Three years

Three years ago today we lost you. Three years ago today I woke up in my childhood house in a bedroom that wasn't mine but still felt like home. Your presence still dominating every room, your personal touch in every corner. Three years ago today I still had a little hope. Not much. As each hour passed and you didn't wake, as each nurse looked at us with more empathy and spoke more softly, as each doctor said they would really rather just speak to us as a whole family so we could talk about options, my hope and optimism took a beating. But three years ago, some still remained. It was Christmas after all - the season of miracles when usually all felt right and wondrous with the world. And three years ago, at the end of the day, I rode home on roads I had traveled thousands of times, to a house I had run in and out of for almost twenty years and was as familiar to me as my own family. And it was all different. It was all clouded by your absence. So new and raw and just absolutely life altering.

And every time I hear Kenny Chesney's "Who Would You Be Today" I think of you. My heart aches a little more. It seems silly sometimes that that would be the song that makes me miss you - a song about youth cut down in it's prime; of someone who never had a chance to make a family or decide what shape their journey would take. I know who you would be today. We all do.

Staring at all five of your grandbabies in front of Cinderella's Castle this past October in Disney World, we all said "She would love this." And we knew it with total certainty. Every time I visit Daddy's new house and see the six carpets arranged in a mosaic through his dining room, I laugh and tell him "She would hate this." And he looks at me, knowing full well you would and full well that he is not changing it. We knew you. You had for decades been who you were going to be. When everything else was changing, what could be counted on was you and Daddy. Steadfast in who you were and what you represented.

So every time I hear Kenny's exaggerated country twang start in - "Like a story that had just begun - But death tore all the pages away" -  I don't wonder who you would be. I wonder who we would all be with you here. How would your continued influence in our lives have changed who we are three years later?

I think back to those early days of motherhood, when it seemed I could do nothing right. When I cried that I was failing B in every way and fretted about every aspect of her life that I could and couldn't control. When I felt like I was spinning out of control just like the world around me. And I laid in your bed, just like when I was little, and sobbed the big, exhausted sobs of a new mom whose baby doesn't sleep and husband travels and just feels completely overwhelmed and not worthy enough for motherhood. And you pushed my hair out of my face, looked me in the eyes, and said "Watch her when you enter a room. Watch her face light up, her smile, and how she reaches for you. You are enough. You are what she needs."

And for me, in that moment, as my mother, you were enough. You were enough to give me confidence and strength and embrace that motherhood is messy and heart breaking and constantly evolving, but that I can do it. You made me a better mom. So, I wonder three years later, how you would have continued to influence that. How you would have helped me navigate the challenges of adding to our family and that come along with babies becoming children.

And, oh, the girls. That seems the most unfair to me. Only 18 months with B. Only one birthday and one Christmas. Like a story that had just begun - But death tore all the pages away. And Baby K - to think she will never know what it feels like to have you hold her, or sing her to sleep, or make her feel like she is the most special thing in the world. Three years later, and that is still unimaginable to me. Three years later, and I grieve most that my babies won't know you. Of course they will know your pictures and your stories, hear your laugh on old videos, but they won't know you. Not in the way a grandbaby should know their grandmom. Not in the way their cousins will through shared memories of countless hours spent together.

And so the song comes on and I daydream about what it would be like three years later, if you were still here. The visits to Georgia, the long summers spent in Virginia. The love that just radiated out of you and poured onto your grandbabies. They were your heart. Your life. How you would have retired and hopped back and forth between my house and Molly's, so willing to travel but still email RB with job openings in Newport News and reminding us all that Christmas would of course be at your house.

And I think back to a little over three years ago, running into that hospital room after our long drive from Georgia, everyone else already gathered there, and your eyes flickered when you saw me. You knew I was there, and acknowledged it as best you could. But the next morning, when I brought in B... and you tried to reach for her. Though you were exhausted and your body ransacked by the first stroke, you tried to sit up and hold your youngest grandbaby. You longed for her. You fought for her. I often think that is why you fought so hard. Why you held on for 11 days through more strokes and worsening odds and challenge after challenge. You were fighting to spend more time with those four little ones that you cherished.

And with a love like that, how could I not wonder who all of us would be now with three more years of your love and support and companionship? So three years later, and everything has changed. There are new babies and relationships and houses and jobs that you will never see. There are new outrageous stories to the family lore that you will never know. And three years later, nothing has changed. I miss you. Your absence is felt in every milestone and quiet moment and picture taken. And I wonder who we would all be today if not for this December night three years ago.

Sunny days seem to hurt the most. 
I wear the pain like a heavy coat. 
The only thing that gives me hope, 
Is I know I'll see you again some day. 

Some day. Some day. Some day.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. - Matthew 5:4 

My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life. - Psalm 119:5

Falling forward

Ganma insisted B needed fall accoutrement in her two month picture. 

If you couldn't tell by the brisk 85 degree weather outside here in Georgia, today is the first day of fall. More than any other season, fall always feels like the start of something new to me. Maybe it is because for so many years my life was regulated by the school calendar and now is again as the mother of a student. Or maybe it is because growing up in Coastal Virginia, there always really only felt like there were two seasons (flip flop or boot) the whole year. Regardless the reason, the start of cooler nights and shorter days always invigorates me. Even though the temperatures are falling, somehow the whole world seems warmer and more inviting to me.

Today also marks three years since I last saw my momma before her stroke. Three years since I woke up in the house I grew up, secure in who I was and my role in the world and the safety of it all. Three years since I saw her in her best role - as the Ganma with the shining eyes at the sight of her grandbabies, the loving, gentle hands, the uplifting and encouraging voice.

Fall with her favorites

Molly and Albert would have many more. My daddy another two months. But today marks the start of the end of my story with her. And it is fitting that the first day of fall would be my last day with her. Fall was always our season. She and Molly had spring to talk about plants and flowers and all their green thumb glory while I nodded respectfully. She and Albert were both creatures of the summer growing up, more tolerant of the sun than anyone else, basking in the hot Virginia weather. Fall, though, was ours.

Both of us inherently planners, we spent the weeks with heads bowed over Southern Living and well -thumbed cookbooks, constructing the perfect holiday meals. She planned my birthday with love and care just as I did hers. We both planned and whispered and plotted for my daddy's. We talked mums and craft fairs and each year enabled the other to start decorating "just a few days" earlier. She sent B holiday outfit after holiday outfit, never questioning if there was possibly such a thing as "too many."

Thank you, Pinterest. 

The fall of 2012, I saw her every three weeks despite our being three states away. She came down; we went up. She experienced B's fall firsts and I felt comforted in her presence.

Our last fall together, our trips were scattered and infrequent. There were many reasons for that - both good and bad - but there were no plans for visits from her surprise party in September to Christmas three months later. Though there were no more pictures to be had, no more quiet moments of rocking or enjoying her house while it was still hers, we still had our fall connection. The daily calls and emails and Facetime sessions to discuss what B would be for Halloween and did I love mom's new topiary and where in the world could we find green crystal to match the Christmas china united and bonded us. Little did we know all this planning would not lead up the Christmas and family time we had hoped, but rather to hospitals and condolence cards and immeasurable grief.

Giant fuzzy pumpkin outfit courtesy of Ganma

Two falls have now slipped by since she passed. The first was the obligatory season of checklist grieving. Her first birthday with her gone? Check. First Halloween she won't trick or treat with Molls' kids? Check. First fall acutely feeling her absence every hour of every day? Check. Check. Check. Every day and event felt forced and holiday merriment was manufactured.

The second fall brought the joy and chaos of a new house and a new baby. It also brought the very real new grief of leaving the last house my momma knew me in and visited. Of having a precious child she would never meet or hold. Our lives continued and grew and changed, just as our grief did, the two continuing forward hand in hand.

B's first pumpkin patch

And so now we start our third fall with her gone. The next few months are all marked for me by the lasts. The last package. The last Halloween she oohed and aaaahed over pictures. The last email. The last Facetime. The last. The last. The last. 

But, as in the years before her death, this fall will also be the start of something new. A marked changed in the year for us. B has headed back to school. Baby K grows and develops and changes every day. We head into the most family orientated time of year missing our matriarch but carrying with us her traditions and lessons and memories. I welcome fall this year. And with every falling leaf and wooden decoration, with every pumpkin pie and pecan bar, with every quiet night under a warm blanket sipping hot chocolate, I will think of her. I will feel her love. I will remember all the falls we did share. And for a minute, the cold nights will feel that much more more warm.

Momma's last picture with all her babies. 

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

2     a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3     a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
4     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5     a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8     a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Happy Fourth Birthday, My Bonnie Love

     Somewhere between "nothing good happens at this time of night" and "o'dark thirty," last night, two little fingers jabbed me repeatedly in the face. In my half-awake, no contacts haze, I could just make out two big eyes and curls swishing in front of me. The words came tumbling out, in that excited cadence of hers. "MOMMY. AM I FOUR?" she whisper-yelled. "IS TODAY MY BIRTHDAY?"
   
And thus my sweet girl kicked off her fourth birthday much how she spent every day of her threes. With exuberance and a genuine excitement for life. With joy and a desire to share her happiness with those around her. With a strong love of any good party. And with little recognition that most humans need more than a cat nap every night.

     Three, in my mind at least, was the "Year Of All The Changes."

New house.
New church.
New school.
New sister.

But more than all the tangible, external changes in her little world, the big changes in B came this past year. Three was the year she shed those last vestiges of babyhood and fully became a little girl. Pass the Macallan, please.During three, there was a little less snuggling and hand holding during social events and a lot more bravery and friendships and exploring on her own. "I can do it myself" became a running refrain in our house, especially if that "it" was something she had seen a cousin - her role models for kid-hood - do. Less and less did I see her turn her head in music or ballet to make sure I was still there. To connect to home base. More and more, I saw her confidence lead her into a room, excited to be there. Sure in the knowledge that fun lay ahead. 

As she grew taller, she became more self-sufficient and capable. Less often did a little voice call for me to hand something down and more often I saw long legs on the tips of their toes, stretching our little ballerina farther and farther to reach their destination. Occasionally, with that devilish twinkle in her eye, she used this to her advantage. "I am eating the cookie because I could reach it" or "I am coloring with the Sharpie because my hand could touch it" seemed liked perfectly logical excuses for all manners of infractions. More often, she used her growing capabilities for good. I am embarrassed to admit how many times those sweet little hands reached up to fill up a cup of water for me during those awful first months of pregnancy. After the morning sickness finally subsided and Baby K was here, those legs and hands were used for fetching baby sister all the diapers, toys, blankets, and books a newborn could want. B did it not because she was asked but because she instantly fell in love with her baby sister and loved nothing more than to make Baby K laugh.

Three was the year her vocabulary expanded rapidly. A stronger language grasp meant fewer tantrums due to an inability to communicate. On the flip side, however, the larger vocab introduced us to Bargain B. I don't know if it is her eternal optimism or general strong-willed nature, but every plan or comment was up for negotiation in her mind. Three books before bed? How about seven?  Seven is better than three. That would be a good idea. Momma, say it would be a good idea. Say iiiiitttttttt.  

What could I have for breakfast? Not cereal. Not fruit. Maybe something... hmmm... what about something cold? And white? With chocolate chips in it? Maybe ice cream? That could be cold and white with chips. That would be a good idea. 

Her new vocabulary also allowed her heart to shine through more. There wasn't a day that went by that Baby K wasn't told she was the sweetest baby in the whole wide world. Or that B let her Daddy know she was proud of him for emptying the dishwasher. Or that her family makes her heart happy. Sure, sometimes it also meant she told the dogs they were "the worst of ever of everything." And occasionally she told strangers that Baby K's favorite thing to eat was trash and Daddy loved to poop. But mostly, during this year, we heard love and affirmation. Affection, kindness, and a real heart for others constantly poured out of those precious three-year-old lips.


Three was also the year her imagination took off in full force. Every construction site wasn't going to be another Starbucks strip mall. No. It would be a castle, tall and steadfast, flags billowing from the turrets, princesses peeking out of every window. Princesses and Santa and the Easter Bunny were all very real to her this year and filled her with wonderment and glee.  A new imaginary friend appeared in March and now we can't do a thing without her, right there, asking for chocolate or a pony or taking the blame for some wrongdoing. No car trip - no matter how small - is complete without a "puhtend" game of Go Fish or B's animated retelling of a classic story.

Three, of course, was the year B became a big sister. Though I worried about how the sudden arrival of a new little would rock the Queen B's world, she took to it with grace and aplomb. There is nothing that delights her more than helping get baby sister out of the crib in the morning. B is all smiles as she greets her little sister, telling her it will be a wonderful day and that she is so, so loved. B introduces K proudly to everyone we see - even our friends who have met her a million times by now. "This is MY baby sister Katherine. She is a girl. She is the sweetest baby in the whole wide world." Though B may sometimes rage about little sister touching her toys or looking at her books, B is fiercely defensive of K. If B feels that K has been crying too long, we will surely all hear about it - even long after K has been comforted and calmed.

With her new found independence, B also became fiercely aware that she could control (within limits what she wore). Rarely could we leave the house without two dress changes, trying to find the most pink, "most fanciest" thing in her closet. She requested everything have a "BBK" and asked other littles at the park where their monograms were, bless their hearts. We laughed at her insistence that she only visit Kroger in full princess regalia, mainly just so we didn't have to admit we created this clothing monster.

In some ways, three was a hard, hard year in the world around B. A rough pregnancy. The upheaval and complete chaos of suddenly doubling the number of little ones dependent on you. Continued mourning.

But watching B as a three year old was a beautiful thing. It was a joy every day to see her grow and learn. To hear her laugh, easy and unencumbered, pure joy. To feel those hands around my neck for good night snuggles and hear those feet running down the hall to greet me. To see her mind develop and expand. To witness her excitement at a new book or beautiful flower or dog with it's shaggy head outside a neighboring car. To see how easily loving her neighbor comes to her. B hasn't met a soul that she hasn't tried to make family. She showers strangers and friends with love. Much like her own sweet granma, she makes whoever she is with feel like they are the most special person in the world.

Yes, three was a complete joy. Despite the occasional diva comments and #threenager fits, it was a joy. So, we say goodbye to it with a little bit of sadness. A little touch of melancholy that this year - with these moments of innocence and wonder and new adventures- has passed. That another birthday has come without my momma - her ganma - here to celebrate or bear witness to who this little girl is becoming.

But we also say goodbye to three with a lot of excitement and anticipation. Four will surely be another year of growth and love and adventure and pure fun. I am excited to see where four takes you, my darling girl. You are a ray of sunshine that brings more joy than I can ever express. I am so thankful to get to be your momma. Happy birthday, my sweet Bon Bon.

Raising little girls

I saw her before I could hear her. Head slumped forward, curls damp and covering her tear-stained face. As she got closer, I saw her little shoulders heaving with each strained "Momma. Momma. Momma." She crawled into my lap, hugging fiercely onto my neck. Her voice, muffled from being buried into my chest, slowly choked out "She says she is not my best friend. She's not my best friend. She said she has a new best friend."

We had only been at the park for about an hour, meeting one of B's preschool friends -  a girl who B has spoken about with love and reverence since the first day of school. When I have visited the classroom, they have been constant companions - holding hands on the playground, sitting by each other at lunch, hugging goodbye in the carpool lane. Today, though, a third girl was on the playground and suddenly B found herself on the outside of a friendship triangle. And as her heart broke, so did mine.

It is startling to me that already, at the tender age of three, the cliques and friendship ranking has already started. It was just six months ago the babies didn't care who they played with and now we hear frequently about who is "best friends" with whom and how the playground hierarchy fell out that day.

I want to wrap B and her sensitive soul in a bubble. Protect her from the onslaught that is coming. Because if it is like this now... how will middle school be? High school? There is no bubble to be had, though. And I know I can't fight her battles for her. The best I can do is guide her - to be confident in who she is, to love herself, to love others around her even when it is hard.

I wince thinking of all the times I have felt left out or friendless. I spent most of my high school years feeling like a complete misfit, not sure where - if anywhere - I fit in. Girls could be mean and those teenage friendships were often fraught with unnecessary drama. I wince even harder thinking of my role in it all. When I was unkind. Or uninviting. Or unforgiving. I think most women, looking back, will tell you they were both victim and aggressor, they dished it out even though they knew intimately how horrible it was to be on the receiving end.

So now, here I am, 31. With friendships that are decades old, tried and true. And new friends that have battled mommyhood with me, forging our bond in the fire of sleepless nights and teething babies and lost pregnancies and the constantly changing roles of who we are at this stage of life. And I think, for the first time in my life, I feel truly content with who I am and the relationships I have. But every now and then, I feel that awkward little girl creeping back in. Reminding me that not everyone wants to play. Not everyone wants to be my friend. That fundamentally there must be some flaw in me.

And I look at my precious girls and want more for them. I want more than insecurity and self-doubt and cattiness and striving to measure up to self-imposed, ridiculous standards. Every morning we sit in carpool, B and I pray the same prayer together.

Thank you for this beautiful day, for the opportunity to go to school and learn. Please help it to be a wonderful day - for me to learn and have fun. To be safe. And please help me to feel Christ's love and also be an example of Christ's love to others. 

Silently, I pray my own prayer for my girls. That they would learn kindness and compassion far younger than I did. That their skins would be thicker but their hearts bigger. That they live an inclusive life, always being a friend to the friendless. That no matter what comes, they remember they are perfect and loved in the eyes of not only their parents but of their Heavenly Father. That somehow, in some way, as I battle my own tendencies and insecurities, I can be a positive example for them. And that if anyone ever does create a bubble to protect their little hearts, I can be first in line to get one.

On becoming a mother of two.

     Four days after giving birth to Baby K, I found myself in a stifling hot high school choir room. Throngs of little girls in beautiful Christmas ballet costumes paraded by my still bruised and battered body, giggling and twirling as they prepared to go on stage. With strict orders not to lift anything over 20 lbs, a 30 lb toddler I had never met before sat on my hip, crying uncontrollably because she wanted her mom and none of us backstage moms were a worthy substitute. Trying to ignore the overwhelming pressure to either nurse or pump, I absentmindedly joined in the other moms' idle chatter.
Isn't this weather crazy? It is so warm for December. 
Nope, almost finished Christmas shopping but not totally done. 
Oh, I have one other daughter. Her birthday was Tuesday.
- Tuesday? How fun! How old did she turn?
Oh, no. I mean literally she was born on Tuesday. 
...
- You have a four day old? And you are here?
Yep. 
- Girl, you are crazy. 

    And thus began my introduction to being a mom to two. We hadn't even planned on going to the recital, but at the very last minute the mom guilt reared its ugly, unfair, unrelenting head, completely overwhelming me. I found myself packing B into the car and racing to the high school for her three minutes of fame, leaving RB somewhat astonished and dumbfounded, holding baby K and a freshly pumped bottle, still unsure of what had just happened.

     Would B have known she had missed the recital? I doubt it. And even if she had, she would have forgotten it within a week. Did Baby K realize she was asleep in her daddy's arms and not mine? Probably not. And even if she did, his arms are still just as loving and kind as mine. So maybe it was the hormones or maybe the huge shift in our family that was less than a week new, but I felt like I had to go. And also felt a deep sense of shame and regret that I was abandoning Baby K so soon. I was driven to keep B's life as it had been while simultaneously also making sure Baby K was loved and pampered and spoiled only like a newborn can be. Having two - at least for those first two months - felt like constantly having my heart divided.

    Every time I asked B to sing quietly or please just be still so she won't wake baby sister, I felt like I was crushing her spirit. Every time I let Baby K cry that gut wrenching newborn cry because B was in a potty crisis or attempting to climb to death-defying heights, I worried I was permanently damaging her psyche. To my own horror, I could hear myself like a robot - just hold on, just hold on, I am coming, I am coming. To commit the cardinal sins of English majors - it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.


   Maybe I had a little bit of the baby blues - I know I had a lot of the missing my momma blues - but those first few weeks felt like a never ending cycle of guilt and exhaustion and never living up to my own expectations. Even with the world's most supportive husband and three doting grandparents, it felt like I could never be enough to my girls. Someone always needed mommy and most likely both needed me at the same time.

   I over-scheduled to try to keep B entertained and happy. I cancelled everything thinking we just needed down time at home. I made to do lists. I finished nothing. I nursed and changed diapers and found missing princess shoes and rocked two babies at once and kept a running tally in my head of all the ways I had failed that day. I asked more of B and did less for Baby K. I cried out of exhaustion. I prayed for patience.

   And then, one night, with RB at work well past the girls' bedtime, the house a disaster, and the dogs not fed, I found grace through the eyes of a three year old. I was as over-tired as the girls were, stumbling around trying to force my wild child firstborn into bed. It had been a hard night of broken glasses, loose dogs, battered egos, and many tears - both the girls' and mine. Finally, with teeth brushed and books read, we all laid in B's bed. Baby K asleep on my chest, B curled up and hugging my arm as tightly as possible. I asked her what she wanted to pray for that night, bracing myself for the usual litany of obscure blessings - Ariel and Prince Eric, the doggies even though they are bad, ice water. Half asleep already, she whispered softly "For Mommy and Daddy and baby sister. They make my heart happy  every day. I love you Mommy."

     In less than 20 words, the weight of the world lifted off my shoulders. I held back tears and snuggled in deeper under B's quilt, hugging my sweet girl a little tighter. Baby K settled in, touching both me and the big sister she adored. And we all fell asleep there, content with one another, mother and daughters intertwined.

    I woke up the next day and nothing really had changed. There were still meals to be made, books to be read, noses to be wiped, attention to be paid. In the light of the new day, though, it felt different. I allowed myself a little bit of the grace B had given. Grace to realize that it was okay to not be everything to everyone at all times. Grace to understand that this time of extreme neediness would pass. The girls will grow. Our rhythms will settle. This too shall pass. Grace to realize that the most important thing I can give these sweet babies is love - not a perfect house or a Pinterest life or even, on some days, matching socks - but love. Unconditional, unwavering, agape love. The kind of love that makes a three year old's heart happy and a 10 week old coo when she hears your voice. Grace to allow myself to believe that I am enough. Though it rarely feels like it, I am enough. I am their mommy and they are my babies and that is enough.

    It has been a hard two and a half months, but also easily, the sweetest of my life, so full of grace and love undeserved but thankfully and joyfully welcomed. It almost makes me ready for #3. Almost.