Hit Me With Your Best Shot

     Whenever I read some sort of New Years post during the last week of December, it seems that the writer is always talking about what they want to IMPROVE for the coming year. Things like keeping up a gym routine (or actually starting one), eating well (or better), or having more fun at work (as though that’s actually possible…)

     And I get that. People like the positivity. But I’m not going to say that shit, because to me that’s all it is; if there’s anything 2013 taught me it’s that you can never be prepared for what’s going to happen (good luck keeping up that gym routine when you break your leg..) The reality is you probably won’t accomplish most of what you aim for, and that’s okay; the best you can do is turn that optimism to the unknown the New Year will inevitably throw at you.

    For me, this last year was chaotic, to say the least. I started off by finding out I was pregnant with identical twins, something that hadn’t been in my plan for years, if ever. I had 20 weeks of morning sickness that carried over to the day I got married. And on that topic, I had the worst wedding, on the coldest day, during which I cried twice, threw up three times, and wished it was over more often than I can count. I had a honeymoon which I spent mostly in bed (asleep) or clutching the toilet bowl instead of my new husband. I had an incredibly painful pregnancy due to two babies fighting for room in my womb, and I lived in an under-construction hospital for nearly a month. I had an unplanned emergency caesarean section which has left me with still frequent pain, and an abdomen I can’t feel. I underwent the most torturous, indescribable heartbreak when I had to come home without my babies. I spent 100 terrible days in the NICU, genuinely convinced they would never let me take my girls home. I passed too many days by wrapped in blankets, never wanting to ever get up again.
   
     2013 was also the year that, regardless of temperature and pregnancy hormones, I got to marry my best friend; walking down the aisle and staring into his eyes on stage is a memory I will treasure forever. This was the year I found out I was carrying identical twins, something I’d hoped for and dreamed of since I was little. My baby bump made me feel like a goddess, more beautiful than I ever have before (or probably ever will again). Lots of relaxing and involuntary hospital bed rest meant I was able to read 17 amazing novels that I’d been eyeing but skipping for years. My C-section, recovery, and NICU experience pushed my limits, and gave me an incredible challenge that I chose to tackle with hungry enthusiasm; I will be forever thankful for that, because it forced me to recall a powerful inner strength and elect optimism over sadness and defeat. And, this was also the year that I was finally gifted with my two beautiful, wonderful, precious daughters, who make every minute of my life better simply by existing. They have injected such a glorious colour into what I see now was once simply grey, and for the first time I feel like I have found who I was meant to be and meant to do, not just as a mom but as myself.

    2013 may have been the hardest year, but it was also easily the BEST YEAR OF MY LIFE! And I would never take back a moment of it.

     So, the way I see it, 2014 can throw whatever shit at me it’s in the mood for… what will come will come and I will face it when it does.

Double the Trouble, Twice the Joy

 

So, way back over the summer when my husband and I were still living at the hospital waiting for our twins to be born, a friend of my mom's who also happens to be a professional photographer very generously offered to take pictures of the girls for us once they had arrived. And so finally, after a long NICU stay, last week she came by our place and captured these beautiful moments of our little family; we're so happy to have them!

 

( You can find our WONDERFUL photographer at jenniferfoik.com )

 

 

 

 

 

 Scarlett in green, Olivia in white

 

my husband had these prints done for me for my birthday- when the girls were a month old

The Selfish Mom

Lately, I’ve become a bit of a lazy slug.

That’s the truth of it: while normally I eat well, read well, limit my TV viewing to sports and the news, and exercise with pleasure, the past week it’s been completely the opposite. While I’ve still managed to get out every evening for my run, I’ve found little joy in doing so, and have been moving along my route as though I’ve got an open parachute strapped to my back. And then there’s the fact that instead of eating my favourite healthy foods, this week I let an entire bag of apples go soft in the fridge while I overdosed on trail mix (my ass is clear evidence that it is not as much of a healthy snacking alternative as one might think). And don’t even get me started on setting up Netflix in my bedroom so I could watch The Vampire Diaries in bed. I feel like I’m experiencing that new relationship phenomenon where instead of living your life you find yourself in a state of semi-hibernation with your partner, where you both spend most nights snuggled under a blanket in front of the television, wrapped up together and building a layer of fat for the winter through shared bowls of popcorn.

So tonight as I dragged my paving stone feet along the sidewalk, panting like a shot bear and wondering how the run that I’ve been doing for years suddenly became so damn hard, it occurred to me: maybe it wasn’t the workout that was sapping my energy, but rather my mental and emotional state.

You see, after spending 99 days in a combined hospital and NICU stay, waiting with a starving heart for my daughters to come home, one can’t help but let things go a bit when the day finally arrives. I’d spent my 3.5 weeks on bed rest reading and writing voraciously to distract myself, and I’d spent the 2.5 months while my girls were in intensive care working out like a madwoman to give myself the illusion of control over my life; now that the battle is over, my inner warrior is ready for a nice long (fat) rest. But that’s a problem; just as dropping your independent life for a new boyfriend isn’t okay, neither is doing the same thing for your children. I’m sorry, maybe some think that championing selfishness makes me a bad mother, but I stand by my point: you had a life before you had children, and at some point you have to get back to it. I know there are lots who would disagree with me on that; I’ve been the recipient of many a disdainful stare by mothers at the hospital or baby stores who are in sweatpants with unwashed hair and look down on me because I’m not, as though because I managed to find my way into the shower and a pair of jeans I must somehow be less of a parent than they are. It’s this oft-held belief in the competitive mothering world that the best moms are the ones who give everything, including their body and happiness and every second of free time to their children; we’ve all seen the e-cards with some variation of ‘being a mom means no sleep and puke-matted hair but it’s worth it!’ Pop up on our newsfeed. But I disagree with that ideology, in a very big way.

See, while over the past 3 months and especially the past week I’ve spent my fair share of time awake at 3am, covered in spit-up and wondering if I should spray myself down with Febreze before leaving the house so to not offend people, I don’t wear that like a badge of honour. On the contrary, while motherhood will always require a large degree of self-sacrifice, I still think the best moms are the ones who prioritize themselves as well; in doing so not only do they make themselves happier and therefore better parents, but they also teach their children how to have a steady, balanced life and that’s much more important than being there to soothe every single cry.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying it’s even remotely easy to ignore a fussing baby or to pick up a book rather than your child, all I’m saying is that sometimes it’s just as necessary. It can be ridiculously, dangerously easy to lose yourself in parenthood, and much harder to push yourself in the opposite direction. Going shopping with friends, getting a haircut, reading a book, or having a date with your partner minus your children can leave you with the most awful guilt, but I’ve realized this week that it’s so incredibly important so as to retain an identity outside of “mom”. Most of all, I’ve learned that, just as in any passionate relationship, it’s easy to become codependent with your children and no matter who it’s with codependence is never healthy.

So, I have to get back into my routine. Stop putting down my book because my twins seem so much more interesting, stop spending my entire run thinking about them and bolting into the house without stretching afterwards (because feeling like you’ve been run over by a truck the next morning really doesn’t make exercising easier), and most of all resume eating foods that give me energy, not things that make me feel like passing out facedown in my pillow covered in crumbs. And seriously, there have to be better ways to direct my attention than obsessively viewing the lives of feuding teen vampires, amiright?!

Besides, whenever I feel that creeping guilt that strikes me as I put on my sneakers to go for a run, I have to remind myself that while I might think I’m hurting my children by leaving for an hour, I’ll hurt them infinitely more if I squash them with one of my fat rolls that’s a result of never leaving the house and binging on frozen pizza.

...A little lesson from life's imperfections.

Riding the Rollercoaster

For the past month at least I’ve been trying to find a way to write about my experience of having children in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit. And despite the repeated efforts (and believe me, there have been many) the words have struggled to come. I don’t know how to properly describe the intense fear and lack of control; the bells that ring in different tones every minute to indicate when a baby has stopped breathing, or has an irregular heartbeat, or no pulse; the completely deficient privacy and intimacy; the multiple names and faces of doctors and nurses you struggle to memorize and only really remember based on how they treat your babies; the endless discussions about oxygen levels, anemia, drops or gains in weight, sleeping patterns, feeding patterns, diaper patterns; the stipulations and expectations and let-downs and meltdowns when things don’t progress the way you’d hoped; the hands rubbed raw by endless washing and sanitizing every time you touch your own child; the knowledge that a cough or sore throat could separate you from them for days; the minutes spent holding them and kissing them far surpassed by the hours spent simply staring with your hands behind your back. 

Maybe that sums it up. But not really; I’ve heard it time and time again by others who’ve survived the NICU rollercoaster: no one will ever understand your experience except those who have gone through it themselves. And I’m okay with that; I wouldn’t wish it on any new parents. But I do wish our girls were out of the hospital. Because as it is, like any new mom I’m severely sleep deprived… nights are spent sitting in bed reading or watching Netflix, trying to shut off my spinning brain that pulses with maternal hormones insisting that instead of sleeping I should be holding and feeding my children. And so I oblige with my eyes, but my arms remain empty. 

And on top of these struggles, there have been a lot of unnecessary things that have made us angry too which I’ve had a hard time articulating; I’m sure a large part of it is just postpartum emotion (at least on my part) but I did have a few moments where I worried I’d strangle a doctor who was sticking a needle in one of my howling daughters. Or where I cried and kicked things because I walked in and heard the nurses talking about Facebook one day when they were supposed to be transferring my daughters into a crib (honestly, when you’ve been waiting 6 weeks for that moment having to wait even a minute longer seems impossible). But it’s not all irrational; my husband nearly snapped one night as he watched a nurse hold our smallest daughter carelessly, flinging her around without supporting her head. And then there are the infuriating people who express impatience at not having seen the babies yet, regardless of the fact that they haven’t even reached full-term gestational age; worse are those who demand or expect a relationship with our girls despite not having one with us. 

But all complaints aside, we’ve gained so much through this too. We’ve learned patience, which for me was a huge struggle. We’ve learned how to celebrate the little victories, like every time we manage to feed the babies through a bottle or breast rather than their nasal tube. We’ve learned how to use our time well; I’ve finished 17 books and my husband has finished 5, along with online course upgrades while we’ve been in the hospital. We’ve learned how to have a sense of humor about fairly un-funny things.  We’ve learned how to sleep in chairs, under bright lights, in shifts. We’ve learned how to change explosive diapers. And we’ve learned how to be strong with each other, to lean on each other, and to protect ourselves and our children from what we find to be undesirable, which has been a great lesson. 

And thankfully, most of the bad in this will all be over soon. Very soon actually; at the rate our daughters are progressing they could be home in 3 weeks, and given that we’ve been in the hospital now since June 24^th, that’s hardly any time at all. And even though I feel so angry and sad sometimes, I do believe that everything happens for a reason, and that this is simply a challenge given to us to make us stronger and to show us that as a family we can handle anything. Everything aside, there is real joy in that. 

In spite of what have felt like innumerable trials, our daughters really are healthy and our spirits haven’t been crushed; on the contrary, happiness seems to ooze through the cracks and bubble up determinedly every time one of our girls reaches a milestone, or graces us with open eyes and a rare smile. And I have to say that in those moments, I feel like the luckiest person in the world.

...Despite all the bullshit, that is something to be thankful for.

Our Birth Story

On July 15^th, at 1:27 and 1:28 in the morning our beautiful twin girls were born, entirely unexpectedly.

Maybe it shouldn’t have been unexpected; when you’re in the hospital for an incompetent cervix and pre-term labour you should be mentally preparing yourself for the fact that your babies could come at any time. I, however, was in a bit of denial. I felt completely healthy, and had no symptoms of labour, to the point that besides daily injections and weekly ultrasounds the doctors were barely monitoring me anymore; given this, it was hard not to feel like the hospital bedrest I’d been prescribed was entirely unnecessary.

But, clearly it wasn’t.

The weekend before the girls were born started off like any other weekend at the hospital; my husband and I did a lot of crosswords, reading, and movie watching, excited to know that we were slowly approaching 27 weeks gestation, which ever since we’d found out about my condition had been our goal to reach. Of course, by this point I was so selfishly annoyed with my hospital stay that I was convinced the babies were going to stay in until 37 or 38 weeks and I would eventually have to be induced to get them out (the ultimate irony), so 27 weeks no longer felt as remarkable to me. But late on the night of the 13^th to my surprise I started having minor contractions that went for hours, keeping us awake and strapped to a machine until 4am the next morning and introducing me to a host of different drugs intended to stop labour. Fortunately, they worked, and I found myself still remarkably unconcerned.

So when Sunday came around I didn’t for a second consider that I might go into labour again that night; my mom and two brothers came for a visit that made me laugh so hard my stomach began hurting (the first contractions) to the point that I joked to my brother that he’d put me into early labour. Little did we know how right I was! As the hours progressed the pain became worse, the contractions became closer together, and after a walk that only made them more consistent I finally decided to page a nurse.

After a quick examination, nurses and the obstetrician filled my small room with increasing looks of panic on their faces, an expression I saw mirrored on my husband’s.

“Should I call your mom?” He asked, eyebrows creasing with anxiety.

“No no,” I insisted dismissively. “Nothing is going to happen, and besides, she works in the morning. Let her sleep!” Despite the environment around me, I didn’t for a second actually believe that our girls would be born that night; I could still feel them kicking and rolling happily in my belly, and as I’d read that babies in labour usually become still, I wasn’t worried. I think I was also still in denial; at no point had I actually begun preparing myself for this situation.

But, unlike on the previous evening, that night things progressed very quickly. After another round of medications and what they call “rescue steroids”, a second dose of what I’d already received my first week at the hospital, the obstetrician informed us that I’d dilated over 3cm in under an hour and that we were losing the battle to stop labour.

“We’re going to deliver RIGHT NOW.” He said suddenly, before running out of the room to fetch an anesthesiologist and other nurses to perform the necessary surgery: an emergency c-section, as my babies were in the completely wrong position to be delivered naturally.  In what seemed like minutes I had an IV in my arm, a gown and cap on, and was being wheeled to the operating room by my sweating husband, without a moment to even call any one of our family members and let them know what was happening. And yet still, I wasn’t worried. A nurse patted my shoulder and asked how I was feeling.

“Excited!” I remember saying with a smile. In the last hour we’d crossed over 12am and into July 15^th, 27 weeks gestation on the dot. Soon, they were administering a spinal block (which, if you’ve never had one, was an incredibly cool feeling.) And I was laying down with my husband next to me, ready for the operation. Of course, despite all the needles I’d faced easily for countless drugs and blood tests over the past few weeks, I found myself near faint and overwhelmingly nauseas after the one inserted into my spine in the operating room, and I ended up throwing up all over myself 3 times before a nurse even noticed what was going on. Not that it really mattered; I find that when you’re in the hospital most dignity tends to fly out the window and by this point I was relatively unfazed by a face coated in vomit.

The surgery was quick, painless, and rather remarkable; the best way I can describe it is that it feels like you’re a doll being stuffed. Essentially you get knocked around a lot and you feel your insides being pummelled as though being put together in a factory, and before you know it they’re cleaning up and telling you it’s all done. Mostly my husband and I just stared at each other and smiled like idiots, completely in shock and awe that it was happening. The best part though was a nurse approaching to tell us that our girls were indeed girls, were incredibly healthy, and had come out of the womb kicking and trying to cry which is ridiculously impressive for 27 week preemies. The worst part though was the itching; a side-effect of the spinal block, I found myself scratching my face raw in the recovery room until the nurses covered me in cold cloths and snapped that scratching only made it worse (which hardly deterred me).

And just like that, we went from a family of two to a family of 4; our little Scarlett Elizabeth and Olivia Lynn came into the world heavy and happy (or at least as much as preemies can be) and our lives changed forever. A few hours after surgery and after the girls had been stabilized my husband was able to go and visit them in the NICU, returning to me with a phone full of pictures and eyes full of tears; for hours afterwards we lay together in my bed and stared in wonder at the two perfect little people we’d created, much too excited for sleep.

And I have to say, despite these circumstances, despite how stressful it is having premature babies living an hour away from me inside incubators, and how painful c-section recovery is, and how sad it makes us every time we have to leave them or think about the fact that it will be months before they’re home with us, it’s all worth it, and we feel incredibly incredibly blessed.  The girls are no longer on a ventilator, are feeding well, and yesterday we were able to hold them for the first time, an insanely magical experience precipitated by the fact that they’re progressing extremely well and are developing way ahead of what had initially been expected.

So while things may be uncertain right now, what I do know is that one day we will be able to bring Scarlett and Olivia home with us and they will be normal, healthy children, and that’s more than enough for me. The past year has been very difficult for us, and this pregnancy was no exception, but we’ve been rewarded with the most amazing gift of beautiful identical twin girls (who turned a week old today!) and because of that I wouldn’t change a thing.

Hospital Life

     Well, I've survived my first two weeks at the hospital.

     Okay, I'm cheating a little; I was admitted two Mondays ago, so technically it hasn't been a full fortnight, but I'm taking my successes where I can get them these days.

     All-in-all, hospital life isn't terrible. I have my own private room with big windows, storage, and a nice bathroom and shower. I get a fair amount of privacy, besides the odd nurse popping in to give me pills or a shot, and the bed isn't as awful as I'd expected it to be (though I won't go so far as to call it comfortable). The food isn't the best, but it's edible, and occasionally there are decent surprises like this morning's cinnamon french toast, a vast improvement from yesterday's single piece of untoasted bread.

     I think the hardest part of being here is exactly what I'd thought it would be: living away from home. I miss my cat, I miss my dog even more, and I miss my husband, even though 5 days out of the week he's right here next to me. Normally at the end of the night if we were at home we'd cuddle up together in our cozy bed, feet touching like they have every night since we first laid together, his warm body wrapped around mine in the most soothing way. I'm used to his occasional shifts in sleep, his tired scent, and his soft hands that always flicker against mine in the darkness when I find myself tossing against insomnia. Here at the hospital though he has to sleep away from me, on a cot bed low to the ground that made me cry our first evening here when I saw it and realized we couldn't touch. We've rectified the problem slightly now by pulling his bed next to mine while he slings his leg up on my mattress, but obviously it's nothing compared to the comfortable situation we had back in Chilliwack.

     I've tried to make it as homey as possible here of course; pictures of my family, my favourite blankets, and a vast collection of books litter the room. But while I'm adjusting, it still doesn't serve to completely ease the homesickness I feel in my stomach whenever I look out the window and realize that I'm so close yet so far from where my heart is.

     Visitors help though, and of those I've had plenty! My mom and brother have come a few times bearing novels and treats, my best friends stopped by with a seemingly never-ending supply of food and stories, my sister and brother-in-law appeared in possession of a laptop loaded with music and DVD's, and my very favourite aunt and uncle-in-law surprised us last Sunday with much-needed hugs and cookies for the afternoon.

     And it was all of that that made me really want to write this blog post: to lament the negative experiences, but then to shake them off and express what I'm grateful for. Because honestly, while I am by no means enjoying staying in the hospital, things could be so, so much worse and I have to count my blessings when they come. All month long I've been reading novels from India, Africa, and beyond, placed now and centuries ago, in which pregnant women squat in the grass to have their babies before continuing work, or hemorrhage during labour, or lose their infants due to inadequate care or abuse; in comparison to this, being away from home for the summer is a small price to pay for mine and my girls' health and well-being.

     So here it is... The things I'm thankful for:

     1. I'm thankful for my loving, giving, selfless husband who is sacrificing not only his own time and life at home, but many comforts as well to be here to support me. He gets me anything I need whenever I need it, combats my hormonal fluctuations with a smile, and never fails to find a way to make me laugh every single day regardless of what's going on here.

     2. I'm thankful for our amazing family and friends from whom we've received endless amounts of love and sustenance... From the minute we found out what was happening and made it public we've had phone calls, e-mails, Facebook messages, and well-wishes from so many that we know including old friends and faraway relatives of mine who I haven't seen in years. This experience has really taught us to recognize who is important in our life and deserves a place in it and who simply doesn't. It's very true that you never see the reality of people's character until you're struggling; that's when the good ones step forward (and the not-so-good ones go into hiding) and we've been blessed with having many, many good ones around us during this difficult time.

     3. I'm thankful for no stretch marks! Okay, I know that this seems a rather vain and irrelevant thing to be thankful for, but when I found out I was having twins it became a big fear of mine. However, up until this point (knock on wood!) My skin remains unblemished, and given the amount of strangers looking at my belly every day it's a nice little victory. I also haven't had any other awkward pregnancy complications like enormous weight gain or acne thus far, so besides sometimes thinking that I resemble a planet with limbs I'm feeling pretty good.

     4. I'm thankful that, despite the emotional effect staying here occasionally has on me, my girls are still flourishing. Their growth is excellent, they're incredibly active (and enjoy kicking each other in the face as the ultrasounds have shown) and don't seem to be suffering from any of the developmental complications that can plague a twin pregnancy like ours. For that, we are very lucky.

     5. I'm thankful that my sister didn't clear the music off of her laptop before she brought it to me here, as in attempting to play Kanye's "Yeezus" I discovered a file full of The Eagles, Bob Marley, Justin Timberlake, Elvis, Tom Petty, and more, so I'm currently having a solo (bed-ridden) dance party in my hospital room and loving life.

     6. And lastly, I'm thankful that I live in Canada! Because if this was the U.S.A. we'd owe a ridiculous amount in medical bills right now! I really should have found a way to celebrate Canada Day last weekend... I think my country deserves a little recognition.

:)

Complications

Lately things have gotten a little… complicated.

I guess that’s the simplest way to put it, without sounding overdramatic.

Up until this point, my pregnancy has been humming along without complications; at 22.5 weeks I’ve gained a minimal 9lbs, I’ve successfully weaned myself off of my morning sickness pills, and every day I can feel my twin girls rolling and kicking in my belly.

I’m incredibly healthy, the doctor, obstetrician, and specialists have said. I should be proud. My babies are incredibly healthy too, weighing in at 1lb 4oz; more than what one would expect from twins at this stage.

The only thing to worry about, I’ve been told, is something called TTTS, or Twin-To-Twin-Transfusion Syndrome, a condition where one fetus takes more blood from the other, causing in itself swelling and heart attack, and in the other lack of development and jaundice. And for both, sometimes death. However, as long as their growth is monitored carefully, doctors can catch this when/if it happens and do things to delay or stop it before fatality occurs.

What no one did prepare me for was being told I have an incompetent cervix. Why should I? Sure, it’s more common with multiples, but I’m 22 and in excellent physical condition especially for someone carrying twins. I've never had a miscarriage, or an abortion, or any other physical issues that might indicate this would be a problem. So why me? Upon hearing the news you find yourself pouring over everything you’ve said and done in your pregnancy up until this point. Is it my fault? Did I do something to cause my cervix to open up almost completely, with only 0.75 of a centimeter keeping my babies in the womb? Sometimes it just happens, the doctor said. The pressure of two babies on the cervix can force it to open and kickstart pre-term labour, and mine apparently has decided to do so before I’ve crossed the “24 week” survival threshold. Doctors won’t even attempt to resuscitate a baby born before 24 weeks, he continued, as their organs won’t be developed enough at that point to sustain life.

So, here I am. On bedrest until Monday when the hospital can admit me indefinitely and start me on a round of steroids intended to speed up my babies’ growth and stop my body from pushing them out before they're ready.

“So they’ll definitely be born prematurely… what do you think, around like 30 weeks?” I’d asked, naively. Or maybe hopefully.

The doctor smiled in a sad little way. “I would love to get you to 30 weeks.” He replied simply, the implication clear enough.

Forum after forum that I poured over, results that popped up from my “incompetent cervix twins” Google search, told me that all wasn’t lost. Some women had had their babies at 25 weeks without fatality, and others were taken off of bedrest at 30 and carried their twins to full term. It’s almost impossible to predict what will happen, so we have to take it one day at a time. This is what I tell myself.

But the days feel long already. And two weeks feels even longer.

At our ultrasound before the bad news, we watched our babies tumble and flap their fingers. One even yawned, stuck her tongue out, rubbed her eyes and smiled at us, something the doctor quickly snapped a picture of. They are so alive, so healthy, so content with their condition. It’s impossible for me to think of them any other way.

So I won’t.

I will picture my girls, and the day we get to hold them, and the later day when we take them home. And I will tackle this bedrest as aggressively as I tackled having a healthy pregnancy before this.

They’re fighters. They came into existence through impossible circumstances, survived a procedure before we knew they were there that should have caused a miscarriage, and have managed to put on more weight than you would expect of identical twin girls sharing a placenta. After everything they’ve overcome I refuse to believe that it will be something as small as this that takes them from us.

This is just another hurdle, and we will tackle it together.

After all, what other choice do we have?

Dear Babies

I wrote this letter to my future daughters last night, in response to an extremely homophobic Facebook status one of my husbands (now former) Facebook friends had updated about the upcoming Vancouver gay pride parade. I was angered and disgusted by the idiocy of such a status, so I thought I'd let my daughters know how their parents feel about homophobia and those who practice it. 

Dear babies,

Something you will discover when you come into this world is that it is full of unhappy, critical, hateful people. Since the beginning of time there has been judgment and oppression, racism, anti-Semitism, and other forms of hate boiling in the spirit of humanity; in many ways being hateful is a part of the human condition, and depending on what century or decade you find yourself in you will always discover some form of it. The version we seem to be facing most prevalently in our society today happens to be homophobia: the fear, hate, inequality, and in some countries capital punishment-inducing intolerance of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people.

And this is unacceptable, and has no place in the lives of civilized, intelligent people. In my short life I have heard GLBT people described as disgusting, immoral, evil, an abomination, and even predators, aggressively out to threaten and corrupt the innocent.  They are painted as something to truly be afraid of, and that we need to protect ourselves and our children from.

One day babies, when you’re old enough to understand it, you will learn about slavery, lynchings, pogroms, internment camps, and the Holocaust. One day, when you do, your heart and soul will ache for the suffering of the oppressed, and the victims of such horrors.  And one day, I hope you will realize that homophobia is absolutely no different than the hate that has fuelled these many dark marks on our human history.

And when you do babies, I hope you will realize to your very core that you want no part of it, and will in fact desire to actively fight against this ignorance. And because of this, not only will you be intolerant of hate, but you will also be brave enough to be intolerant of hateful people and you will keep them, and their poison, out of your lives.

I heard a quote once that said “the darkest places in Hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis”. And babies, I believe this completely; do not be neutral my dears, and do not ever be afraid to stand against hate and oppression or those who promote it. Because when it comes to being GLBT, the only disgusting thing about it is the amount of hate shown by so-called civilized people towards it. And while they may say they base their judgment on the words of the Bible, I firmly believe that if there IS a God (and I’ll leave that up to you to decide) He does not reserve a seat in Heaven for those who practice such vile treatment of their fellow human beings.

If there is anything I can teach you babies, it is to always practice love, compassion, forgiveness, and tolerance towards others, and to focus more energy on your own decisions rather than the personal choices of those around you. Live, and let live.

Love will open your heart and allow you to learn and grow in untainted ways… Hate will make you bitter and cynical and corrupted and miserable. And you, my darlings, are far too good for that.

Love Mama