Messes, Large and Small

This originally was just an email to Loren, but thought a lot of you moms out there could probably relate...

The house is quiet as I finish lunch. Empty bowl in hand, I pick my way across the minefield that is our dining room. Toys, dolls, an empty water cup litter the floor. Instead of the frustration that usually eats at me, I suddenly see our house with new eyes. The headband on the stairs makes me remember dreaming about being a mother, getting to do little girls' hair. The towels that spill from the dryer remind me of warm, wet little bodies, all pink and cuddly from their baths. And the ever-present chaos of toys, books, pillows, diapers, dishes, and DVDs that somehow seem to leave their homes as though repelled by magnetic force...well, they are a part of us, too. A part that goes well beyond the trite, "Count your blessings you have toys to play with." It's a mess. Our house, in its natural state, is a complete and utter mess. But today, as I survey the carnage, wondering where to begin, I think of the six of us that call this home. I picture Lily toddling across the living room with the bin of Playmobil pieces pressed against her chubby belly. I think of Abby running the length of the house, over and over, "esser-cizing." I think of Jaime and Emily, in intense concentration at the kitchen table, working on whatever craft their creative minds have dreamed up. And suddenly, picking it all up isn't such a priority. I see the mess, of course, but I also see the beautiful people whose lives are reflected in it. And it gives me a glimpse of how God, too, can see the mess, the utter chaos that is ME, and still love. At times, the mess does define us. In other seasons, my kids will learn to pick up, they'll understand the value of a wet towel on a towel bar, and they won't be so apt to scatter toys across any and every horizontal surface. But for now, in this season, I love them in spite of these things. And I pray, as I begin the endless task of picking up, that God would be merciful to continue helping me with the chaos in my own heart, trusting that as I too learn and grow, things won't always be quite this messy.

An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination

Loren heard the author of the book, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, on the radio and ordered the book as a surprise for me. It is written by a woman whose first child was stillborn. I read it in two days. It was excellent, although not written from a Christian perspective. While pregnant, they jokingly named the baby Pudding, waiting to decide on a name until his birth. When he died, they thought it would seem odd to choose a name in death, so his death certificate actually has his name as "Pudding." Here's a few of my favorite excerpts from it:

"Every day as I love this baby in my lap, I think of my other baby. Poor older brother, poor missing one. I see the infant before me, the glory of the soles of the feet, the lips fattened and glossy with nursing, the nose whose future Edward and I try to predict daily. The love for the first magnifies the love for the second, and vice versa. Now what I think that woman in Florida meant is: lighter things will happen to you, birds will steal your husband's sandwich on the beach, and your child will still be dead, and your husband's shock will still be funny, and you will spend your life trying to resolve this."

"That is one of the strangest side effects of the whole story. I am that thing worse than a cautionary tale: I am a horror story, an example of something terrible going wrong when you least expect it, and for no good reason, a story to be kept from pregnant women, a story so grim and lessonless it's better not to think of it at all."

"Pregnant with Pudding, I wanted things simple, easy, low intervention. For my second child I would have agreed to anything, a simultaneous caesarean/induction/being-pounded-on-the-back-like-a-ketchup-bottle/forceps/extra-drugs/extra-pain delivery."

"Of course it occurs to me that Pudding might have lived if I'd stuck with either Dr. Bergerac or Dr. Baltimore. It's a low-decibel wistfulness; I can barely hear it over the roar of later, louder regrets. This kind is not so bad, the If I Did One Thing Differently, Then Maybe Everything Would Also Be Different sort, a vague, philosophical itch: yes, if life were different, then life would be different. Such thinking feels like science fiction, stepping on a bug in 20,000 BC and altering the course of history.

Other memories are more troublesome. Here's a length of time, my brain says, and then it stares, it sees an actual length of time suspended in the air, which then breaks into panels, as in a comic book. Here I am in one panel. I am in the line of danger, but I don't know it, I am living in the past: the past being defined by the fact that Pudding is alive, but not for long. In the next panel, seconds later, something is supposed to intervene. Superman swooping in, to - what? Deliver the baby? X-ray vision and superhearing are nothing special, every doctor's office comes equipped. Superman is supposed to come is all I know, so Pudding will persist.

But Superman never shows. I can see it so clearly. In one panel we are safe and stupid. In the next we're only stupid.

Those moments come later, toward the end of pregnancy."

For those of you who have been touched by the same sort of grief, I highly recommend it, if only to put the tangle of feelings into words. It's dark, but then again, it's a book about a child's death. Let me know if you read it.

Happy 10th Birthday, Jaime!

Jaime, one of the reasons you are so special is because with you, everything is new. With you, I experienced the first thrill of seeing a flickering heartbeat on an ultrasound. I wore maternity clothes for the first time (and was EXCITED about it!). I first felt the amazing sensation of you kicking inside of me. You were the first to call me "mama," the first to give me sweet little girl kisses goodnight, the first to prance off to school, oblivious to your mommy's inner turmoil.




With the new joys, you also taught me about heartache. I learned all about fetal movement and amniotic fluid and high risk pregnancies. I went through the awful, mindblowing fear of your premature birth, and the sweet agony of witnessing a machine breathing for you and nurses recording your every heartbeat. And yet, even in that fear there was joy. The joy of finally holding you for the first time, days after your birth, and how impossibly small you felt in my arms. The joy of you nestled against me, skin to skin, oblivious to the alien world of the NICU. And, of course, the much anticipated joy of finally bringing you home, of being able to mother you after weeks of waiting.




And through the years, you continue to teach me. You've taught me that, when you have a baby with reflux, you must not only bring several changes of clothes for baby, but for yourself as well! You've taught me that there is such a thing as tick paralysis. You taught me the value of a day well spent, playing at the park or reading stories or playing barbies, and laying down at night in a messy house knowing that it was a perfect day. Each year, you teach me new and interesting things at The Oaks (it's getting harder and harder to help you with your homework, my dear!). And as you grow, I am learning that even now, I am being called to begin to let you go. I can't believe that the years that I have you with me are already over halfway behind us. And yet, in the midst of the sadness that you are growing up, I couldn't be more proud of the daughter you are becoming. You are smart, beautiful, and most important, you have a relationship with your Creator. What more could a parent ask for?




So happy birthday, our beautiful little miracle baby. We are so, so blessed to have you in our lives!

Happy Birthday, Lily!

Our beautiful two year old... We recently gave her the book, "Love Song For a Baby." The words of the book sum up our full hearts on this, our "answered prayer's" second birthday...

Come my darling.
Come my dear.
Come hear a song about a baby,
a very special baby.
Come hear a song about you.



Before the first stars blazed in your sky,
before the sun ever kissed you,
before you cried your first cry,
we loved you.



When you came into our arms,
slippery as salmon,
puckered as prunes,
loud as a lion,
already we knew,
we loved you.



You had tiny hands with perfect little nails
and fingers like the petals of a flower.
And yes,
we loved you.



You came complete
with ten little toes
as sweet and pink as candies.
Certainly,
we loved you.



You had two eyes,
and one very small nose,
not much hair,
and no teeth at all.
Still,
we loved you.



Round cheeks,
a round tummy,
a round little bottom,
all made us
love you.



Your laughter was the sun.
Your smile, the moon.
Even your burps were bells,
since
we loved you.



So we snuggled you,
we juggled you,
we watched you while you slept,
because it's true,
we loved you.



We clapped with you,
we danced with you,
we dried your tears and soothed your fears.



We tossed you high,
we kept you dry.
Can you guess why?
We loved you.



You burst upon our world like a comet,
like birdsong
in the silver silence of dawn,
and how could we help
but love you?



We'd dreamed a baby,
we'd wanted a baby,
we'd planned for a baby,
we'd waited and waited and waited
for a baby,
until finally,
there was you.



And oh,
how we love you!