Let it Be

I sat on the couch tonight with three babies in my lap. One asleep and the two older ones jockeying for position. The house is lit up in a weird festive display of taco lights as we prepare to celebrate Baby K's second birthday. The glow and warmth they provide are everything Christmas is made of and I almost forget what they are until I catch a glimpse of the pile of plastic cheese out of the corner of my eye. There we sat in our Mexican glow, Charlie Brown's Thanksgiving Special entrancing the kids, the whole house filling up with the smell of apple and peach pies, constantly reminding of the holiday that awaits us tomorrow. But I didn't cry.

I thought back to the Thanksgiving four years ago. The tall, articulate five year old now sprawled across my lap was just barely one. Today, just like that day, she sported fine curls and new Christmas pjs. Her eyes followed Charlie Brown and her shoulders swayed to the characters' songs. I can see that whole night so clearly in my head. That last night of normalcy. That last night before heartbreak. I remembered every conversation, smell, and taste from that night and my thoughts skipped ahead to the next day. But I didn't cry.

Friends have reached out this week with kind words and thinking of yous, their love never ending. My heart swelled with their generosity but my hands didn't shake. I heard Joe Biden speak on grief and nodded my head in agreement at the truth in his words. I didn't internally argue back that he doesn't know my grief. I showed B the slideshow from Momma's funeral again, pausing to explain whose baby picture is whose, laughing when she talked about Uncle Albert's head being lopsided and agreeing that Papa is so much better without the mustache. But I didn't cry.

In fact, I don't think I have cried at all this week. There has been no holding my breath or marveling at the fact that I am now the master of ceremonies. It has all seemed rather status quo, full of turkey crafts and pumpkin baking and kids hyped up and off schedule. There has been the usual longing - when I stare at her grandbabies that she will never meet. When I tell the car to call an old friend and instead her name pops up as the option. When I see my friends excited to head home to full houses for the holidays. The longing persists. But there are no tears.

Maybe it is the time passing. Or the insurmountable to do list of having three leaving room for little else. Geez, maybe it is the post baby Zoloft mellowing me out. It feels, though, like a corner turned. That the sheer weight of grief has lifted and no longer are my shoulders slumped in sadness.

The grief that has defined me for four years seems to be taking second place to other aspects of my life. To motherhood and marriage. To a desire to return to the girl I was. The one who laughed easily and enjoyed life to it's fullest. And so I don't cry.

I don't feel like I wear my grief on my chest anymore. It no longer enters a room before I do, announcing the sad little motherless daughter in it's wake. It still exists, of course, omnipresent in every moment, announcing itself in subtle ways and when I least expect it. Suddenly, though, it doesn't feel like it defines me.

Or, maybe I don't want it to define me anymore. Maybe I am ready to let it go. Not let her go, of course. No, she is intertwined in my every memory, feeling like every bit a part of me as my own children do. But maybe I am just ready to let the active, gnashing of the teeth, desperate grief go.

I know what came of this Thanksgiving four years ago. I have relived it over and over and thought if only that one day didn't happen. But it did, and from it sprung unexpected and crippling heartache and a loss that will never be filled. Those things have been so clear to me since the day we said good bye.

Now, though, I also know that a stronger family arose from those ashes. That my idea of motherhood was altered permanently and for the better, giving me more patience and love for the chaos around me. My faith grew as I watched my sweet daddy repeat "God is good. No matter what." next to his sweetheart's deathbed and every day for the four years following. Old friendships were renewed and new ones strengthened as those around me sustained us during the longest nights.

And so I don't cry. Not every day anymore. Though I think of her every hour and see her in almost everything I do, I don't cry. I head into Thanksgiving with a heart brimming over with love for the years I had her. I say thanks, too, for the four years since, that have shaped me probably more than any in my entire life. And I smile.

A love letter to my son

My darling Will, my sweet little buddy,

A few days from now, with you in some sort of themed smock that your daddy will roll his eyes at and with your sisters jumping all around you, we will lay you down on your monthly blanket and mark that you have been here for three months. Three months - or 13 weeks + 1 day because baby age math is weird - you joined our family. Right on time but almost a whole pound smaller than your sisters, there you were - our dark haired, bright eyed boy. The baby we had all prayed for ... but, as she will remind us all in perpetuum, that your big sister B had prayed for first. 

I wasn't afraid gearing up to your arrival. Your pregnancy had been healthier and easier than both your sisters'. As a family, we had done the traumatic birth. The stint in the NICU. The transition for our first babies to get a new baby. The postpartum depression. We had conquered it all and come out with full hearts and an overflowing home. I felt prepared and excited. I was ready for new baby smell and close snuggles and those long hours in the middle of the night, just you and me, rocking, nursing, softly singing lullabies, getting to know one another now that we were not physically bound to one another.

Then you arrived and, in every way, you were perfect. A masculine version of your sisters at birth, I cried huge, happy tears the first time they placed you on my chest. Sure, you were actively peeing on my chest every chance you got, but you also immediately nestled into my neck, knowing instinctively that you were home.

So we began, on cloud nine with you. You rarely made a peep those first few weeks save for a faint coo here and there. Our friends called you a dream and we all made too many bad jokes about the juxtaposition of your sweet, angelic face sound asleep with your sisters in the background, typically on a trampoline or playing some sort of instrument they had clearly been given by someone without kids. Somehow my songs to you became "Danny Boy" and "Oh, Shenandoah," and the opening verses would quickly see your already heavy eyes grow heavier, and your body would fall peacefully limp in my arms.

Of course, during those first few weeks, we had the usual challenges of three. B crying because she didn't want to leave you. K not sure what her new role was as big sister but still a baby in need of much attention and affection. The dogs flabbergasted that there was yet another little one added to our zoo. It was all manageable chaos, though. Happy, wonderful, manageable chaos.

Then the crying started. The non stop, soul wrenching, painful crying. The kind of crying that made strangers wince in empathy and ask me if you were okay. The kind of crying that invited everyone and their mother to instantly give me advice.

It is colic. You will be walking the halls for the next six months. It's not colic, that's not a real thing.

Go dairy free. Try gluten free. Have you cut out meat? Soy? Oranges? 

You are dehydrated. You are drinking too much water. 

Switch to formula. He will be fine. 

Try this bottle. No, try this bottle. 

Feed on demand. Feed on schedule. 

Everyone had advice to give and anecdotes about the magic trick for instant health, but the crying continued. And walk the halls we did. In between doctor's appointments and lactation consultants, we walked the halls. I carried you in whatever position would stop your pitiful sobs, knowing it would only work for a few minutes and then I'd be searching for a new one. I cut a trail through our downstairs, stepping over crayons and dolls I had let your sisters throw everywhere because all my energy was hyper-focused on you and the crying. Sonny Girl always walked dutifully behind, her old girl legs keeping up no matter the time of day. Sometimes, I walked with K on my other hip, my hot tears falling on both your heads from the pure exhaustion and overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Sometimes I tiptoed, fearfully of waking the whole house up as we paced at 2, 3, or 4 in the morning.

Then I'd finally get you to sleep and lay you in your crib, and the prayers would pour out of me. Lord, tell me what to do. Lord, help me help him. Please help him to wake rested and feeling better. Please help me not to fail him. 

Because that is what it felt like, my darling boy. Like I was failing you. Because suddenly something that had seemed so natural for your sisters - the one motherhood area where I never felt like I fell short - was failing you. I couldn't feed you. I was making you sick. And we talked to the doctors and the consultants and they all agreed formula would be worse for you and to just keep trying. But trying only to see you scream in pain felt like failure. Even though you were gaining weight and everyone said it must just be a phase, it all felt like failure.

Every instinct in my body tells me to love and protect you. To wrap you and your sisters in a cocoon in the small section of the world where we live and keep you safe and happy for as long as I can. Yet suddenly, I was the one introducing the danger.

And like clockwork, the postpartum depression reared its ugly head. On a beautiful October day in Georgia, it waltzed right in, ready to regain control. Maybe it was the sleep exhaustion and worry. Maybe it was the family history or my personal postpartum history. Maybe it was me still grieving your grandmother, or the stress of three, or a million other things - but it was back. And it all ended with a sobbing call to your daddy in the middle of the day that something is wrong with me. 

Immediately, our tribe rallied. They brought meals, organized play dates, texted, called, and loved on all five of us. And they prayed. Oh, how they prayed for you and for me.

Slowly, oh so slowly, we both started to find our way out. With the help of amazing professionals for both of us and great meds for me (no shame in better living through science), we both grew healthier.  Your cry - that kick in the gut, send shivers down your spine cry - has been replaced with a wide smile. Your thrashing in pain is now an excited movement when you hear your sisters' voices or see your daddy when he arrives home from work. The pain that had turned to numbness for me has since turned again, to an amazing joy at seeing you thrive and blossom.

Yes, we are still both in the thick of it. We still have our long days and longer nights and there are moments where I catch a glimpse of those early weeks of confusion and heartache. But together, we are pulling out of it.

As we approach your three months milestone, I have hope. Hope for the happy days ahead and the love you have already brought to us continuing to multiply tenfold. Hope that you will find a family of friends like ours one day that will rally around you in your darkest moments, not asking "why" but just simply "how can I help?" Hope that the lightness in your days will continue to be outnumbered by the dark.

Your smile, my little buddy, is everything to me right now. So large, it encompasses both of your giant cheeks and eclipses the rest of your face. It was fought for, that smile. By you and by me and by everyone that loves us. It is a trophy to mark the end of three hard months and the start of a new chapter in our story. It is a smile I wouldn't trade for anything in the entire world and one I will hold close in my heart for the rest of my days. I love you, Buddy. Now, always, and forever.

Cleaning out our closets

My momma's purse is sitting in my hall closet. Almost four years now that I have had it and I have no memory of how that happened. I know I took it to my childhood home that first night in the hospital - it rode next to me in the front seat of my daddy's SUV along with everything else he didn't want to keep at the hospital. Her wedding ring. Her jacket. Her gloves folded neatly on top of it all.

But how did it make it to Georgia? Or from the move from our townhouse to our new house? There are so many memories etched into my brain from those weeks - the exact words of grief-filled conversations, the smell of certain foods being dropped off at the house, the Christmas decorations that glittered in our darkest moments. But I don't remember the purse or how it came to be mine.

So, it sits in our closet. Surrounded by baby shoes and umbrellas and errant doll accessories.

It occurs to me that since the loss of my mom, the amount of clutter in my life has grown exponentially. Besides the emotional clutter that accompanies every day - big or little - there is actual, literal clutter everywhere. Our closets are overflowing.

They are stuffed with the tiny little girl dresses I purchased late at night because I couldn't sleep with the weight of the grief sitting on my chest. The ones that reminded me of Momma and that I could imagine her saying "Oh, honey ... I love it," when she saw it. The ones that made me think maybe if my daughter looks put together, I can pretend I have it together, too.

The holiday books that I collected and cataloged litter the playroom and fall off bulging shelves. But I ordered more because I knew the days of monthly themed packages packed with care were over and I was both devastated and furious to have B (and now her brother and sister) denied that love and attention.

Drawers hold random scraps of her handwriting. They aren't just the heartfelt cards and book inscriptions written in her loopy prose reminding me of how loved I was. No - I kept even the small notes that said things like "Maggs - Here are the jackets you left at the house on your visit. I love you. Momma." Inconsequential, unremarkable notes that I couldn't let go.

And the piles of her things ... for a long time they were everywhere. Piles upon piles of things I couldn't bear to see discarded as Daddy downgraded from her dream house to his. Things that didn't fit in our already cramped townhouse but couldn't be let go. It felt like an act of betrayal, almost, to disregard the things she loved.

Which is silly when I think about it now, almost four years later. This was a woman who had little sentimental value for possessions and in many ways despised clutter. Sure, she had a few treasures she valued but for the most part, she was as minimalist as a Baby Boomer can get. This is the same woman, after all, who asked on the day I left for college if she could take down all my posters, photos, and high school knickknacks because they were "just too much." The same woman who would use daddy's business trips as a time to clandestinely throw out whatever she deemed as clutter. The same woman who called us that first day we were in the NICU with our first baby to ask (and somewhat demand) if she could clean out my husband's t-shirt drawer.

But despite her own personal feelings on too much stuff, I found myself mourning through holding on and acquiring. I wrapped myself in her things like a protective shield, somehow believing they could stave off the grief that felt crippling at times. I wore her ring to the birth of my second daughter, her namesake, as a security blanket of sorts. In fact, I wore it any time I felt I needed extra strength to get through a day. I showered my girls in things I thought she would love as if that would fill the hole she left and the experiences they were being deprived.  The night of her 66th birthday - the first after her passing - I sat on my closet floor clutching one of her sweaters. In between deep breaths of her perfume that still lingered on the fabric, I sobbed for all that we had lost. For what seemed like an eternity, there I sat clutching the sweater like some sort of talisman that would connect me to her while simultaneously banishing my grief.

But as time has passed, some things have been lost. The worksheets she picked out for her grandchildren have been completed. Her diamond earrings were taken to preschool by a precocious 3 year old who told me about the escapade days later, with saucers for eyes and trepidation in her voice. As our family quickly progressed from three to five, some things even lost their meaning. I couldn't remember why I had saved them or, sometimes, even if they were hers.

More importantly, my grief evolved. The need for the physical - to hear her voice and feel her arms wrapped around me and smell her perfume and mousse - lessened. It certainly hasn't disappeared but as my new normal is her in absentia, the need for the physical feels less urgent somehow. So I don't spend half a day crying anymore when something of her's is broken by little hands. I don't need to rub my hands along something that was her's to feel her presence.

No, my grief, and thus my coping, has morphed. I connect now in the activities I do with my babies - so many are replicas of the ones she did with me as a child. I tell them the same stories she told me and rub their backs like she did mine. I volunteer and give to my community as she modeled her entire life. I cook her recipes and listen to John Denver. I connect through the experiences she gave me, not the things. I remember the warmth and safety I often felt around her and try to replicate that whenever possible. I wrap myself in the everlasting gifts she gave us rather than the earthly. Her legacy is not of clothes or jewelry or holiday decorations. Her legacy is how she made people feel - her love for those hurting, her tenacity whenever faced with a challenge, her firm belief in God and family and serving both by doing for others.

So, though the purse still sits in my closet, that is not what I will pass down to my children of her. I hope they will not walk away with just trivial tokens but with a greater sense of who she was, how she shaped me, and thus how she shaped them. That they would know her and not just her things.

"A good man leaves an inheritance to his children's children."  2 Proverbs 13:22

Momma and her youngest grandchild.
Photo credit to the incomparable Carrie Gantt
http://www.carrieganttphotography.com/
Original photo of momma by the amazing Lindsay Collette
http://www.lindsaycollette.com/

Happy (super late) birthday, Baby K

Oh, my sweet second child. My sweet, sweet second child.

Today, you hit yet another milestone in all those many milestones that come in rapidly, one after another, during these first few years of life. You hit 18 months. Closer to two than one. More toddler than baby.

And in pure second child status, I realized today, unlike your big sister, there was no sentimental, gushing, adoration filled first birthday blog. If there was ever a testament to your first plus year of life, that would be it.

Your first year was much different than your sister's. There was no schedule formed entirely around your wants and needs. No leisurely naps that lasted as long as your heart wanted, us both curled together in bed, bonding while the rest of the world was shut out completely. There were no baby Gymboree classes or effort to find mommy and baby friends.

Instead there were naps in your car seat while at sister's ballet practice or on the way to swim lessons. Every Monday - Thursday, I cringed as I had to wake you up early from your deep sleep so we weren't late for car line again. Always the last ones, yes, but never "late." Your friends were sister's friends - or their little siblings.

But for all the second child neglect, my darling girl, your first 18 months were ones of magic and light. Though they started out a little rocky, you never failed to fit right into our crazy fold. I worried when I was pregnant with you that the loud raucousness of your future home would prove to be too much for a tiny, fragile new being. But from the very first day, you held your own. You let us know you are happy with the brightest of smiles and the loudest of laughs. Your displeasure is quickly shown with tiny little fists of anger and grunts of disapproval. You stand up to your sister and dogs and clearly run this house.

When you aren't busy being the Alpha Dog, you are all cuddles and coos. Your head on my shoulder is one of my most favorite parts of the day. You tucked into me, us becoming one again, your small hand patting my back... providing us both with comfort that is immeasurable.

You are a daddy's girl through and through - loving to climb on him, and pull his beard, and laughing with abandonment at the mere sight of him just walking through the door. You are his spitting image - especially as he looked as a little boy - though you bare your Papa's bright blue eyes.

You have decided that Sonny Girl is yours and yours alone. You make sure to give her hugs and kisses at least once every 30 minutes and forcibly remove your sister's hand when she dares try to pet the pup that she has known and loved twice as long as you. Boones continues to be your elusive white whale, but daily you try over and over to gain the old girl's affection.

We sing the chorus to "She's a Maniac" over and over to you because you are a dancing maniac. Anything with a strong bassline, and you are on your feet, weaving and bobbing, and mesmerized by the music that takes you over. You clap when sister turns up Taylor Swift and lay down in exasperation when Pandora shifts to a slow song. We joke about you sneaking out to clubs when you are a teenager but also semi-seriously google alarm systems for the window and "how to track your teenager."

You have never met a baby doll you didn't cherish,and you carry them around with you all day, every day. Each one is rocked and coddled, you singing to them softly as you feed them any cylindrical toy you can pretend is a bottle.

Every day, you are more and more of a joy in our lives. Your love of everyone around you. Your excited squeal at the most simple of pleasures. Your insistence already at knowing what you want and when you want it. You are smile and laughter and sunshine, even when you are having a typical toddler moment.

When we named you, we did so hoping naming you after one so grieved and missed would be a balm to our aching souls. We hoped the remembrance and legacy would help us to move on with more love than grief. But more than your name or the continuation of life after death, your spirit has provided us with a year of unimaginable happiness and healing. You, my love, are our rainbow baby in more ways than one.

Each day as you grow, I grieve a little that this baby stage with you seems to fly so much faster than it did with big sister. I worry that you don't have the same attention and love she did. I fret about throwing a baby brother into the mix so soon. I panic with you more than I did with big sister. But you look at me with those always twinkling, giant blue eyes, and that little crooked smile with the teeth still slowly coming in, and you reassure me. You let me know that you are happy and loved and growing steadily and strong in your own magnificent way.

Yes, you face so many second child problems on a daily basis. Yet each day you continue to amaze us all with your vivacious demeanor and unique Katherine-ness that makes you so absolutely and wonderfully you. Happy 1st birthday, my precious girl, so, so late. Though we may do your blogs late or drag you to appointments or ruin your sleep schedule, please always know how adored and loved you are. Our hearts grew exponentially the day you were born and continue to do so with each smile and adventure you bring.

A summer rainstorm

As I drove home down 400 yesterday, a summer storm that feels so uniquely southern rolled in. The skies were bright blue behind me, black in front. A sheet of rain fell perfectly, the drops so big and fat you could see and hear them for ages. It was the kind of storm that you can feel coming all day - you can see it in the leaves of the trees as they flip with the pressure and notice through the sporadic gusts of wind giving a break to the stale humidity of the day.

As I sped up the interstate, closer and closer to the rain, I thought of growing up on the coast of Virginia. These sudden pops up were always part invigorating and part terrifying. We would watch the creeks rise and the ditches fill and wonder if the bridge in and out of town was already too covered to be passable. We would sit on docks as the rain drove down, enjoying the break in the heat and mosquitoes, knowing that it would only be a matter of minutes after the last drop landed before both were back, stronger than before.

I thought of the last summer in the house I grew up in, where the storm was sudden and stronger than we thought, and the power knocked out for hours. The littles among us loved it and chased one another with flashlights and muddy feet. My momma and sister and I sat at a table, playing cards for the first time in years. Howling with laughter, we watched and critiqued as Daddy wandered around trying to fix things in the dark, his shoes squeaking across the kitchen tile. The rain fell and fell and fell, providing a constant soundtrack to an otherwise silent neighborhood.

I felt almost as if I was back on vacation in Florida, aunts and uncles and cousins and spouses piled into the same house, busting at the seams with beach towels and puzzles and margarita mix. At least once every trip, the storm would come suddenly - usually finding it is landing spot right before supper. We would all be sun kissed and freshly showered, the day's beach adventure washed away. The rain would drive us all to the kitchen table, as many chairs as pulled up as possible, with the youngest of us perching on counter tops and sofa backs. There would be no late night beach walks or trips to the boardwalk in the golf cart. No, the rain would keep us inside. All three generations, hunkered down with one another, the rain urging us to relish our time together.

I drove through the wall of water, the sky changing instantly, my wipers working overtime. I took the exit and as the car slowed from the frantic pace of 400, rolled down the windows just slightly to smell the rain and feel the drops on my arm. I drove over the dam, watching Lanier churn and bounce with each bead of water that hit. I pulled into our neighborhood, thankful for the safe trip and the cleansing rain. The calm and quiet it seemed to force us all to embrace. The new life it would eventually provide.

And as I pulled into our driveway, I spotted two little girls rocking on the front porch with their daddy, kicking their feet into the rain, squealing as it hit their uncovered toes. I scooped them up and, laughing, pulled them into the yard. We splashed in mud puddles and drank water that rolled off leaves and guessed how full the koi pond would get before the rain finally ceased. We danced through the storm and, when finally the thunder and lightening decided to join us, we ran inside for fresh clean pajamas and night time snuggles. As we kissed each little head goodnight, the rain continuing on and on outside their windows, I wondered if decades from now they would feel the same way about the storm. Would they remember fondly the feel of the front moving in? Would the smell of the rain in the air mixed with the blooming magnolias transport them to easy, happy childhood days? Would the first roll of thunder make them feel comforted and secure, knowing they had weathered storms like this plenty of times? So when I laid my own head down, the rain still driving the thunder now angry as it boomed more and more frequently, I thanked God for all the storms in my life. For the break they bring and how they force us to refocus on the important things. How everything seems fresh and renewed when they have passed. For the reminder that we are not in control, and in the end that is so freeing. And I fell asleep happy and comforted, the pounding rain a welcome lullaby.

Mother's Day Number Four

My fourth Mother's Day as a motherless daughter. Though the shock of it is gone now, the aching still persists. The desire to share life with the person who so greatly defined and shaped mine. The comfort and safety of her arms even though - or maybe because - I am the one now providing comfort to the next generation. It all still presses on me, begging to be fulfilled.

No, it is not shocking to me anymore that she is gone. I have accepted that. This is who I am now. But that aching - that aching sometimes feel like it defines my every breath.

A dear friend sent me this column about losing a mom young. In it, the author quotes Anna Quindlen, who lost her own mom at 19 -
"My mother died when I was nineteen. For a long time it was all you needed to know about me. A kind of vest-pocket description of my emotional complexion: 'Meet you in the lobby in ten minutes — I have long brown hair, am on the short side, have on a red coat, and my mother died when I was nineteen.'"

Losing my momma at 29 feels like this middle ground of loss. I had almost three decades with her. She saw the biggest milestones - the graduations, the wedding, my own induction into motherhood. Those memories that I cherish, those photographs I weep over on long sleepless nights, those are mine forever. Sorority sisters, kids I grew up with, friends I have made as an adult who still carry the weight of an early loss - too many have joined this sad club long before me, robbed of those experiences. I remember so clearly  holding my best friend's hand as she whispered goodbye to her own momma in a crowded funeral home at only ten. Ten. An unimaginable pain so brutally early.

And while I can recognize that I am lucky for what I had - that I had far more than others will ever get - and while I am genuinely thankful for the time and memories, the aching persists. When I see my momma's friends celebrating their own moms - great women in their 80s and 90s, my heart aches. When friends' birthday parties are full of doting grandmoms whose grandbabies will remember them - actively and vividly remember them - the aching persists. When B asks me if I am sad because my momma can't hug me... oh, how the aching persists. 

Sadly, it seems every year more and more join our club at a faster rate. In this past year alone, my cousins, my mother in law, friends from high school and college, and neighbors all said goodbye to their own matriarchs. They joined the club with bowed heads and hushed voices, turning to each other for solace and comfort in a truly unique grief. Your parents are your foundation - a constant for you from the day you are born. And losing your momma ... that is just a violent, sudden destruction of what built you. 

So you rebuild. And you find your footing again. And you surround yourself with those who fully understand, a sad little menagerie of others grieving just as deeply as you. And you build a new life that can be unbelievably happy and joyful and in so many ways simply perfect, though the aching still finds you.  

Most often when people are in the early days of loss, when they have just kissed their momma for the last time or they have come home from the funeral and the once bustling house is now oppressively silent, they will ask me "How do I get over this?" 

The hard truth is... you don't. You never really get over it. You cope with it and you continue to live. You learn how to breath again without it hurting. Your smile returns and days become more joyous than not. But you never get over it. The loss - the aching - the fundamental restructuring of your life and who you are - that never leaves. Just as, in many ways, your momma's love and lessons and strength - so deeply embedded in every ounce of you - never leaves you. 

Happy Mother's Day to all my dear friends and loved one with aching hearts this year. May the strength of your memories be stronger than the pull of your loss. 

On cupcakes and clumsiness

A few weeks ago, B celebrated her fake birthday at school. My summer baby had the chance to celebrate with her classmates with cupcakes and a birthday song. She was beyond excited. We talked about it for weeks and she wavered back and forth between wanting to send in Ariel cupcakes (an old obsession, T-Ball cupcakes (a new obsession), or embrace the time of year and go with St. Patrick's Day cupcakes.

After stumbling upon shamrock sprinkles, she was firmly in the St. Patrick's camp. And off we went with orange and green food dye, debates about who in her class would pick which flavor cupcake, and not a little bit of fussing at baby sister who was constantly trying to steal the cooling desserts. My almost five year old was in pure sugar-birthday-love bliss.

The morning of, she was glowing. She was so excited for "her day" and "her cupcakes" and woke up even earlier than her normal horribly early time to tell me all about what lay ahead. And off she went to school, confident her momma would be there in a few short hours, baby sister and cupcakes in tow. And that was the plan.

And then, in typical "my life" fashion, we were running late. And Baby K had hidden my car keys. And a dog got loose. And I just knew once again I would be speeding into the school parking lot, practically on two wheels, rushing to make sure I didn't let her down.

And as I am ushering all the crazy out the door into the car, I look down at the cupcakes. The cupcakes with the perfected icing color and little swirls she worked so hard on and the sprinkles so precisely placed. There they were. All 20 of them. Tipped over inside the container. Icing smearing the sides, tiny shamrock sprinkles lining the cracks of the holder.

So, I did what any rational preggo would do. I sat down on our front steps and cried. Baby K facing me from her stroller in the middle of our yard, the dogs still barking from the foyer, the old woman who lives down the street doing her daily walk with her giant 1995 headphones ... and I just cried. Those kind of exhausted tears when it has been a day, a week, a month of little trials. The tears that feel like they have been building with every misplaced shoe or cross word said out of frustration or reminder that you messed up again.

And I looked at those stupid cupcakes and thought "How could I have possibly not even gotten this one small thing right?" And in those words every insecurity I have ever had - as a mother, as a wife, a friend, a daughter - came bubbling up. I thought of the 5th grade and being so excited to take in my own birthday treats - teeny little cakes in the shape of Christmas tress that my own sweet momma had lovingly helped me make the night before. How I was so proud and happy and ready to share ... and I dropped them. In all my ten year old grace, I dropped them in front of the entire class. And I felt the heat creeping into my cheeks - here in Ga - hundreds of miles and two decades away. It all came rushing back.

So, I cried. For my own faults. For the fear that those faults would effect my own sweet girls. For all the times it just felt like I wasn't enough. And then I scooped up a cooing baby K, threw the mangled cupcakes in the car, and just started driving. I wasn't sure exactly what my plan was but ended up at McDonald's, ordering six bottles of water and "as many napkins as you can give me. Oh! And some plastic spoons and knives." I slid the container open as carefully as I could, level by level, righting the fallen cupcakes as I went. I scrubbed the sides of the cupcake pan and reswirled the icing. All right there, in the parking lot.

And I pulled into the school two minutes before I had to be there, cupcakes intact, if not missing a little bit of their original volume and icing.

B clapped when she saw us. She announced proudly to her class she had made the cupcakes. She glowed as they sang to her and was so happy to walk around to each friend and offer them their choice of vanilla or chocolate. She told her daddy that night it was the best day of the year for her at school.

This week in Bible study, we talked about the lies the world tells us or that we tell ourselves. I said the lie I constantly tell myself is that I am not enough. In every way, I fall short. In no way have I ever felt that as acutely than as a mother. Before these sweet babies, if I was a mess and a half, it affected no one, really, except myself. But now, every action not only has an immediate ripple effect on their lives but also has long lasting effects, influencing who they will be as they grow.

The other challenge for us this week was to find a Bible verse to counteract the lies we are told. Quickly, 2 Corinthians 12:9 popped up for me:
But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

He is enough. I may drop cupcakes and yell because we are running late and have to rewash the laundry four times because I am not sure when I last ran it. And that is all okay. Because His power will be made perfect in my weakness. And I am showing up. And I am trying. And the most important thing I can model to these babies is that I am not enough, but that is okay. I don't need to be enough by any wordly standards. His grace is sufficient. 

Three's Company

When we found out we were having B, we fully understood life as we knew it was fundamentally changing forever. There wasn't a question in our mind that her arrival would mark a clear demarcation between the before and after.

When we found out we were having Baby K, we thought - okay, life change, but not huge. We are already in full parent mode. Our stairs are gated. Our DVR is full of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Our carpet is littered with tiny princess shoes and halves of crayons. We haven't slept more than four straight hours since 2012. Bring it on, new baby. This was, of course, a wildly inaccurate assumption and one to two threw us for a loop we never, ever saw coming.

So, when we found out we were expecting BB#3 (or "Jellybean" as B refers to him/her), we took a deep breath, squared our shoulders, and laughed hysterically. Like evil villain in an insane asylum crazy laughter. Because, we said, how much more crazy could we get? We haven't been on time for something since 2011. I routinely find my cell phone in the fridge and the peanut butter in my purse. The dogs are called the girls names and the girls are called the dogs names, and, out of the four, usually half of them are sticky at all times.

This whole parents of three, though, really hit home at our first ultrasound. Due to the icepocalypse that wasn't and some scheduling conflicts with RB, we ended up taking both girls to the doctor's with us to meet BB#3. The first two times I had done this, it had been a beautiful thing - just RB and me, hearing that miraculous heartbeat, shedding some tears, absorbing every minute of this precious new life. As a parent of three though...

It takes us 15 minutes even to get into the ultrasound room. B wants to be the line leader but has no idea where she is going so she keeps inadvertently opening doors of half dressed women while simultaneously RB dies of embarrassment and ushers her onto the right path. I have to get weighed three different times because, unknowingly the first two times, baby K is putting a little baby paw (and all her little baby weight) onto the scale while trying to climb up my leg. Everyone in the entire practice knows we are there because not only did B announce her arrival, but she asked great questions while in the lobby about other people's reproductive choices and made wildly inappropriate though mostly accurate comments on breast size.

By the time we even enter the room, I am exhausted. I am greeted by an ultra peppy ultrasound tech who, at most, is 14. She keeps calling me ma'am and saying "Aren't WE so excited today?" "Don't WE just love doctor's appointments?" I am not sure who this "we" she is talking about is exactly. Part of our "we" is having a nervous breakdown because we aren't letting her climb a lamp and another part is googling Clemson's odds in the National Championship because "there is nothing going on right now - she is setting up!" So, I am not sensing a whole lot of excitement and advert enthusiasm from this "we."

But I smile that fake smile of an exhausted mom, and say, "Of course WE are!" Then it is time for the big show. The tech is setup. B has a big sister place of honor in a chair right in front of the tv. I am starting to feel those old emotions, bracing myself for that first sweet heartbeat. And then I feel it. A tiny little fist, insistent and urgent, pawing at my chest. I look down to see Baby K, half in RB's lap and the rest of her, Gumby stretched out towards me, letting me know she needs to nurse. Right. This. Minute. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch RB pushing her towards me slowly. Fine. Whatever keeps her quiet.

So, now here I am, lying on a table waiting for that first uncomfortable, internal ultrasound, trying not to give into my incessant nausea, and a 13 month year old sprawled across my chest, nursing happily. I look over at RB who smiles and says "Thanks. Now I can really focus!" And I don't kill him, which I consider a clear example of how parenthood makes you more patient.

And just as I think, "Okay, we are all in our places. Let's see the baby!" B, in awe, begins firing questions and commentary at the poor tech.
"Are there two? I want two in there."
"How did the baby get in there? How did you get a CAMERA in there?"
"How do you know that baby is my daddy's? Does it have a tag?"
"Why does it not look like a baby?"
"Are you sure you are looking at the baby?"
"I don't think that is the baby."
"Why is the baby a circle?"
"I like the name Dinosaur. We should name the baby Dinosaur."

The tech is doing her best to keep at her task while I am frantically answering B. "God gave us the baby and told Daddy it was his and also gave us free will to make technology and PLEASE JUST LOOK AT THE SCREEN QUIETLY."

All is still quiet on the RB front, who is looking at the screen with the awe and wonderment of a first time dad. And once again, no violence came to him.

And then it is over. I missed it. I faintly remember a small blurb on the screen but I was looking over the head of my soon to be middle child and couldn't quite here the heartbeat because of the questions of my first born. I missed it.

The tech smiles, pats Baby K on the head, and tells me sweetly whenever I am done nursing we can get up and leave. "Take your time. I am sure it is nice to have some downtime."

You keep using that word... I do not think it means what you think it does.

So as this "downtime" winds down, I am biting back tears because I missed it and B is still asking questions and K is still eating and it is chaos. Total chaos. And the ultra sound tech stops before she leaves, hands B an ultrasound picture, and says "Here is a special one just for big sister."

For the first time since we entered the room, it is completely silent. B stares at in her hands, big eyed, all smiles. "Momma, this is my baby. I am the big sister. I love the baby."

And I remember that this is what it felt like the first time with both B and K. Knowing that our hearts were growing exponentially. That more and more love awaited us. That joy and possibility were on the near horizon promising us moments sweeter than any we had ever known. My heart felt instantly more full and my exhaustion and anxiety turned to sweet comfort and pure bliss.

And then baby K karate flung herself out of my lap, knocking over the lamp she had been eyeing all day with precision. And B yelled loud enough for the whole office to hear "WELL IF IT IS NOT TWO IT BETTER BE A GIRL. AND BETTER NOT TAKE MY TOYS." And I looked over at RB who smiled, and said, "What are you thinking about making for dinner?" And I had to go back into the office after realizing I forgot to schedule my next appointment for BB#3.

And thought, yep, this was life with three.

Adding another monkey to this circus, August 2017