Comedian

(This was from a month ago, when Nate had been gone for several weeks.)

Last night I was the comedian.  I totally brought the house down.  Mine was a slapstick act involving a mischievous green spiky ball and my efforts to restrain it.  The girls sat on either end of the table, Eden ensconced in her seat of choice, the Bumbo, and Lucy strapped into the booster seat with a tray.  It was basically a juggling act, but I kept dropping the ball and chasing it, or throwing it over my head, or tumbling with it on the floor, complete with silly faces and sound effects.  The girls were totally overcome with hilarity.
I never thought of myself as a funny person.  I never thought of myself as particularly outgoing, and definitely not the type to be crazy and wild.  Spontaneity and silliness were not my trademarks; dignity and reserve were much more my style. I was much more comfortable with understated than over-the-top.

Being a mom brings out every side of me - the good, the wonderful, the bad, the awful, and the downright, flat-out silly.  And I love it.  There is nothing more delightful than pure laughter rippling freely from my sweet little daughters' lips.  I don't care how silly, undignified, or crazy I have to be - its worth it. :)

Lots of Random Pictures from the last couple of months

Super-Nana!  Eden LOVED all the adventures that Nana was willing to include her in, like hauling wood, picking citrus fruit from a neighbor, visiting the chickens or the horses or the dogs, working in the garden plot, or just going for adventures.  I was so thankful!

Walking with cousin Chloe.

Lucy, not an hour old.  In my parent's kitchen, in Papa's arms.

Another snuggle time with Papa. It warms my heart to see my children as the recipients of my parents love and care.

Lucy, napping with Aunt Brynne.  Less than 2 weeks old.

I love the delight on my mom's face! A precious, though squished, moment, with four cousins and their Nana.

Lucy looks a little skeptical.

Another adventure with cousin Chloe!

Sisters!

Home in Alaska...Eden is going through cousin withdrawals and insists on including Lucy in her play.  She clearly indicated where I was to put each one of the elements of the above picture.

I just love this one!

Eden with homemade tub paints.  She loved it, and kept saying, "Rainbow! Rainbow!" as she smeared and glopped.

Out for a walk with her baby sometime in April.  She's making the baby wave "hello!"  The hat and socks were her additions to make sure baby Peter was warm enough outside. 

Babywearing - its never too early to learn!

"Yeah...my sister has a thing for hats... At least she didn't cover my eyes this time!"

Applesauce on the door sill on a lovely May day.

Where Eden gets her ideas about babywearing. :)

Eden Update

Our little girl is getting so big!

Lucy - Eden loves her little sister.  She calls her "Lu-Lu" (and is the only person allowed to do so!;) and when she's feeling super affectionate will upgrade it to "Lulu-Baba" or "Lulu-beebee," which I think is her version of "baby Lucy."  Sometimes its even just "Lu-Ba."  Eden is always excited to find Lucy lying in some accessible place - the floor, the couch, the jumper - and snuggles right up to her, laying her head on Lucy's chest much as she does with Nate and me.  Of course that pretty much squashes Lucy, but she's a good sport about it! She's also discovered that its hilarious to stick her finger as far as she can in Lucy's throat and watch/hear/feel her reaction.  I can pretty much guess exactly what she's doing when I here a certain delighted and uncontrollable giggling coming from around the corner.
Eden is very much a girl when it comes to colors, pink and purple being her definite favorites.  If there's a choice, those are the winners, whether in food, clothes, flowers, or toys.  She also knows green, blue, black and white sometimes, orange, and yellow.
Hats are required for any outfit to be complete.
Back in December, I brought home a DVD of The Nutcracker from the library.  I didn't know how she would react, but it turned out that she loved it and would watch it for as long as I would let her.  She would dance and twirl and fall down, only to get up and watch and dance again.  When we visited California, she learned a lot more about dancing from her aunts and her three year old cousin, and her passion for the Nutcracker continued.  These days she asks for the music three or four (or ten!) times a day, always with the same urgency and enthusiasm, and her dancing now includes jumping, twirls without falling down, spinning (which does result in falling down), and all sorts of creative and dramatic flourishes and kicks.  She'll dance with her dollies, with some little paper bears I cut out for her, with Mama or Daddy, or by herself.  She wishes Lucy would get up and dance with her - she'll grab her hand and pull up on it, exclaiming, "Up! Up!" - but that won't be happening for a while.
Speaking of the Nutcracker, one of the things she learned from her cousin was that the Nutcracker died at one point in the ballet.  So for nearly a month, everything "died."  Daddy, Mama, dollies, Lucy, Eden herself...she's very drawn to the dramatic and emotionally intense side of life. We tried to derail that obsession by telling her he didn't die, he just got broken.  So now everything is "broke."
Eden loves to read!  She wakes up and the first word out of her mouth is, "Eat!"  If we don't respond appropriately, she'll make sure we got the message by signing eat, first on herself, and then on us!  When we get downstairs, however, she switches from "Eat!" to "Read!"  She loves Curious George, a series of old Disney books my mom gave us, and Beatrice Potter's Jeremy Fisher, but she's pretty much an omnivore.  Last night I found her sitting on her blanket, poring over a massage manual.  It amazes me how much she comprehends of the spoken word.  She's only just beginning to be very verbal, but her understanding of conversations and oral storytelling is astounding.
We started Eden with elimination communication from the time she was about two weeks old and went through all the ups and downs of that.  By ten months she would tell us when she had to poop, and she did all her poops in the potty (except the occasional miss) and I must say, that has been SO nice.  We pretty much gave up on catching the pee though.  I thought I'd have her potty trained before Lucy, and then before we came back to Alaska, but that didn't happen.  So we got down to business a few weeks ago, and really focused.  For three days I changed many wet panties, pants, skirts, and tights, and mopped/soaked up numerous puddles.  I gave up.  I decided she must not be ready, and resigned myself to putting her back in diapers.  But that night she woke up at 4:30 am, bolted out of bed and ran to to potty and peed.  And every twenty minutes, for the rest of the night, wanted to get up and go potty.  I was so over it!  But we've progressed in our potty training journey from that day, and now she's in panties, except for naptime and bedtimes. (That's been its own struggle. She would ask to go potty at least 5 times every time we put her to sleep, and it was seriously delaying the process.  We finally came down to declaring, "If you're wearing panties, you pee in the potty.  If you're wearing a diaper, you pee in your diaper."  Maybe it will backfire when we want to get her out of diapers for good, but for now its the only way to get her to relax and go to sleep.)
Some other concepts and words she's been experimenting with  include "NO!" "Happy!" and "Cranky." When she's being cranky, we ask her if she wants to go to the cranky corner, a little alcove at the end of our entry hall. This is not framed as a punishment or a time out, just as a place to go to get yourself under control. She usually says yes, takes herself over there, stands there for a few seconds, and then comes out saying, "Happy!" It melts my heart, though, when she comes up to me, out of the blue, and tells me she's happy.  That is what I want for her!

Oh yes! She calls herself "Eenie," and she says oopsies, "eepoo!"

One more thing.  This update is about three months old! Eepoo! :) She has grown and changed so much that I need to do a whole new edition already.  I didn't want to lose this, though.

Mother of Two

Somehow, I never thought it would be such a huge transition, going from one child to two.  I've done kids before!  Multiple kids, of all ages!  Why would adding a new baby to my so-far only child be so different, so  challenging, so down-right HARD?

(Okay, I didn't actually think that.  I just didn't really think about it at all.)

It was a challenge from the first weeks of pregnancy to adjust to parenting Eden under the simultaneous demands of morning sickness, milk decreasing, girth increasing, energy waxing and waning (but mostly waning), and all the changes that come with the expectant state.  I learned a lot about slowing down and allowing or even asking for help as I thought I needed it.  Thankfully, Eden was mostly happy and ready to become more independent, bit by bit.  

But when Lucy was born...

One night, when Lucy was just a few days old, Eden woke up crying.  I was in bed, next to the wall, with Lucy, and we had already spent most of the night wrestling with repeated newborn poopy diapers and the process of establishing breastfeeding.  Nate, sleeping to the outside, got up to comfort Eden and help her go back to sleep.  Except that she wouldn't.  She was still getting over a nasty cold, and all she wanted was her mama.  All I wanted was to go to her and make it all better, but Lucy had just latched on and was nursing avidly.  I knew Eden was safe in her loving daddy's patient (if somewhat exasperated) arms, and that I needed to lay still and let my body heal, as well as take care of Lucy, but my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my body!  It was so hard to not be able to be there for her!  (And I will ever be grateful to my husband for dealing so patiently with all of us that night and not just leaving her to cry it out.  I don't think I could have handled that!)

It was such a hard thing for me to learn and be okay with the fact that I could no longer give my all to my one child, because now I had two children to give my all to.  And the logical extension of that realization is that each child, therefore, gets less.  And I was not okay with that!  The depth of desire I have for my children to be blessed and cared for is beyond what I could have comprehended before they came into my life.  It is hard to back up, let go, and trust, when all I want to do is make it all right for them!  In this light, I can understand better some people's decision to limit the number of their children in order to provide more, be there more fully, or in any way, make their lives better.

Except...
I am the fifth of eleven children.
I do not feel deprived, neglected, or like my life was in any way worse for having ten siblings.
I am very glad that my parents did not stop before I was born, and just as glad that they did not stop after I was born!  I treasure each one of my siblings, and each has contributed so much to my growth, my development, and the quality of my life.
I love and admire my mother and my father; I never doubted their love for, and devotion to, me, and to all of my brothers and sisters.  I knew they were sacrificing and doing a hard work in inviting all of us to their family, and I was so glad they were willing to!
I do not consider myself to have received "less" of anything, really, due to multiple siblings.  Only more.

So I am learning to trust that Heavenly Father will fill in the gaps, and that even as my capabilities are stretched to beyond their limit, His glorious grace will pour through the cracks into my children's lives.

(And yes, as the weeks pass, we are settling into our rhythm together and finding ease once again.  As a wise man once said (and I can't remember who it was), "That which we persist in doing becomes easier to do - not that the nature of the thing has changed, but our capacity to do it has increased." Or something like that.  But I know that much of that ease is coming as I learn to more fully rely on Heavenly Father as a mother of two.)

Looking Up, Not Down

Oh, My, Goodness.  It is so easy to look down.  It is so easy to feel the weight of my “burdens” and sag beneath the load that is mine.  It does me much good to get a little perspective now and then – that's why I love to read. 

            In the hormonal maelstrom of the early postpartum weeks, missing my newly-returned-to-Alaska husband, trying to balance the needs and demands of my now two children, and struggling with guilt and resentment at my somewhat incapacitated state of recovery and the service that required others to give, I found myself definitely looking down. 

            And then I had a few moments when both girls were asleep, and I was able to get online.  I checked emails and facebook, of course, and did a few more things before heading over for the first time in a few months to one of my favorite blogs.  I’ve been randomly following The Blessing of Verity for over a year now, and the chronicles that Susanna Musser has kept of her family and her own heart never fail to uplift me.  But not in a high-flown, fancy, head in the clouds way.  Oh, no.  This is very much a down to earth, practical application, day to day life sort of blog.

            Anyway, here is this mother of eleven, simultaneously expecting an twelfth baby and thirteenth child (older, with extreme special needs) by adoption, homeschooling and raising her children to love and serve one another, already dealing with the special needs of her youngest daughter, born with Down syndrome, and another daughter, adopted not that long ago, who also has Down syndrome as well as special needs resulting from her life pre-adoption.  Whew.  It wears me out just to type all that!  Yet she exudes a spirit of faith, love, determination, and worship.  I know that what is communicated through a blog is just a snippet of life, a little window through a wall, but when those snippets add up to a consistent whole, when each little window shows a slightly different, but very congruent, piece of a picture, I take it as a good sign that it's a true picture.  Besides, it’s just too much work to be fictional, or dishonest, on your blog when you have so much else to do! J

            She’s an inspiration to me.  She reminds me of where my focus ought to be.  She helps me feel new gratitude for my blessings, my challenges, and my Savior.  She shows me how to live with grace, and in reading her words, I find that much needed perspective on my own life.  She helps me to remember, as President Monson is quoted to have said,  to “look up!  It is better to look up than to look down!”

Lucy's Birth

Our little Lucy is seven weeks, and not longer so little! Her knees and elbows have little dimples, her little biceps and thighs have fat creases, and she looks like a perfect little dolly!  I look back on her birth and can hardly believe that it was such a short time ago!  So here is the story…

            Short, uncomplicated version – Lucy was born, two days after her due date, at my parents house at 10:20 pm on Monday, Jan. 21^st, after two and a half hours of labor.  We were attended by Nate and, at the last second, my mother, and the midwives arrived 15 and 20 minutes later.  I did go to the hospital for some sutures, which is worse than giving birth, but as far as the labor and birth went, it couldn’t have been better.

            And now for the long, detailed version – We had hoped to meet this baby significantly earlier than January 21^st.  Nate had only a certain amount of vacation before he had to go back to Alaska, and more than anything, I wanted him to be with me for the birth.  I didn’t care who else was there, but Nate HAD to be there.  And we hoped he’d even have a little time with us postpartum to get acquainted and help us transition as a family.  Eden was born at 38 weeks, so I thought it was reasonable to expect this one around the same time.  Besides, I’d been having episodes of significant contractions every time I got stressed and over-exerted myself since 34 weeks pregnant.  Well, so much for all that.

(Actually, it probably was accomplishing a lot of the early dilation very gradually.)

Anyway, we met with the midwives and thankfully, there was a good connection there.  They warned us that second labors often go in half the time of first labors, so to expect about 2.5-3 hours total. (How right they were!)  However, the days came and went, and little baby stayed securely inside.  We walked.  We danced.  We did…all sorts of things…in an effort to help this little one make an entrance (or exit? J) Nothing extreme, being well aware that she wasn’t even quite due yet, but I was about at the end of my rope.  Never again will I judge anyone for getting tired of being pregnant, especially at the end!  Being pregnant is a miracle, one that I love and give thanks for and will accept as many times as it comes to me, but for heavens sake! All good things must come to an end, and I prayed for the end of this one!  I was so ready to move on to the next stage!  I didn’t know how much more one’s body could stretch in those last two weeks, how long the nights became when interrupted regularly by urgent (like suddenly realizing I’m going to explode!) potty trips, shooting pains down hips and calves, trying to stay on one’s left side to help baby get into a good position, and how all my clothes would just run out of room.  I went to bed each night, thinking, “Maybe this will be the night!” and woke up each morning grumpy and out of sorts because I was still very, very pregnant. 

            I finally got over my bad attitude, telling myself that I was just going to be pregnant forever, and just focused on taking each day as it came.  And really they were lovely days – soft California winter of clear skies and bright sun, shared with my sweetheart and our daughter, enjoying time with family, going for walks, just soaking up the togetherness of the time. 

            I thought I’d lost my mucous plug on Saturday, Lucy’s due date, but I didn’t want to tell anyone because I’d been pointing out every sign as it came along and so far none of them had led to anything exciting.  They just sort of petered out.  Talk about deflating the excitement!  So I didn’t make a fuss, didn’t call the midwives, just noticed and let it go.  Sure enough, nothing happened.  I had to go to church another Sunday, elephantine in my maternity.  Monday night, I was actually googling how long after losing the mucous plug one usually goes into labor, when I felt a sudden warm gush.  My first thought was to ascertain that I hadn’t wet myself, as that can be an unexpected side effect of being so pregnant.  No, I had not.  In fact, when I shifted in my seat, more warm fluid gushed out.  I asked my dad to get me a towel, and sat waiting, thinking, “Finally!  I’m so glad to be in labor!”  Not five minutes later, the first contraction/pressure wave hit, and the second came within five minutes of the first.  They took off from there.  Within probably 15 minutes I could feel sweat drip off of me as I breathed through a contraction, and I remember thinking, “Oh, right.  This is labor.  This is the work, the effort, the intensity of bringing a child into this world.  I am glad it’s finally happening, but this is HARD.” 

            I had called the senior midwife shortly after my water broke, and sent her a text as well.  She didn’t respond, and I left a message, but thought nothing of it – I had several times left messages, only to receive a return call not very long after.  Truthfully, once those first messages were sent, my mind was very caught up in other things and I didn’t even think of it again until they walked in the door.  It turns out that her phone had suddenly and unexpectedly died.  It was charged up, nothing was wrong with it – it just died and she didn’t know it until it turned itself on again.  Then, of course, they came as fast as they could, but it wasn’t as fast as Lucy!

            We took a shower, and when we got out the kitchen had been transformed into a peaceful, darkened birthing room.  Dinner’s dishes had magically disappeared. The dining room table and benches were carefully stowed out of the way.  A neatly made bed awaited me in the middle of the clean linoleum floor, and strings of white twinkle lights around the edge of the ceiling lit the room with a soft glow.  Everyone was quietly and inconspicuously holed up in their own rooms.  I went directly from the bathroom to the bed and immediately lay down on my left side.  Nate knelt near me and I rather forcefully directed him to push on my lower back, which he did for the next hour and a half, I guess.  (I wasn’t paying attention to the time!)  Every time he’d move in the least, I let him know he needed to stay right where he was, and as long as he did, I could manage.  The Hypnobabies “Easy First Stage” track was playing on my phone, and it was all I could do to focus and relax.  I began to vocalize, moaning as low and deep as I could.  (My mom later said it sounded kind of like mooing.  Oh well.)  At some point I was trying so hard to relax and my muscles were trying so hard to do whatever they were doing that my tummy literally began to jump and spasm.  I could feel it, and Nate could see it, and it was very strange!

            Suddenly I couldn’t stay down any longer and with no conscious effort on my part I was up on hands and knees, pushing.  Nate got ready to catch, and my mom, hearing the change in the noises I was making, came out of her bedroom to help, knowing that no one had yet arrived.  Lucy was born very quickly!  They caught her, I flipped over, and my wet, pink, new little daughter was on my chest, wide-eyed and ready to latch on.  We were not surprised that she was a girl; we’d sort of expected that from the time we knew she was coming.

            Suddenly, it seemed, the midwives were there, assessing, discussing, checking us all out.  I was totally exhausted – all I wanted was to curl up with my precious babe and SLEEP!  But no, it turned out I had torn and needed sutures, so I got up and we tried it out on the kitchen table.  It would have been fine – the midwife knew what she was doing – but it turned out to be more extensive than we had thought, so after consuming an egg and some toast my mom thoughtfully, and hastily, prepared, we trundled off to the hospital.  Ugh. 

(A word about tearing – it was totally my biggest fear about giving birth the first time.  Then, as this time, I did end up tearing and realized that it’s no big deal.  I didn’t feel a thing.  In fact, when the midwife asked me if I thought I tore, I answered, “No!” with no hesitation.  The sutures, however, are a totally different story.  I’d rather give birth all over again than be stitched up!!  But that's not really an option, unfortunately…)

So we had our little hospital adventure, and they were really very nice to us all.  The midwives came with us – they were great, and I wished they could have been there for the birth.  It was wonderful.  If I could do it all over again just like that, without the hospital trip, that's the way I’d go every time.  Each birth is different and every woman is different – I think that home birth is only one of many good options.  For me, for us, this time, it was absolutely the best.

Blessings and Sacrifices

Inside the tough, tedious, sometimes very bitter rind of sacrifice lies an indescribably sweet nectar of blessing.

(This post is not to judge anyone who does not parent the way I choose to parent, nor to say anything at all about their style of parenting.  As in all of life, I believe each person has a responsibility to carefully and thoughtfully seek out the methods, styles, etc. of parenting that are truly in the best interest of their family and children.  I do feel very strongly about many of my parenting choices, but I want to say very clearly that I have to answer to my own conscience regarding what I do, and I don't hold anyone else to that standard.  So basically, this is just my experience and I'm not trying to judge!)

I began to write this post several months ago, after a very trying day which ended with a long bedtime battle to get our determined daughter to calm down and go to sleep.  It was hard.  Very hard.  I wanted very much to give up and just let her cry it out.  But I didn't.  I breathed deeply, deliberately relaxed my tense muscles, and silently prayed for grace.  I rocked her and sang to her and shhhed her and bounced and lay by her side, and she finally went limp and lay, warm and soft, cuddled in my arms, both arms around my neck and a hand twined in my hair.  I, too, went limp and just lay there, letting the relief wash over me like waves.  In that moment, the words with which I opened this post came very quietly and clearly to my mind.  I was filled with the sweetness of my child, the blessing of her trust, the physical enjoyment of those moments snuggled so close.  The fleetingness of the experience was impressed upon me.  I realized that I could not have all this, would not be able to savor it so, if I had chosen a different path of parenting earlier, when the sacrifice was so tedious and tough.  I would have other things to be doing, enjoying, experiencing, but not this moment.  And this moment was totally worth it.

And one more thing.

This is our little daredevil's latest feat of daring.  We left the bathroom door open for just a minute, unattended, and found her here -

A Breather

Sometimes you have to stop thinking about life and just live it.  Just stop asking, "Am I happy today?  Is today a good day?" and do whatever you have to do that day.  At least I do.  Its been a busy, productive couple of weeks, and the breather from blogging has helped.  Much as I love introspection, its good for me to put it away for a little while.  Sorry, still no pictures yet...

One of the brightest parts of these last few weeks has been feeling our new little one move with so much more strength and vigor.  We're a little over twenty weeks! I always wish that somehow I could communicate the sensation more effectively to Nate.  When I try to find the perfect description, it always eludes me and I'm left groping for words.  I've heard the "popcorn popping" and "butterflies" descriptions, and sometimes that does capture the early sensations.  The kicks and punches, blips and pops, are the easiest to imagine, Nate says, and the easiest to describe.  But what about those rolls and squirms and Tectonic-like shifts?  Sometimes the closest I can come is to say it feels like squeezing a bar of wet soap, the sudden, slippery turns where new contours push out and then slide back in just as quickly.  Or like the baby is somehow bunching its whole self up in a corner and then trying to turn around and head out again.  Except as far as I know, there are no corners in the uterus.  Oh, well.  Feeling new life move within me remains one of the most amazing and magical experiences of my life.

Eden is growing so fast.  She climbs and opens, worms her little fingers into things she's not supposed to, and uses the potty for all her little (and big!) poops.  I love it!  We've been doing "elimination communication," or EC, since she was 2 weeks old, and I have to say that, based on our experience, it really works.  At first I was a little (ok, a lot) reluctant to be open about it, because no one understood - mostly we were met with mild defensiveness, "Well, we're going to just let our baby be a baby!..." or downright shock, disbelief, and pooh-poohing, "Well, really you're just training the parents, the baby has no idea..."  The least judgmental, for the most part, were people who had no children.  But one things was true from the start - just like wearing cloth diapers or co-sleeping, doing EC was just something we chose to do for our family.  It didn't mean that we thought those who didn't were unenlightened, or bad parents, or that their kids were less smart than our daughter!  Parenting is such an easy thing to feel offended or defensive over, so I understood that, but, come on!!!  As for the "just training the adult" argument, yes, it was training us adults.  It trained me, especially, to pay closer attention to what my baby was experiencing, communicating, and capable of.  I've read pediatric "medical" writings that claim that children just can't control or have awareness of their bladder and bowel functions until they reach a certain age (usually claimed to be around 2 years old).  I have to say, based on my own experience, that is just not true.  Eden eliminated in the potty from the time she was two weeks old.  And she let me know when she needed to go! And she held it, for a limited time, until I could take her. The "cues" were often subtle and/or I couldn't really explain how I knew, but it was similar to the way I could often say, with a squirm or a grunt, "She's hungry," or "That's a burp coming."  Of course, on the flip side, there were plenty of times when I didn't know, and didn't catch anything.  The point of EC is not to potty train your child early, though that is sometimes a result.  The point is to be in communication with your little one and help them with their needs as best you can.  So we are not potty-trained, and there is no pressure for her to get it in the potty, but I am glad to not (for the most part!) change poopy diapers!

One last random thing - its a common cliche to say that one person makes a difference, but it is so true.  In some of my recent difficult moments, two individuals in particular have touched my life and uplifted me, and truly made a night and day difference for me. One was a dear friend I have known for some time - someone on whom I could pour out my woes, via text, and who took the time to listen and respond and help me out of my breakdown.  The other was someone I barely know at all, a neighbor with a little daughter, who dropped by unannounced one afternoon just to visit for a bit.  Nothing earth-shattering happened, but that contact was exactly what I needed to lift the fog and feel some relief.  So if you're a visiting teacher, or friend, or neighbor - make the time to just reach out! You don't know what a difference you might make.

Random Updates and Thoughts on Grief

Well, sometimes the black clouds roll in and blot out the sun despite our best efforts.  Hopefully we see more clearly after the rain...

Anyway.  So now I'm 15 weeks along and if I can lay quietly (without falling asleep) for long enough, I can occasionally feel the little popping squirms of my new baby inside.  I was so grateful to pass the 12 week mark and find the nausea at first not so constant and now quite rare!  Although I do still throw up if I go long enough without eating.  Blech.  I don't like throwing up at all.  I'm adjusting again to being in Alaska and learning much about myself in the process, and am so very thankful to have a husband who is on my side, who cares about and wants to know how I really feel, and who is willing to sacrifice for me, for us, and for the good of our family.  Nate is truly a blessing to me.

Eden is growing so fast, both in her physical and mental capacities.  She's probably just going through the normal development of an almost 1 yr. old, but without anyone nearby for comparison, it all just seems miraculous to me!  Her comprehension of our words truly amazes me - so many things from "where's Daddy/the light/Jesus/your head/etc.?" to "Put your foot down" (at the table) and "That's not for eating!" (books, crayons, and the like) she comprehends and shows it by either complying, pointing, or looking.  She loves to look at books and even turns pages by herself, though we have to supervise that now that we've had a few torn out!  Her favorite things are going outside and seeing, talking about, or being near other children or animals - horses, cats, dogs, and bears are among the most favored.  She says "dad," and "hi" sometimes, and cruises around holding onto furniture, hands, or legs.  She waves hello, but the bye-bye wave usually doesn't come until after the intended recipient has truly gone bye-bye.  She's even started giving kisses - the open mouthed, gentle "touch my lips to you" type which sometimes turn in to a bit of a sucker fish imitation. ;)  She is amazing to me!

-*-*-*-

I've been thinking about what I have written concerning the miscarriage.  Although the actual experience and the time leading up to it were the most trying physically, and were confusing, difficult and heartbreaking, it was definitely the aftermath and dealing with the emotional, mental, and spiritual effects for the following months that were the most trying.  I remember driving home in silence from the ER, both of us totally exhausted, feeling flat and empty and cried out.  For the first time in months, I was physically hungry.  Famished, in fact.  We stopped and got a doughnut, and when we got home I devoured a small chicken pot-pie some kind ward members had brought over.  Then, despite it not yet being noon, we lay down for a nap.   Nate was hoping to go to work for the afternoon shift, and we were both completely worn out from the morning, not to mention the early mornings, late nights, and constant stress and worry of the last week.

Nate was out the moment his head hit the pillow.  He was so tired!  I, on the other hand, could not sleep, although I was worn out as well.  I was so tired, so exhausted - I needed to sleep - but I couldn't let it come.   Somehow, although I knew our little one was already gone from us, I could not just let her go and go to sleep.  It was the same feeling I'd had in the hospital room - please, hold my baby, so I can leave.  I cannot leave and just abandon this little body on the bed, all by itself.  There, the nurse took my precious bundle and I barely made it out the door, my whole being rebelling.  But who can take the little one you carry in your mind and heart?  I lay there, knowing she was gone but unable to leave her and let unconsciousness take me away.  Hot, agonizing tears slid down either side of my face, pooling in the cups of my ears, soaking into two unpleasantly wet spots on the pillow below.  The physical pain was over - I felt the best I had in months physically - but the mental and emotional agony were almost unbearable.  I didn't want to wake Nate, so I lay rigidly on my back, weeping in silence, struggling within.  I remember finally crying out in my mind, "Jesus, I know she's already with you.  But please, just hold my baby for me so I can sleep.  Please, Jesus, please hold my baby for me.  Please... " over and over and over again.  I had never felt so alone.  Finally, after I'm not sure how long, I saw in my mind's eye a glimpse of my Savior in a white robe, cradling my tiny baby in his arms.  I saw that he held her, and I saw his love.  And I fell deeply asleep.

The bad thing about sleep when you are grieving is that you have to wake up and come to terms with the new reality all over again.  I cried more than I knew it was possible to cry over the next week or so.  There were times when my eyelashes felt strange and I reached to touch them only to find them stiff and white with salt from my tears.  I read online about other women's miscarriages and how so many of them still mourned years after the fact.  I often felt unreal, as if in a dream or some alternate reality.  I sometimes felt crazy - had I really ever been pregnant?  Was I a mother, now, or not? And what about when my milk came in?  Not generally supposed to happen at 16 weeks, but by then it seemed that the medical establishment (midwives included) really knew nothing about what was really happening or going to happen with my body.


Imagine, if you will, a town on the edge of the ocean.  It is busy with life and activity and people and purpose.  There are wharves and docks, and even some boats.  But this ocean is like those on medieval maps - there is no end.  It doesn't go anywhere.  It just extends, and extends... out into nowhere.  Far out, away from the noise and bustle, is a lone dock extending into the waves.  One rope is tied to the very end, and on the end of that rope is not a boat, but a bubble, a fragile transparent bubble, about to just float away on the next strong wind.  The only thing connecting it with the rest of the world is that lone rope. That is the image I have had of myself during that period of time.  I was that bubble, and I felt lost to real life.  Nate was my only connection to reality, the only safe place, the rock I clung to desperately.  Thankfully I had him.  It was several weeks before I lost the unreal floating feeling and began to sink back into a more normal daily life.

Baby Mine III

Friday morning.  The last day of round the clock, nausea inducing antibiotics.  A week since it began.  I woke up to an odd feeling.  It was early, around 5am, and I thought maybe it was that I needed to go to the bathroom, but then I realized that my pad was soaked, and the fluid wasn't stopping when I stopped urinating. (Sorry for TMI, this is the whole story.)  In confusion, I put on another pad, and went back to bed.   I still felt strange, so I rolled over to get comfortable and immediately sprang out of bed with a full-on gush of liquid.  Now that, I knew was not supposed to happen.  I changed, woke up Nate, and we called the midwives.  One answered the phone, half- asleep, and told us to go to the nearest ER, and let her know what happened.

She did say the nearest ER, so we got in the car and drove north.  How many times I have wished we had gone south.  Not that anything would have changed, necessarily, but the whole experience, the whole demeanor of staff and personnel probably would have been different.  Oh, well.  We drove north.

There were no contractions on the way there.  I wasn't in pain, I wasn't sick, but I remember sitting as still as I possibly could, not even praying that the baby would be alright as I had the other times, just asking, "Please, be with us! Please, help us!"  As if by not moving, I could keep the future from happening.  We arrived in the beautiful July sunrise, a hot and humid Florida summer day already foreshadowed by the feeling in the air, and walked into the deserted ER.

I will say this - if you have to go to the ER, 6am is a way better time than 6pm, or even 12 midnight.  No one was there.  An oldish EMT with stringy red hair and a few missing teeth helped us with the intake.  He looked a little sketchy, but he was the nicest and most professional of any of the people we interacted with that day.  There was no wait, since we were the only ones there, and they immediately took us back.  By this time, contractions had started up a little, but not seriously and not regularly.  It was obvious by their questions and attitudes that they didn't think my water had broken.  They kept implying maybe I had just wet myself...you know, its ok, pregnant ladies do that sometimes.  Right.  I kept insisting I had not.  A doctor walked in, and without as much as an introduction, did a rough internal exam and told us that there was no dilation.  They checked the baby's heartbeat.  It was extremely elevated, and the baby was very active, causing them to lose it several times.  An ultrasound was ordered.

The policy at this medical center was to put in a catheter for all ultrasounds.  (At least that's what they told us.)  We tried to explain that I had already ingested over a quart of water and not urinated in the last several hours, besides the fact that I was recovering from a UTI.  Nope.  No excuses, in it went.  OH MY GOODNESS!  It was agony. Of course, the nurse says, "Does that hurt?  It shouldn't hurt.Anyway, it won't when you get all filled up." No, of course it doesn't hurt - why do you think I am gasping and tears are rolling out of my eyes? Why do you think I just started to cry? But you're the professional, you know what you're talking about, what you're doing... If this will help my baby, do whatever you have to.

The doctor and nurses left the room, and Nate and I were alone.  Peaceful music was playing from our computer, which Nate had thought to bring. (Several ER visits in one week have a way of letting you know you had better bring lots to do if you're not the patient, or even if you are, because you are definitely going to be waiting.)  The contractions started up again, in earnest, getting stronger, more intense, closer together.  The catheter was agony.  I lay flat on my back, still as possible to avoid the pain that came from jostling the catheter, and tried to relax through the contractions.  At some point I began moaning, loud through the pressure, and then dwindling to soft in-between. It was the only way I could think of to deal with the intense and even overwhelming sensations flooding over me, all the while lying perfectly still on my back.  Nate rubbed my feet, not sure what else to do.  He later told me I made less noise during Eden's labor and birth than I did than.


Eventually, a lab tech showed up.  She was young, and somewhat brash, and informed us that Nate couldn't come.  It was against "policy."  That was enough to make me take a break from my moaning and gasp out a plea for him to come.  She didn't say anything to that, but Nate just stated that he was coming, and he'd wait outside the ultrasound room if he had to.  We wheeled through the halls; my eyes were mostly closed as I tried to hold it together, but I saw the looks on the faces of nurses and people in the halls as we passed.  "What is wrong with her?!"

Sure enough, there was plenty of room in the lab, and faced with a very present and calmly decisive Nate, the actual ultrasound technician let him in with no problem.  She began to "fill me up."  We assured her that it wouldn't be necessary.  I think I actually said, "I don't think I can hold anymore!" and when she checked, sure enough, there was more than enough fluid already in my bladder to see clearly.  I began to feel some relief, as if the contractions had stopped.  As I lay there, eyes closed, trying to regain my equilibrium, I was vaguely aware of her taking measurements, looking at the screen, and then suddenly stopping the ultrasound. Without any explanation, we were rushed back to our ER room, and I mean rushed!

They parked the bed back in our tiny corner room and left, without a word.  A nurse came in and for the first time in my life I really, really wanted to swear.  "Get this (bleep) catheter out of me!" was what was on the tip of my tongue, but thankfully habit protects even in times of great stress, and what I actually said was minus the profanity.  She didn't say much and went about her duties without any explanations.  Although I had a pretty good idea of what she was doing, I felt as if I were supposed to be ignorant and silent.  Any comment, question, or even wincing and crying out were met with a critical and somewhat exasperated attitude.  I felt completely disempowered, if that's a word.  There was instant relief when the catheter was drained and removed, and the contractions had stopped, but I felt an odd pressure.  Hoping against a pretty clear idea of what was really causing that, I told the nurse I had to go to the bathroom.  I mean, honestly, what was I supposed to say? "Um, I think my baby's going to come out now?"

She brought in a commode, basically a grown-up potty chair, and left us alone again.  I climbed off the bed and sat on the commode.  Within a short time, with no real effort I can remember, our tiny little baby slipped out.  Disregarding the mess of blood and fluid, I knelt on the floor and scooped up my little baby, cradled the tiny body in my hands.  It was perfect.  Beautiful.  Not weird and alien-looking like some illustrations make fetuses look.  It was our beautiful, fully formed, just-needed-a-little-more-time baby.  The little legs were curled up, and from head to little bum, it fit snugly in my hands, filling them from fingertips to wrist.  The amniotic sac and placenta were still wrapped around like a protecting blanket, and we didn't know if we were supposed to change anything.  We didn't know if we were supposed to even touch and hold our own baby, let alone remove anything, so we didn't.  We just marvelled at the perfection.  One tiny arm was thrown up over the head.  The tiny mouth was slightly open and the other hand half covered it, as if in mild surprise at the way things had suddenly gone wrong.  Tiny perfect hand, just the size of my thumbnail.  Too soon, we felt constrained to replace the little body, still warm from mine, so recently alive, in the pool of blood, and climb back up where I "belonged."  A nurse and the doctor came in.  In some awkward way, they told us that our baby was not going to make it, that the ultrasound revealed that the heart was no longer beating.  Um, thanks for letting us know.  (When we got the records, we found out that the tech had actually seen the baby in the cervix, and that was probably why she had stopped the scan so abruptly.  No one wants a dead baby born in their lab!) We indicated that we knew and that the baby was in the commode.  I think then they felt super awkward then, because I don't really remember them saying anything else meaningful before they left.  The nurse began to tidy up, and suddenly the door opened again, and a social worker walked in, holding up a baby blanket and saying that someone told her we might need this...

Up to that point I had been so overwhelmed, so exhausted, so absorbed in dealing with the intense physical sensations and uncomfortable psychological situation that I literally felt very little.  I was absolutely in the moment, dealing with whatever came as it came.  I felt wonder and awe at the perfection of that tiny body, and a kind of disbelief and inability to comprehend what had happened, but when that baby blanket was held up, I suddenly was totally engulfed in a wave of the deepest sorrow I have ever known.  It was as if every fiber of my being was overcome with grief.  I covered my face and the tears and weeping poured out of me. It would not be stopped.  I could not stop it.  Even writing this now, going back to that moment in my mind, tears prick my eyes and my throat aches.  I cannot put into words the depth of pain and grief I felt, even more extreme than at my own brother's death.

They lifted our tiny baby's body into the blanket, and wrapped it up a little, and then handed it to me.  It was all I could do to curl up on my side around my baby on that hard, narrow hospital cot and mourn.  Everyone again left us, and Nate and I stayed there with our little one for nearly an hour.  My crying stopped, and I just talked to that little one, telling him/her how very much we had loved and wanted and waited for their precious self, how sad we were to let them go... Somehow it was a comfort to just lay there with my baby, even knowing that he or she was not really there anymore.  We said a prayer together with our baby cradled between us, a prayer so heartbroken and grief-heavy, so raw and painful and utterly submissive and crushed.   And then it was time to leave.

Thankfully there was a nurse who was willing to hold that precious bundle as we walked out the door of that room.  I don't think I could have left if we'd had to just leave our baby there on the bed.  Even so, as the door shut behind us, I couldn't help it - I just broke down weeping and wailing again.  I heard one of the nurses murmur something about me "sure taking it hard." Yes, I was.  I definitely was.  But there was nothing to be done.  We had to leave.  Empty womb, empty heart, empty arms.  Empty.

Baby Mine II

The fever still didn't go away.  Nate had to get up and go to work as usual, so I just lay on the couch and drifted through the day in half doze.  That evening, while showering, I began to shiver again, all my muscles cramping and quaking.  But this time there was a strange sensation, a feeling in my lower abdomen that I had never before had and yet knew immediately was not supposed to be happening right now.  It wasn't painful, but it was wrong, and the fear came rushing back in.  We drove to the ER south of us - we'd had a negative experience at the ER to the north, so although it was slightly closer, we decided it was worth the few extra minutes to go south.  I, having started the pregnancy slender and then lost quite a bit a weight, did not look pregnant, I'm sure, but some ladies sitting next to us in the waiting room inquired about why we were there and why I was so worried.  I will never forget their kindness in letting us go before them, although we had arrived some time after.  The nurse took us back and after taking a sample, left us to wait.  I'd begun to bleed a little, but eventually it stopped.

After what seemed like a very long time, a doctor came in and told us that I did indeed have an infection, in fact such a serious one by this time that they wanted to stop the prescription antibiotics and immediately administer some more powerful drugs by IV.  Thankfully we asked if they were alright for pregnant moms - he had missed the fact of the pregnancy somehow, and had to adjust his prescription a bit, but they got it started and gave me some other follow-up antibiotics to take for a week.  To humor me, they checked internally and reassured me that everything was as it should be - no changes in the cervix to be concerned about.  We even got to have an ultrasound and see the squirming, kicking little baby inside my uterus, which was visibly (as I had suspected) contracting.  But all was well, they said, so we went home.

The intermittent bleeding and contracting continued over the weekend, but I just took it easy and tried to trust that all would be well.  By Tuesday, the midwives said we should go have an ultrasound at a special women's hospital in Orlando, so we drove out there and spent forever waiting in their foyer, finally to be called back for another ultrasound.  Again, the internal exam seemed to show no worrisome changes in the cervix, and the ultrasound showed that, although the little one was head down and very deep in my pelvis, it was active and apparently healthy.  Relief.  But still irritation.  If all was well, why was I still bleeding?  Why was I still contracting?  Why could no one seem to do anything about these things or tell me how to stop?

At this point, I get a little fuzzy on the details.  I think we went south to the ER again, and ended up having another ultrasound, but I don't remember exactly why, beyond the same reasons we had gone before.  All I know is that they showed, and told us that all was well and the baby was fine.  That was what I wanted to hear, and seeing the little legs kick and arms wave was a balm to my mama heart.

Poor Nate.  I was having a tough time of it, but he was still going to work every morning at 6, and at least three nights was up past midnight with hospital runs, while the others he had to take care of his invalid wife.  But he never complained.  He was always kind and considerate and supportive, willing to take my word for any symptom, any worry.  He was my rock.

Baby Mine

I think the primary emotion I felt during that time was anxiety.  Fear.  Fear that this long-awaited miracle would somehow not work out, fear of the medical establishment, fear of each new and strange change that came physically (is this normal? is something wrong?), fear of being told what to do, fear of not being listened to, fear of not making the right choice.  Yes, I was excited to be pregnant.  Are you kidding?! I was happier to finally be expecting a baby than I had words to express.  I think that is part of the reason that I was so anxious - this was the one thing that I had dreamed of, thought about, read about, and longed for literally all my life.  Seriously.  Since I was a little girl, I had wanted to be a mommy, and had known it.  I had played at being pregnant (my mom must have had a little laugh over that one!), borrowed every baby I could get my hands on, mothered my younger siblings til they probably were somewhat sick of me, and known, my whole conscious life, what a blessing and privilege and sacred responsibility motherhood was.  And what a miracle.

So, finally, here it was.  And what if I messed it up?  Those who have waited years for pregnancy might shake their heads ruefully at a wait of 11 months, but that was a hard year for me, doing everything right, watching for a sign, waiting for that elusive plus... and finally, on Nate's birthday, when it came, I was so overwhelmed that I was shaking.  So excited, and so anxious to do it all right.  Midwife, or doctor?  Hospital, or home, or birth center? What do I do about throwing up, about losing weight, about not having the energy to be the wife and housekeeper and just person that I have been?  Is this discharge normal, or should I be worried?  As someone prone to UTI's, every little twinge was cause for doubt and consternation.  Yes, I was so happy, but I was a bit of a basketcase, too.  Shortly after finding out we were expecting, I woke up in the middle of the night, frantically searching the bed.  Nate laid me back down, patted my tummy and said, "Its ok! The baby is right here still!"  Soon I was too sick to think about much except finding a way to eat, or not throw up what I had just eaten.

Somehow I got through the first trimester.  I told myself my fears were irrational and silly and tried to put them away.  My sweet husband did his best to reassure and comfort me.  I was beginning to recover from the horrible nausea.  We had a few appointments with midwives to choose - I was adamant that I wanted a midwife.  The first was a homebirth lay midwife.  She was kind and seemed competent, but Nate especially was not comfortable with that idea, so we drove about an hour away to a birth center to meet with the staff there.  I was a bundle of nerves, defensive as a porcupine, and more than a little on edge.  The midwives were not particularly personable, but they were nice enough and, again, seemed very knowledgeable and competent. The birth center was lovely and very comfortable.  We decided that this would be the place.

Hearing the heartbeat for the first time was incredible.  A peace, a tangible relaxation came over me, and the look on Nate's face was priceless.  They showed us a little rag doll the approximate size of our baby, and Nate just held it and looked at it in awe.  "There really is a baby in there!" he said.  Ya think? ;)

We talked about it all the way home, and all the sickness began to seem worth it.  My fears were eased.  We were well out of the first trimester, it seemed that nothing could stop us now.  I began to feel what I realized after I no longer felt it was the baby squirming around.  I'd lost 15 pounds, but was slowly feeling up to eating again.  For about two weeks, life was really good.  My back started to hurt, and I couldn't get comfortable at night, but everybody says that's normal when you're pregnant, so I just shrugged it off.

When doubts and fears and questions surfaced, I did my best to push them down.  After all, we were safely out of the danger zone, weren't we?  I didn't want to make trouble or inconvenience anyone, especially since it was probably nothing.  Other women I asked seemed to not really remember, or not know what to tell me, or be a little embarrassed at discussing intimate pregnancy details.  Professionals seemed a little impatient and dismissive.  I was surely just a paranoid first-time mom, right?

Wrong.  So very wrong.  There's no knowing if anyone would have noticed the infection sooner, if anything could have been done, if my baby could have pulled through...but looking back I would have told myself to not worry about the others - they could take care of themselves.  I was the only one who could take care of this baby at this point, and if it took inconveniencing and pestering and demanding - if I felt something was off, I had every right to be taken seriously.  But how could I know?  How can you tell when you've never been through it before and you have never had to demand or inconvenience or put your foot down on something you might be wrong on that costs time and money and ....

So I didn't.  One evening, after hosting a wonderful and fun baby shower for a dear friend, my back just ached terribly.  Everyone went home, and we went to bed.  Nate was working morning shifts, so he was exhausted.  I woke up in the middle of the July night, shivering so badly I could hardly move voluntarily.  I rolled out of bed, literally stumbled to the dresser, and after fumbling with the drawer for several minutes because my hands were shaking so badly, pulled out a pair of socks and put them on.  I grabbed a quilt from the closet and made it back to bed, where I huddled under it, shivering and quaking, teeth chopping together, shaking the whole bed with my involuntary movement.  I couldn't get warm, so I woke up Nate to snuggle and help the process.  He was so confused and kept telling me to just relax and stop shaking.  I was doing my best, but I couldn't.  Finally he woke up enough to realize that I wasn't just cold, and got a thermometer.  My temperature was soaring.  He called the midwives, and one of them sleepily recommended I take some ibuprofen or tylenol or something like that to bring down the fever, and call back in the morning.  (I think.  I must admit, I was a little out of it at this point.)  He got some pills and water, and after a while, the shaking stopped and we both went back to sleep.  We deduced fairly quickly from the combination of back pain and fever that it was probably a kidney infection from an undetected UTI and the next morning got a prescription of antibiotics to fight it.  They said it should be fine, wouldn't hurt the baby.  Keep the fever down with round the clock doses of whatever it was I was taking.  Call them back if we needed anything else.  And that was supposed to be that.

Beautiful Savior

Over the last few weeks, I have not written much, either privately or here on the blog.  I've been a little drained by the demands of daily life combined with the natural effects of the first trimester of pregnancy, and had to let a few things go by the wayside.  As Nate so patiently put it, living with a pregnant mama (at least this pregnant mama!) in the first trimester is a lot like bachelor life again - everything tends to be put on a "do it only as it needs doing" schedule, rather than the more ordered and routine manner in which we try to accomplish life usually.  I am grateful that he is so supportive and loving.

Although I have not written much, my mind and heart have been full.  I have come up again against the conflict between the desire to honestly share my heart and experiences as they flow out of me, and the desire to protect against misunderstanding, judgement, and assumption.  But why write at all, unless I write honestly?  Why write at all, unless I write about what is important to me and weighing upon my heart?  So I have waited out the conflict to write.

Much on my mind has been my first baby, my first pregnancy.  Not Eden, but the first.  You see, for three years now, I have been pregnant at this time of the year.  This year, I am almost out of the first trimester.  Last year, I was two months away from giving birth to Eden.  The year before that, 2010, I was in my second trimester, barely recovering from horrible morning sickness, not knowing that in about two weeks I would deliver my tiny, precious, lifeless firstborn.

Someone asked me, once, after I had briefly shared that experience, if it was still hard to talk about, if it still hurt.  I don't really remember what I answered at that time.  I would say that it is not hard to talk about - it has never been hard to talk about.  In fact, it was (and is) harder to not talk about it.  Of course, as time passes and life goes on, it is not so present, so pressing, so immediate all the time.  But yes, when the moment is right - it does still hurt.  A mother's heart holds all her children, and longs for them when they are not with her, even with understanding and peace at their absence.

I will share, over the next few posts, perhaps, that experience.  It has touched and changed and broken and filled me more than any other one event in my life.  I do not share it lightly, and know that there will be those who do not understand or who maybe don't want to read it.  That's ok.  Take it or leave it, as you please.

But today, sitting on our somewhat smelly old couch, Nate and Eden and I just relaxed after church and watched an old DVD from his mission, entitled "Fisher's of Men." It contains quotes from conference talks by prophets and apostles, testifying of Jesus Christ and his mission, over a background of videos of His life and beautiful instrumental music.  I heard it for the first time on my mission, and have always been so touched by it, but today I found the tears just rolling down my cheeks.  I thought of my childhood and youth and the beauty and peace and blessing of growing up in the gospel.  The way I never doubted the truth of the Savior, always knew my Heavenly Father loved me, found answers and solutions and blessings for all my small and childish concerns.  I was truly encircled in his love.  Then, gradually, how my life encountered more and more of the more serious difficulties, trials, and disappointments that are natural to this fallen life.  I never used to cry when I felt the Spirit - I just felt peaceful and filled with joy.  I think that is my natural tendency, but I know that now I cry because I know my need, I know my brokenness.  I know that life is not about fairness, and there is no guarantee of the perfect ending in this life no matter what we do.  My heart has been shattered in ways that I never could have dreamed of, and I'm still at the beginning(ish) part of my life! And yet...

And yet, I cry because I feel His light streaming in through the cracks.  I cry because I am so humbled, so grateful, that He stops to reach me, where I am.  I cry because I long for the day when all the wrong shall be made right, and all promises fulfilled.  I cry because I see my brother, enfolded again in the longing, loving bosom of our family. I cry because I see, in my minds eye, that tiny little baby in my arms, in white, never again to depart.

Beautiful Savior!

Lord of the Nations! 

Son of God and son of man!

Thee will I honor, praise and give glory!

Give Glory evermore!

Evermore!

The beginning of the end

Its bedtime at my house.  My baby is upstairs crying, sobbing like her heart is breaking.  No, she's not alone, her daddy is holding her and rocking her with all the love in the world, but what she wants, he can't give.  And its come to the point where neither can I.

You see, I have held high ideals when it came to mothering.  I was blessed to be able to breastfeed exclusively for the first basically eight months of Eden's life.  Yes, the first month was pretty much torture (despite doing "everything right") but by six weeks, the pain was gone and it was amazing and gratifying to watch her prosper so generously and know that it was all coming from my milk.  Yes, it is was a sacrifice of time and energy and body and self, but it was so worth it!  Even after starting the solids, nursing has been a special bond, a (frequent!) time of relaxation and connection, a blessing of peace and a way to push the re-set button on the world, if you will.  The touch of her little hands, holding soft little toes in my other hand, her bright eyes peering up at me, the contented milk-drunk sprawl and sigh replete with all things good - I count this time as a precious blessing.

But, she now has three teeth.  And more than that, I am well into the first trimester of pregnancy, which...does things to your body.  Makes everything that was used for nursing much more tender, to say the least.  So its pretty much torture again.  Even that wouldn't stop us, hasn't stopped us, but now I am finding that I have no more milk to give her and that she is sad and frustrated and confused at the change.  So we both have suffered through hours of trying to nurse, trying to comfort, and then starting over again.  I'm not worried about her food intake, as she does eat plenty and drink well from a sippy cup during the waking hours.  But my heart breaks to hear her cry, to know what she wants, and to not be able to provide it for her anymore.

We got a bottle.  She drank about 2 oz. and refused to take anymore, but went to sleep with rocking and singing.  It's the second wake-up that got us, the one where she likes to just roll into me and latch on, half-asleep, for a warm, cuddly, easy-back-to-sleep dream feed.  She did NOT want the bottle, she was not happy with me, and now, half an hour later, she's almost asleep, but still crying periodically, on daddy's chest.

Now, I'm not really asking for advice.  I know its not the end of the world, and that babies live through weaning at ages both younger and older than mine.  I am incredibly thankful for the loving and supportive daddy that my husband is to my daughter, and know that she is safe and will be fine in his arms.  And I am thankful that we have been able to share this precious nursing relationship for as long as we have.

I'm just mourning, a little, the end of that.  The end of being able to be all things to this precious little being.  Its really incredible to consider that for eighteen months now, 9 within and 9 without, I have been able to (almost completely) provide for the physical, emotional, mental, and other needs of my baby!  I love that! I have loved that!  I am glad for the support I've been given that's allowed me to do so, and I hope its been a blessing for my Eden as well, but now that time is at an end.  I applaud those who can continue to nurse their little ones through a new pregnancy, but I just can't, and I have to accept that, and realize that this is specific to nursing and yet symbolic of my whole role of parenting.

I love my daughter more than I knew I could.  If I could, I would always make her life good, always provide for her needs, always be there to comfort and fulfill and in every way, bless her life.  I have to accept that I can't.  I do the best I can, and up til now its been pretty close to possible (though a sacrifice) but she will only continue to slowly move out of my ability to be all things to her, as she should.  I sorrow for her sorrow at not being able to nurse, even knowing that it is a temporary sorrow that she will not ever consciously remember.  I'm sure that I will sorrow all the more at the struggles and trials and losses she faces with maturity.

I can't be it all.  But I do know who can.  So my highest goal is to point her to Him.  Maybe a little deep for a simple weaning, but I'm feeling pretty tender about it right now.  Who knew how much it hurt to hear your child cry and not be able to give them what they want?!

To Tell or Not To Tell

Some of you may have seen this post about Desires of the Heart, and perhaps, knowing me, thought it was about a desire for this:

Actually, somewhat surprisingly, it was not.

The burning desire that prompted the writing of that post had much more to do with this:

About six months ago, I was in the process of looking up information about raising children with special needs for a friend of mine.  I love children, and I love learning more about raising them, and I love looking things up and finding things out, so it was a fascinating experience.  Thru a series of blog hops, I came to a blog that completely captured me.  It is written by the mother of 11 children, and was begun halfway through the pregnancy of her 10^th child when ultrasounds revealed that this baby would probably be born with Down Syndrome.  In raw honesty, she journals her fears, her faith, her concerns and struggles, and ultimately the joy that comes with her precious Verity.

As I lay in our darkened bedroom, evening after evening, nursing my own little Eden to sleep, more than once I wanted to stop reading.  I wanted to shut off my Iphone, delete the link, forget about this topic.  Irrational fear whispered that I should close my eyes, close my ears, choose to not let this into my life.  As if not knowing would protect me somehow.  From what? I don’t really know.  From having this as part of my life, mostly.  At the same time, however, I was drawn on, as if “hearing a word behind me, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it.”

As I read, and saw various pictures of this family, my heart and my mind gradually began to change.  This mother’s faith and testimony touched me.  The beauty that love and truth impart to ordinary life shone out undeniably.  What had been difficult to look at, speaking honestly, became normal…

even beautiful. 

As if that journey wasn’t enough, this family then chose to bring another little one into their family through adoption.  Another little one with Down Syndrome.  Smaller, more fragile even than their biological daughter had been.  But this little one’s special needs were infinitely compounded, not by the nature of having Down Syndrome, but by the life she had lived up til then.

You see, little Katie was 9 years old.

But she only weighed around 10 pounds.

Developmentally, she was a tiny infant. 

Severely neglected, basically starving, abandoned, unwanted, almost at death’s door, this little girl was deemed of no worth in her birth country.  And why?

Because she wasn’t “perfect.”

Because she had Down Syndrome. 

Her adoption saved her literal life, of that I have no doubt.  And the way she has blossomed has been nothing short of a miracle.

The Blessing of Verity

Go read it.  Start at the beginning of Verity’s story.  You will not regret the time spent.

And so I was introduced to this world of Reece's Rainbow, of special needs adoption, of little ones who are seen as worthless by their countries and cultures because of various “imperfections.”  A world of miracles and faith, of redemption and great sacrifice.  A world of children who wait and wait for a mommy and a daddy, who live with the very probable destination of an adult mental institution when they age out of the baby house at four years old. 

Four years old!!!

That’s my nephew’s age! That’s the age of the little girl I babysit!

My heart was truly pricked, though, when I saw a little girl listed with Osteogenesis Imperfecta.  My uncle had Osteogenesis Imperfecta.  I never knew him, as he died in a car accident at 17 years old, but his memory and personhood has remained alive and well in our family.  I knew somewhat of the nature of his condition, and the difficulties it included, but I really never thought of him as  “special needs.” He went to public school.  He participated in clubs and seminary and did the things kids do.  I have read some of his writings, and he was a normal boy, living an extraordinary life.  

And it all became personal.

Don’t be surprised if this is not that last you hear of this topic!

But for now, our path has taken a different turn.  Some of you must have been praying for what you thought that first post was about because

Guess what?

We are.

Given our previous experience, we do not share this news naively.  There are no guarantees, this we know.  But we rejoice in the blessing right now, and invite you to rejoice with us.  

Thinking about the road to Emmaus

Just for a little update...

Eden is now moving forward under her own locomotion, which consists of pulling with her arms, and inching with her toes! Although it hardly looks efficient, she can get places unexpectedly quickly.  She is also sitting up and laying down again by herself, and pulling up to knees and standing on anything she can reach.  She's figured out how to open drawers and cupboards, and is especially interested in the drawer underneath the oven. She's also figured out "Peek-a-Boo" and we're treated quite often to her mischievous little grin popping out from behind a towel or table or wall corner.  She also tries to put on any piece of clothing she gets - if its off - and to take it off if its on.  So amazing to see her learn and grow so rapidly!

And,

Mama cut her hair! 

Ha! For many years, I reveled in a glorious waistlength mane. (At least, it felt glorious.  I can't vouch for how glorious it looked all the time!) I truly loved my hair, and felt like it was almost a part of my identity.  In a certain pruning episode on my mission that felt terribly traumatic at the time, but really resulted in some personal growth and blessing, I ended up with a much shorter hairstyle, though it probably was still quite long by most people's standards.  And since I've been back my hair has varied but mostly been about mid-back length.  Well, the other day I just wanted to cut it.  Myself.  So I did. I don't have any pictures yet, but it really turned out quite well, with long layers from just below chin to just below shoulder length.  It made me laugh again to realize that we're not all grown up when we officially become adults - many different parts of us mature over time.  What once seemed impossible or a fixed part of our nature can become possible, changed, and even happily so through the mellowing of time and experience.  :) Pictures will come!

The thoughts about the road to Emmaus came as I listened to Hilary Weeks sing her song by that title.  It helps my mama heart to maintain its peace during busy days and needy kids if I listen to particular music.  This song is included in that playlist.  I was sitting on the landing, the baby finally asleep for her afternoon nap, H. on the guest bed having quiet time with her stuffed animals and some books, and just letting peace wash over me.  The words drifted up the stairs and cast ripples in my mind.  

"We went our way that day 
To a village called Emmaus 
Three days since our Loard had died 
And Judas had betrayed us 
Along the way a stranger came 
And asked to travel with us 
But we couldn't see He was 
The King He was 

So we told Him of our sorrow and confusion 

How we trusted we'd be led 
To a mansion in God's kingdom 
How all our hopes had faded 
When they nailed Him to a cross 
Still we couldn't see He was 
The King He was 

On the road to Emmaus 
As He opened the scriptures to us 
And our hearts burned within us 
On the road to Emmaus 

We heard a familiar voice 
As He quoted from the prophets 
How the Son of God must give His life 
And rise again to save us 
Then as we saw the nail prints in His hands our eyes were opened 
And we could see He was 
The King He was 

Then He was gone 
Vanished from our sight 
But the Spirit made it clear to us 
The Lord was by our side"

The second verse caught my heart, and I could just imagine the disciples, so discouraged, walking along the dusty road, explaining how they had been so sure that this was the Christ.  They had been sure (in my mind's eye) of what the plan was - how it was all supposed to work out!  And then ... it didn't.  Catastrophically, didn't.  It wasn't supposed to be this way!  The almost disbelief that such a strong witness could have been wrong! And yet, Jesus was gone.  Dead.  There was no way it could work out now. 

I have felt like that. 

I knew (or thought I knew) how it was supposed to go. But it just didn't go that way, and my mortal mind was left reeling, confused, baffled by what seems to be the wrong ending.  Its especially so when I have felt so spiritually sure, only to have it all end in disaster, or at least just not go the way I was confident it would.

From our vantage point, we can see the happy ending.  The thing that seemed to shatter their hopes and make impossible that which they had so confidently foreseen was actually the very key to those hopes and that testimony.  They couldn't see, for the time being, how the tragedy and loss were just a step.  A hard step, a step that they didn't foresee, but a step all the same to making what they had been sure of, true.  They hadn't seen wrong.  They just hadn't seen it all.

I can't say that I see how certain heartbreaks and struggles and paths that haven't worked out in my life are key to making the greater plan, the greater good, come to pass, but I wonder how many of them have been just that.  Key to the Father's plan, which is so great that "eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man."  Its a strange pair of glasses to wear, but I like it - it gives me hope, and restores my faith.  Its not always that I have seen (or dreamed) wrong.  More likely, I just haven't seen, or dreamed, it all.  The happy ending will be happier even than I had hoped.