

In the beginning of 2016, I decided to quit my teaching job, and work from home as a LuLaRoe consultant.  I wanted something flexible & low-key so I could focus on myself, and my little family.  I joined a gym- and began making time for the things I enjoyed.   I was making peace.  At the time I was preoccupied with the life-changes I was making, and to my surprise- just as everyone suggested of course- I finally got pregnant! A year and a half since our journey’s start to baby #3, but only one month after deciding to take this crazy leap of faith, we were finally expecting! 

My third pregnancy.  My three year old was the photographer- hence the cropped head.

“Expecting” is such an appropriate word for pregnancy.  Hopes and dreams are immediately whirled into action as quickly as those two pink lines appeared on the home pregnancy test.  I had expectations, and these particular expectations had been under construction for a long time.

Unfortunately, the foundation wasn’t quite set.  Our baby girl was diagnosed with Trisomy 18 (also known as Edwards Syndrome) and after 17 long, heart-wrenching weeks of pregnancy filled with tests, fear, and unanswered questions, we lost the heartbeat.  I delivered her tiny unfinished body on my oldest son’s 5^th birthday.

They say when you can talk about something without crying, you’ve healed. 

I’m not quite there yet, but it's happening slowly.  I’d like to write a post someday about everything that miscarriage has taught me, but not today.

That Fall, after a couple of familiar disappointing months, we experienced a “chemical pregnancy”.  The pregnancy test was positive on a Monday, and I began bleeding on Saturday.  I had two  LuLaRoe “pop-up” boutiques that day.  In the morning I prayed it was some kind of harmless spotting.  I pushed through the party, unwilling to believe that I could really be miscarrying again.  But the bleeding didn't stop. I took a pregnancy test on my lunch break, and it was negative, so I knew the pregnancy had not been viable long.  I smiled, and laughed and complimented ladies as they tried on clothes that made them feel beautiful while I was falling apart from the inside out. 

Every loss is significant, but to me, it just felt like one long, painful blur.  This would have been another summer baby.

It’s been almost 3 years since we first started trying for baby number 3.  Many of the ladies I surfed the “baby waves” with during my first two pregnancies have since had another little one.  Many of them had the sweetest most beautiful little girls. It's so strange to feel so happy for someone else while still feeling so sad for yourself.  Sometimes I worry my sadness is blemishing their happiness, but I'd like to think it has the opposite effect.  Seeing those little ones reminds me of hope- and that good things happen.  It stings to watch with empty arms- but my heart still feels full. I scoop up my own little ones and hold them a little tighter.

This week I went to Walmart with my youngest to search for some coordinating clothing for my men-folk because we had family pictures coming up.  I decided to do some light grocery shopping while I was there, and I was in the bread aisle when the modern marvels of technology delivered the news that another one of my friends was pregnant by surprise, one of the friends who had two children the same ages as mine, but also already had a gorgeous little girl since. I kept my composure & continued shopping for about ten minutes before breaking down in front of the Oreos.

The right thing is to say “Congratulations!” when something good happens to someone else. 

But what do you say when your heart aches, and the words feel hollow?  What do you do when their something good is your nothing?

You sob in the middle of Walmart like a crazy person while an old man awkwardly tries to get to the Nilla Wafers behind you.  You take a deep breath and let yourself feel everything for just that moment.  You wipe your tears and realize that there’s an appropriate time and an inappropriate time to share your heart.  You remember the times when good things have happened to you too.  You remember life isn’t fair, and that’s ok.  You choose to make room for happiness right beside the sadness in your heart.  There’s room for both.  You acknowledge that this is their moment, and you will have your own turn in your own way to interpret those ripples and process your own residual experience.  Even if it isn’t when, or how you thought it would or “should” be.

You take courage, and find strength in the face of grief.

You say “Congratulations!”

My sweet boys playing at Grandma's house this weekend. 

Every moment counts

In 2002, I met a family who forever changed my life. They had endured one of the hardest trials I could ever imagine. They lost two of their teenage children in a tragic car accident while driving back home together after a family trip.

I attended the funeral and watched as the parents stood up and hand-in-hand went to the front of the church’s congregation to share the sweetest and most tender memories of their children’s lives.

Their overall message? Every moment counts.

They shared intimate details of their lives, about the years of family activities like the water gun fights and the movie nights, blowing out candles on dozens of birthday cakes, and the times they laughed and cried together. They shared about how special the thousands of meals they spent together as a family were. There were so many precious memories. Their strength and their faithful words were forever etched onto my heart and mind on that day.

 I honestly had no idea how their story would have an even greater impact on me only a few years later.

It was my idea to run. It was my idea to pick up the pace.

On a warm Saturday morning in June 2006, I woke up to the sound of a familiar ring tone next to my head, on my bedside table. It was my dad. I heard that ring tone all the time. My Dad and I talked every day.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Dad asked me.

(Yawning) “Hey dad, just getting up. What are you guys up to?” I replied.

“We’re going to the park for a walk. Do you want to come?”

“Umm, ok…” (not as eager-sounded as I would’ve liked).

“C’mon…come with us.”

“Alright- I'll meet you guys there” (trying to sound a little more convincing).

I rolled over and asked BBH if he wanted to come with us. He said he had to run an errand, but would meet up with us after. I reluctantly got out of bed, did a quick stretch, and put on some workout clothes and running shoes.

After a 10-15 minute drive, I had made it to the park. I remember seeing my Dad walking closer to my car, with a big, cheesy grin on his face. Why is he wearing those spandex biking shorts again? I thought to myself. I made a mental note to tell him how “uncool” they were and how we were not biking in the park. We were walking in the park. I rolled my eyes and laughed to myself.

As I got out of the car, dad made a funny comment and we all said “hi” to each other. I was happy to be there with my parents. We were only walking two miles into the park, two miles back. Enough time to chat about the usual: my job, things that were going on in life, and of course, there were always the Dad-jokes.

About a mile in, I suggested that maybe we should jog a little. I smiled at my dad and told him that since he was doing so well lately with his exercise routine, maybe he should take it up a notch and start to jog. I challenged both my parents to jog with me and jokingly said they might not be able to "keep up". I ran a mile and then stopped at the water & rest station. I watched as both my parents slowly jogged closer and closer to me.

My dad was the first one to reach me. He was panting and was sweaty, but laughing. He got a drink of water from the cooler on the table next to the benches as we waited for my mom. Mom arrived soon after and got some water from the same cooler. My dad sat down on the bench opposite from me to rest a little. I stood in front of him as we laughed about something silly. Then, his laugh slowed down. He gave me a strange look, sat up a little straighter, and then fell to the ground. I screamed and dropped next to him, trying to turn him over. My mom turned around and screamed my dad’s name. A few seconds seemed to last an eternity. I started to call 911 while hailing down a cyclist passing by. He ran towards us and immediately started to help my mom while she performed CPR. I tried to calmly tell the 911 dispatcher what happened.

As the dispatcher talked to me, people started to gather around my dad. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I felt like I was dreaming. I listened intently for the ambulance siren. Where are they? I remember thinking. What if they can’t find us? We’re a couple of miles into the park… I asked and thought to myself. Every moment counts.

Finally the ambulance came. I wasn’t allowed to ride with them, so I watched as they lifted my dad into the ambulance and as my mom jumped in beside them. By this time the crowd had grown and people started to ask me questions about my dad. I couldn’t process what was being said. Finally, someone came up to me and kindly asked me if I was ok. I looked up and as if my trance had broken said: “I don’t know.”  The park ranger gave me a ride back to my car.

The only thing I could think of was: It was my idea to run. It was my idea to pick up the pace.

I rushed to the hospital all the while calling my husband to tell him what happened and where to meet me. When I arrived at the hospital, I somehow found my mom waiting for me near the ER. BBH came into the room soon after. Then, we waited for what seemed like forever.

I’ll never forget the doctor on call who came into that room only a few minutes later. His face was solemn. He said a few things to us, nothing of which I remember. The only thing I did remember were the words: “I’m sorry, he didn’t make it.”

Have you ever felt so hot and then so very, very cold? One second I was sweating and burning up and the next I was cold and shivering. I’ve never felt a sensation like that since that day. My head started to pound and all the voices and noises of a busy ER faded into silence.

I fell silent. I couldn’t feel my hands, I couldn’t feel me feel my feet, I couldn’t feel.

The only thoughts that came into mind were ones of disbelief. I asked the doctor: “What happened?”  He shook his head. Oh my gosh, he doesn’t know, I thought. How does he not know how my dad died?  He tried to explain that a thorough autopsy was the only way to know what exactly happened to my dad.

My confused thoughts were interrupted as someone finally ushered us into an ER room where he was. I looked at him and held my mom’s hand. How could life be so fragile? How could someone pass away so fast? How could I be talking to him one second and in the very next, he collapses and passes away? What if I hadn’t suggested that we run? What if…? Many questions and “what if” scenarios flooded my mind all at once. And a familiar thought I heard several years ago came into my thoughts once again: Every moment counts.  

We went back to my parents’ house to recollect our thoughts and to kind of deal with the shock of everything. As we entered the garage, I saw that the broom Dad had been using was still in the same place where he had left it. “Right before we left for the park he had been sweeping the garage,” my mom said in a numb-like voice .

An unfinished basket of unfolded laundry lay on the living room couch. I folded the rest of the clothes. I calmly walked around the house to see what tasks dad had started and had most likely meant to complete. Dishes, sweeping, laundry- I finished them all. As I obediently placed his clothes in his closet, I dropped to my knees and sobbed. What am I doing? I could smell his familiar cologne on his suit. I could see his old knick-knacks and jewelry on his dresser. I looked up and saw that his wallet was partially open. I saw some wallet-sized pictures of us (his kids), my mom, and my uncle and him when they were younger.

He lived a life full of love and rich with laughter, I thought.

 As I sat in my parents’ closet for a while, I reminisced about a time in college when I sat talking with my dad while eating ice cream. He was giving me a pep talk after what I thought at the time was a real “heartbreak” with a boyfriend who didn’t work out. I remember him saying, “Faye, this too shall pass…” His kind and familiar voice penetrates my thoughts even now.

My Dad was right. Even the hardest trials do eventually pass and as I’ve continued to live on without my dad, there are still so many lessons I’ve learned from the experience.

I've learned to cherish the moments spent with my family and friends and to seek after moments when I can spend time with them.

I've learned to forgive often and to apologize even more often.

I've learned to enjoy the “mundane” moments of life together: the cleaning, the cooking, the child-rearing, the chatting about whatever, or the snuggling with my kids and BBH just a few minutes longer in the mornings.

I’ve learned to find things to laugh about each and every day and then to share our laughter with our loved ones.

I‘ve learned to pay compliments when I think of them, because I never know what impact they could have on my family members or friends.

I’ve learned the importance of unselfishly serving my family and friends with a happy and grateful heart.

I’ve learned to say “I love you” even more.

I’ve learned the importance of striving to make each and every moment of my life count, to live with no regrets, and to push forward with optimism.  

There is not one day that I don’t think about my dad. And even though he is no longer here with me to share another joke or to let me cry on his shoulder, I continue to learn from him every day. Thank you, Dad.

“No pain that we suffer, no trial that we experience is wasted. It ministers to our education, to the development of such qualities as patience, faith, fortitude and humility. All that we suffer and all that we endure, especially when we endure it patiently, builds up our characters, purifies our hearts, expands our souls, and makes us more tender and charitable, more worthy to be called the children of God …" Spencer W. Kimball

(And thank you so much for reading. There is something completely vulnerable about sharing and writing about a trial we've passed through. Although difficult, my hope is that I have helped maybe even one person to persevere through the trial of losing a loved one a little longer and to push forward with a little more faith and optimism).