Forty + Ten

It is a funny thing this December 2023. As I enter my last year of my 30s and reflect on all that means, I also hit another milestone - 10 years since losing Momma. 

These two markers of time seem so greatly intertwined. The night of my 39th birthday, I sat down and made a long list of 40 things I wanted to accomplish before I turn 40. Some were more silly (17. Always remember to turn the car off when I come inside) while others more tangible (24. Take the kids to two new cities). Some were deeply personal and relationship driven; others were efforts to grow my faith. 

But in all of them - there she was. Influencing what I wanted to be as a mother. Causing me to pause and reflect on my words, my actions, and how I was making the babies feel. Remembering those late night conversations in the last years of her life where she shared so openly about her own regrets and the things she would have done different. 

All of her yesterdays played through my memories as I thought about my own wishes for all of my tomorrows. Repeatedly, I was reminded that those days are not promised. That friendships matter. What a home feels like. How to be welcoming and kind to all. That a true love of God and relationship with Jesus can be transformative. 

And I thought of all she would have told me she wanted for me. The hopes and dreams she would have for me still - her youngest baby, even if I am very quickly approaching 40. 

She is gone and the truth of that doesn't shock me anymore. My heart doesn't race and I don't struggle to catch my breath when I say the words out loud. No, those deep aches of the early years have been steadily excised through countless tears.

It does seem unreal though that she should have been gone now ten years. A quarter of my life. She has missed an entire decade of my life. 

On the night of my 30th birthday - 9 days shy of the 1st anniversary of her death - I called her best friend and sobbed. "How can she not know me in my 30s? How can I do this without her?"

Now, as the penultimate year of my 30s draws to a close, I think the same things. I think of all the things she has missed. All the things I have missed her for - how every celebration has seemed lacking without her laugh and support. How every heartache has seemed greater without her hand rubbing my back and her West Virginia strength radiating into me. And oh how she would have loved these babies. Fiercely. Unwaveringly. Selflessly. 

The girls and I visited her grave in Arlington during our Spring Break trip in April. I hadn't been since a friend's wedding 7 years earlier. And as the girls walked further along with our hostess, I sat down and touched the stone. I cried like I hadn't cried in years. I talked to her as if she was right there with me. I apologized for things I should have while she was here and forgave her for things long overdue. I sobbed and walked through all the hardships that were happening this year and in the end, as I rubbed the stone in some effort to be close to her, I whispered "We are going to be okay, Momma. I promise. You loved us so well. And we are going to be okay."

So it goes - I wrap up my 30s and face a new decade of life and a new decade without her, carrying always her love and her strength with me. When that decade is over, I hope I can say that I have accomplished so much - not just for me but also for her, fulfilling some of her dreams she never got to see come to fruition and fully embracing the most beautiful inheritance she could have left me - that of her love. 

KK Graduates Kindergarten

Baby K graduated Kindergarten on Monday. 

My precious baby who started the year as Katherine or KK and then switched to Katie and finally tried to be "Catherine with a C," before I shut that down, grew and blossomed this year as much as her name. 

Her graduation on Monday she was big smiles and, in her own little way, stoic pauses. Tuesday night, with just one in class day left, she came downstairs after bedtime sobbing. "I don't want to leave Miss Julie. I will miss my friends." She buried herself deep into my shoulder, her muffled cries continuing for almost a half hour. 

 I kissed her head. I rubber her back, told her that I loved her,  and that moving on was hard, but grand things lay ahead. And then I sobbed. 

Because I do know grand things are ahead. But at the same time, it all feels like it goes so much faster with that second baby. 

Maybe it is because with Bonnie everything was new and we were still finding our footing so things sometimes felt like they were frozen in time as we navigated the newness of the most recent phase. 

Maybe it is because having witnessed Bonnie I now know how quickly time goes - how the cheeks melt away and the legs grow longer and the reaching for my hand just disappears one day. I know the kindergarten crafts and theme days and playground adventurers all too soon become multiplication tests and spelling lists and crayons sitting idle on the shelf. 

Maybe it is because, at only 20 months older than her brother, I often felt like some of her baby years were robbed from her and she had to grow up much faster than any of her other siblings - all enjoying at least three years before the next little one came along. 

Maybe it is because with a high risk pregnancy and the world in turmoil in 2020, she missed so much of those preschool years and I grieve for those experiences that were skipped. 

Or maybe this is just motherhood - with each new phase bringing the joy of what's next and the very clear reminder that our babies don't keep. 

Happy graduation, KK. I can't wait to see who you become - and what name goes with it.

KK Loses a Tooth

My sweet second born has had FOMO since the day she was born. 

Unlike her siblings, she could never fall asleep anywhere but her room - the excitement of knowing that someone was anywhere close to her and could possibly be doing something - ANYTHING - at all kept her bright blue eyes popped open, waiting to join in. 

She has longed to do whatever Big Sister is doing, sometimes adorably so (selling Girl Scout cookies to strangers at 2) and sometimes to my great heartache (foregoing smock dresses because sister did... when I should technically still have at least three more years of them). 

She is a "BIG sister" she asserts - grouping herself with Bonnie in a power play of olderness, showing she can run with the big kids and insisting she be let in on all the secrets and fun of not being "a baby."

So, it was with great heartache when, last summer, Will lost his first tooth before her. Did it matter that it was removed under general anesthesia because of a "deep cavity?" No. Was she at all concerned that the dentist told us his teeth had "severe genetic defects" resulting in many cavities? Absolutely not. Did she take any solace in being told she had "just perfect teeth?" Of course not. The only thing that mattered was that he had gone first. 

So, when her first tooth did fall out - IN HER CLASS IN FRONT OF ALL HER FRIENDS NO LESS - she was ecstatic. She told everyone she saw that day that the Tooth Fairy was coming THAT NIGHT. She drilled Bon Bon and Will on what they had both experienced on their first toothless night. What did the Tooth Fairy bring? Did she leave a glitter trail? How did they think someone so small was able to move their large heads off their pillows to get the teeth?

Katherine went to bed, smiling, mouth open to show off her missing tooth - a hopeful display to prove she was worthy of the visit. 

Eight short hours later we woke up to her guttural cries. The howls radiated down from the walkway outside of her bedroom to our den, where I woke, confused on the couch. Why am I on the couch? Why is she crying? Why is Roy Kent staring at me?

In an instant it washed over me... the last night replaying in my head as a sense of dread filled my entire body. We had put her to bed. Then Bonnie. Then Beau had woken up sooo many times. By the time we got him to sleep, we were exhausted. In some desperate bid for adult time we had agreed on one episode of Ted Lasso and then Tooth Fairy duty and then bed. But we had fallen asleep... probably only seconds after Marcus Mumford wrapped up his intro and Jason Sudeikis had delivered his first dad joke of the episode. 

And we had forgotten the Tooth Fairy. Forgotten. The. Tooth. Fairy. 

In a panic, I realized it was still dark outside. So... as I listened to my sweet second born sob, so upset that she had finally caught up to her siblings but it wasn't the experience she had imagined, I did the thing I said I would never do to my children. I lied my face off. 

"It is still nighttime angel, you woke up too early." 

Sobbing "It is morning. IT FEELS LIKE MORNING."

"No, my sweet love. Look outside. It is still dark." Thank you, Baby K, for not losing this tooth two weeks from now after Daylight Savings. 

"It is dark? It is still night?"

"Yes, go to bed. I will be right up to snuggle you."

Thinking I had bought myself a half hour at least - imagining her sweet head hitting her pillow, her thumb finding the gap in her teeth, her eyes shutting again - I let out a sigh of relief. 

"I am not going back to bed unless you are with me."

Crap. 

"Okay. Coming right now. Let me wake up Daddy to let him know I am going upstairs."

This, of course, would not be an easy feat. This man can sleep through anything - car alarms, dogs howling, children poking him in the face, active labor in a hospital setting. I shook him - and not the sweet gentle shaking of a loving wife but the panicked shaking of a mother who will replay this day with all the guilt until the end of her days. 

Finally he stirred - 

"Hi. I am going upstairs to put KK back to bed. She was upset because the Tooth Fairy didn't come but I explained to her it is still night so she is going to be okay. But I am going upstairs. SO YOU JUST DO WHATEVER YOU NEED TO DO RIGHT NOW." I squeezed his shoulder for extra emphasis. I telepathically tried to broadcast that he needed to get up this instant and save our poor child from the years of therapy being forgotten by the Tooth Fairy no doubt causes. 

"It is still night? Feels like we slept for awhile. Let me see my phone."

I gripped his shoulder  - again with the power of a mother trying to save her child - and whispered fiercely our code phrase for stop. right. now. "You serious, Clark?"

"Oh. It is night. Got it."

I walked up stairs texting him frantically as I tried to also greet KK with a calm, reassuring, "go back to bed for the love" smile. 

The Tooth Fairy book is in the kitchen cabinet above the wine glasses. There should be a $2 bill in the top drawer of the bookcase in the piano room. Sprinkle glitter on it. The green glitter that is on the top shelf of the classroom. 

She refused to go back to her room so I cuddled her in my bed. Her shoulders had stopped shaking and she was taking deep breaths as she snuggled in, content that she had, after all, not been forgotten. She started to drift off while mummering to herself reassurances that not all had been lost. "It is still night. It is still night."

I heard Russell shuffling around downstairs. Drawers being opened. Cabinet doors being shut. 

It looks like they used all the glitter but the book is under her pillow. 

- Did you write a note in it from the Tooth Fairy?

Seriously? No. 

I rolled my eyes and plotted sneaking out to help him, making sure she had an inscription that matched her sister's and brother's books for their first tooth. I tried ever so coolly to sneak my arm out and was met with a hand forcefully on my shoulder. "Momma, stay."

I laid back down, remaining still so Russell could finish his task. An unwritten book is better than no book at all, I convinced myself. Surely that cuts the therapy time at least in half. 

Soon, he snuck into our room and started going through my diaper bag. 

-What is up?

No $2 bill downstairs. You have cash, right?

- I never have cash. 

Yeah - but you just got cash for the babysitter. 

- I only have twenties. 

It's twenties or nothing. 

I glared at him in the dark while I have no doubt he cursed my name in his head for introducing the glitter $2 bill and book with note. I watched him sneak back out of our room down the hall to her bedroom. Heard her door close softly behind him. 

It is done. It is 6:45. I am going to work. 

I texted my thanks and closed my eyes beside her, assuming I'd wake her in 15 minutes and pretend like she had slept for hours.  

The adrenaline worn off from my failures of motherhood, I fell into a deep sleep. It was truly light when I woke up an hour and half later - her curls bouncing on my bed, her gap toothed grin beaming at me, her brother and sister beside her in wide eyed amazement. The joy in her voice was palpable as she shouted, "MOMMA! She came! And she left me $20!"

And that is the story of how Bonnie found out the Tooth Fairy doesn't play fair and sometimes overgifts the little sister. 

Home from school, showing off her first lost tooth. 

Six Months.

Six months. 

Six months of cheeks and cooing and the world's happiest baby. Of locking eyes with you and immediately seeing your face erupt in the biggest smile. Of your hand always searching out mine, wrapping your chubby fist over my finger. Of your siblings so intensely proud of you and always bucking to be the next one to do something with you and making ridiculous pronouncements like you are "The King of All Babies." Of you recognizing your Daddy's voice and kicking your legs in wild excitement because you know something fun is about to happen. 

Six months of pure joy and love. 

Six months that followed nine months of holding my breath and unceasing prayer because I had never been pregnant before in a pandemic. I had never sat in ultrasound rooms by myself, your daddy not allowed in, masked up waiting to see you and to hear your precious heartbeat. I had never had to pray for strength each time I entered those doors, remembering that twice the year before I had laid on that same table and heard silence so loud and roaring that it is forever engrained in my heart. 

But we survived those nine months, you and I. And here we are, six months later. 

Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of you - your non stop smile and giant, engaged eyes - and still feel like someone has to pinch me. That all this happiness and joy just simply couldn't be real. Other times, I kiss your little, wiggly head when you wake in the morning, or rub your back as you fall asleep on my shoulder and I am so overcome by thankfulness, it knocks me to my knees. I spent so much of your pregnancy literally on my knees praying for you - for each milestone and trimester. Praying for protection and growth and just in whispered breaths "Please let him live." 

Now that you are here, I still feel called to prayer. Often just giving thanks on a loop - thank God for you, for your health, for all the happiness you bring us. 

And, oh, what happiness you bring us. 

We knew, our precious rainbow baby, that you would bring us joy. We had no idea how much. Though KK may get mad when I say it, it still remains true - you are the best baby ever.

Already so patient, you take your fourth baby title with stride. You love everyone who even just speaks to you and share your gummy smile with anyone who wants it. You are love and happiness and innocence all rolled up in chunky thighs. 

Six months. And they couldn't have been any sweeter. 

 

To all the babies I have loved

To all the babies I have loved -

As we all start to collectively peek our heads out of our Covid hiding places - to look at the future and wonder "what is next?" - I can't wait for play dates. For full kitchen tables, endless games of make believe, playrooms destroyed in a matter of minutes, and the inevitable announcement that "We decided we are having a sleepover!"

I am so excited for my babies to see their friends again - to see you and to have the emotional benefits of these strong childhood friendships.

My desire, though, runs so much deeper than that. Yes, I will be so happy for my own kids when they can once again have normal childhood experiences. I count down the days until that can happen. Truth be told, though, I have also missed you.

Some of you, I held the day you were born. Sitting beside your exhausted momma, I kissed the top of your head, took in your baby smell, and knew I would love you forever. Others, I met when you were older, maybe in that precious chubby-thighed, thumb-sucking toddler stage. Maybe already in elementary school, independence and strong personalities taking center stage. But, immediately, I loved you, too.

And so - since I became a momma eight years ago - I have watched you grow alongside my own children. I have prayed over your valleys and your peaks. I have laughed with your moms about the things you say and cried over the years slipping away, torturing each other with Facebook memories and old snapshots of much younger versions of you all. But, most importantly, I have been able to be there. From the big holidays, birthdays, and performances to the impromptu park dates, sleepovers, and family dinners that encompass so much of every day life. You have been an extension of my own family - loved so dearly not only because I love your parents but also because you are so wonderfully and uniquely you. I have been so honored to share it all.

Except the last 10 weeks. The last 10 weeks, I have missed it all.

Of course, I have had glimpses of you during Covid. In the back of Marco Polos, in fleeting Facetimes, from the window as your mom and I exchange groceries, in proud or exasperated - depending on the day - texts from your mom.

But it hasn't been enough. Zoom calls don't capture the sweetness of watching you play, unencumbered by looming adults or technology. Relayed conversations over text message don't encapsulate the lisp you still carry or how you tilt your head when you are really trying to decide if something is believable. These Covid coping mechanisms fall so very, very short.

And I wonder how much you will have changed when I am able to see you again. When you are once again crowding my kitchen table, yelling out lunch orders, arguing over what to play next. Will you be noticeably taller? Will your vocabulary have flourished? Will you have inched a little further from baby and a little further into childhood - just enough to tug at my heart?

Of course, I can't wait to see your parents - for us to pick up where we left off, raising our families together. But you, my little love, you I especially can't wait to see. Let's just hope it is sooner rather than later - we all know that babies don't keep.

April 10th

My Dearest Virginia,

One year ago today, in the quiet and dark of an Atlanta spring morning, you entered this world. Small and fragile, wrapped in a pink blanket, your soul already gone, you were handed to your Daddy and me.

We had such little time with you, my darling girl - heartbreaking how little time. Those moments, though, are some of the most precious in my life: Being able to hold you, to pray for you, to read you a story. Having the chance to kiss you and wrap your tiny hand around my finger the same way your brother and sisters did upon meeting in the hospital. Given the chance to whisper through hot tears and sharp breaths how much you are loved and how sorry I was that I had to say goodbye. These are the memories I have of you here on Earth and memories that play over and over in my head.

Not a night has gone by that I haven't fallen asleep picturing your tiny body and beautiful, delicate face. I imagine how that face would have changed and developed over the past year. The pink cheeks in your newborn photos. The chubby cheeks during your first six months framed by the same curls your sisters had. The bright eyes watching all the chaos as the youngest of four.

Rarely do I see your siblings playing in those precious childhood snapshots that I want to remember forever and don't think "She should be here. This picture isn't complete."  You are missed so much and still such a large part of who we are as a family. Our love for you has reshaped us and redefined our priorities.

So a year has passed and we face April 10th again. With a heavy heart I brace myself for the anniversary of the terrible day that I lost you and the one priceless day that I had you. It feels fitting that it would be on Good Friday this year - when the world thought all hope was lost but the greatest joy was still to come. I know we will be reunited again, whole and perfect, in the presence
of our Savior.

In the few days after we left the hospital, three different friends reached out to me to let me know that on April 10th they had woken suddenly around 4:00 am with the strong urge to pray for us both. You were born suddenly and earlier than anticipated right after 4:00, covered in prayer and love by people who would never get the chance to meet you. And so it has continued this long year - with you being so deeply and desperately loved both her on Earth and in Heaven.

When we handed you to our nurses, who had been brisk and all business, the head nurse pushed my hair back from my face. She wiped my eyes, cupped my face, and lifted my chin to meet her eyes. With the most emphatic voice she whispered "She is your daughter. She will always be your daughter."

And she is right. You will always be mine, my darling girl. Always.

Until we meet again.
Love,
Momma

When Corona Makes You Crazy

I tend to consider myself a rational person. I am a cost-benefit analysis, make a pros and cons list, don't believe any "factual" meme on Facebook unless it is reasons UVA is better than VT kind of person.

The Corona Pandemic, though... it might be cracking my illusion I had of my rational persona.

In our house, we are taking all the precautions. We are sheltering at home. We aren't having play dates. We are using terms like "exponential growth" and "viral load" and, with the exception of Baby K who will never be dissuaded from thumb sucking, nobody is touching their faces. We are storing packages before opening and washing our hands and taking shoes off before we come inside and doing all the safety things. ALL THE THINGS.*

*Except Cloroxing our fresh fruit cause y'all... that is insane.

So when the murmurs about everyone needing masks started, I jumped on my research. Countless internet searches ending in empty shopping carts made it apparent pretty quickly this was one time Amazon wasn't going to help me. Prime or not, Jeff Bezos is not stocking my family with safety gear.

I thought about making my own and then realized, based on my limited sewing ability, the best I could offer was to monogram an already made one. While I still don't consider this a bad idea (Easy to know whose mask is whose! Monogramming presents a sense of normalcy in the Deep South!), it isn't also an idea I (or probably most of the world's medical community) would call "helpful."

In steps an angel friend who is sewing masks around the clock to donate to the hospitals and make sure her friends and family are covered. She sends cute prints. She asks about how the kids would like them tied. She pours her heart into it and - bam! Buchanans are fully masked!

I picked them on Sunday and breathed a sigh of relief. I am responsible. I am an adult. I am CDC Compliant with Disney patterns.

I came home, threw them in our decontamination zone (aka the kitchen table in our garage I really am going to chalk paint one day, I swear, I just have a lot going on right now, okay), and thought "I will deal with this a week from now when it is time to leave the house again."

And then y'all... it went downhill so quickly. The toilets went haywire thanks to an errant tree root.  We had to call in emergency plumbers. At the same time, our precious friends who made the masks were being tested for Corona with a high probability of being positive. The masks still laid in the decontamination zone, waiting to be washed on the sanitary setting in a house that was incapable of running water. So there we were - plumbers minutes out, no "safe" masks in site, and my brain screaming "DO WHAT THE CDC TELLS YOU TO DO! MASK EVERYONE!"

That is when I learned that I am perhaps not as cool under pressure as I thought. Because did I google "How long does Corona live on fabric?"  so I would know if the masks were safe. Nope. Did I research "No Sew Masks" and MacGyver one quickly for RB to wear when he interacted with the crew? Negative. Did I suggest "Why don't we just text the plumbers from the basement and really increase both our safety and their's?" Not even close.

Instead, I relied on a meme I saw repeatedly on Facebook that said the microwave would sanitize any cloth face masks. It is quick! It is reliable! It probably means you don't have a lot of education in any sort of science based curriculum! 

I stuck ALL seven (sorry, Albert and Laura) of those beautiful, handcrafted masks in the microwave, hit "3 minutes" because sure, why not - the meme didn't specify a specific time - and slammed the door in triumph.

During the first chorus of "Happy Birthday" as I washed my hands, I thought smugly to myself "See, we got this. Take that plumbing crisis during a pandemic! We are on top of things."

During the second chorus of "Happy Birthday," I began to smell the smoke. And see the smoke. And hear my children asking why was there smoke.

And that, my friends, is the story of how RB once greeted a team of plumbers during a pandemic wearing a scrap of old fabric attached to his face with a hair tie, telling him in the same breath, "Thanks for coming. I am not sick. No, the fire isn't active anymore. My wife made me wear this. Yeah... your masks look a lot more appropriate for the situation."

Stay safe friends - and don't believe everything you read on Facebook. XOXO