I have to change the Christmas music

I somehow never expected Christmas to be hard. The last week of every month is horrible at our house. With me. The last week of every month, I retreat into myself. I have no desire to see a single soul on earth.

I only want Everett.

He would've been six months old. 26 Thursdays.

Most other days are ok. But the last week of every month is close to unbearable. It's like my whole body reminds me I don't have a baby and should.

The last week of every month I'm grouchy towards Keith. I can't really figure it out. Other than he wants to be close and I want to be alone. I want to cry. I want to remember. And it feels like he doesn't.

Then we say something about it and I realize we just handle this ache, this longing, this... Emptiness very differently. He wants comfort. I want isolation. He wants connection. I want to disconnect.

He sees a baby and smiles. I see a baby and weep, even if on the inside.

He wants a baby again soon and I just want some time to miss Everett. I feel like time has been stolen from me. Time to handle it. Time to compartmentalize it. To put it away.

But Christmas reminds me that there is no putting it away when you lose a part of yourself. There is no drawer to file it away. The loss. The emptiness. The baby. That isn't there.

Damn Matthew West and his song about the baby you love so much won't make it through the year. I can't even listen to it. I have had to change the Christmas music in the car. When last year, while you were pregnant with a perfect little baby, you wept because of the hormones pulsing through you made you think losing a baby would take your breath away. It would be the end of you. Life would be unbearable.

But it doesn't. It doesn't take your life if you don't let it.

But it doesn't stop hurting.

It doesn't stop the longing.

It can make you make poor decisions. It can make you think selfishly. It can make you realize that there IS a wrong way to grieve. Grieving selfishly makes you not talk about it. Makes you think people should cater to your needs and absolve you from catering to others' needs.

Christmas reminds of so many things. May it remind us more tha ever to give, love, and live unselfishly. To give more than get. To love more than demand love. To live in service to those around us. Even in our pain. Even in our weakness. Even in our longings for daily needs. To make decisions that are bigger than our attitudes. To make decisions that are bigger than our needs. To make decisions beyond ourselves.

It will not provide anything more than peace. The pain will still be there.

But peace.

Peace. Is the only way you survive.

The longing for a loved one never goes away. But the peace of living unselfishly puts life in perspective.

And of all times of the year, Christmas should be about perspective.

I am thankful. I am grateful.

We finally put up the pictures.

Of my little boy.

I am hesitant to call him an angel, although that is my first thought. Because he is not an angel.  Angels are not the cheribums that don our antique shelves.  That Precious Moments (c) has captured and created so sweetly.  But in the earthly, totally non-biblical, selfish thought pattern, my sweet little angel is now on the walls.

And I find myself visually ignoring him.

Because I am not sure I was ready.

Not sure I was ready for big reminders to stare at me during the morning rush.

Not sure I was ready for the reminders to stare at me during Friday night movie night.

And he sits.

On the shelf.

Above the TV.

So we can see him and "he can see us".

And one part of me wants to take everything down.

Because I am just.  Not.  Ready.

And another part of me want to take him down and hold him and sob.

Because, nearly six months later, it isn't any easier.  It's just.... Different.

There are games your body and brain play on you.

Like when you get the boys out of the car and you FEEL like you are missing one.  And you look back in the car  to find it empty.

There is no baby to get out.

No baby to hold.  To kiss.  To nurse.

There are days your dried up, sagging boobs ache as if you should be nursing.  

But there is no baby.  Nor is there any milk.

There isn't a day that goes by-- a moment that passes-- that he is not on my mind but not in my arms.

My arms, my heart, my body.  Ache.  To hold him.  

And nearly six months later, many have forgotten-- or at least been consumed in their own lives...as we all are.

And I am grateful.  I am thankful.

For Madelyn.  Who remembered in everyday conversation that I just had a baby.

For Jeni O.  Who asked.  Really asked.  How I was.  And listened.

For Keith.  Who loves his family like no other man on the planet.

For patients.  Moms, to be exact.  Who let me snuggle their babies and call it adjusting them.

For daily prayers lifted on our behalf. We know they are there. How else would I miss post partum depression for the first time?

For an office I love having.  That keeps me occupied most days long enough not to crumble.  Most days.

For an office, despite all odds, that is growing. And allowing me to be mommy and doctor simultaneously.

For my sweet little boys.  Who make me smile, laugh, and love.

For Everett.  Who gives me proper perspective and priority.

For Everett.  Who taught me what love is supposed to me. What mothering should look like. 

For Everett. Who broke my heart. 

So it can beat again.

Stronger.

Louder.

The hurricane of intention and expectation.

 

A picture of my mind....

Not severe enough to warrant wide spread panic. 
But strong enough to take precaution.
In just the right location to make the biggest mess.
In need of a path change.
And.
Huge.
And.
Well.
Huge.
Swirling.
Chaos.
Turbulence.
Friction.

When a low meets a high.
When intention meets expectation.
When choices become decisions.

Because decisions are how life happens.  When choosing your life (my life)....what do I want it to look like? 

What's more important?
Stupid question.
Hard decision.

If you aren't a working mom or never thought you would be a working mom or never wanted to be a working mom, you might not feel this struggle.  If you aren't a business owner with a professional degree and a... boatload of educational debt, this decision might be easy-- or not even be a decision or hurricane in your life.

But this is a hurricane in my brain.  A daily swirling chaos of low and high.  Of intention vs. expectation.

My husband and kids are the most important 'things' in my life.  I want to live like that.  We have made a decision to parent and 'spouse' with intention.  To work.  Hard.  on these relationships.  To make the best decisions for our family.

A growing decline in society's mores and habits in all areas lead us to becoming hermits within our own lives-- but we can't do that.  Teaching kids good habits in all areas is near impossible when schools feed over processed food, rewards are filled with cancer causing materials, parents have stopped parenting hence leading kids to do and say anything they please with no direction.  It'll make you go mad!!

And yet... I have this *thing*  I have this longing to help and heal.  I have this *thing* in me that needs interaction with adults.  All day with tiny people will make me lose my everlovin' mind!!  And the whole idea of intentional parenting might go flying out the window I'd break throwing a KID out the window!

Sigh.

What do you do when you have a choice? 
When the choice demands a decision?

When intention and expectation collide?

When you feel like an absolute failure because your kids are in someone else's care more hours than yours?
And yet, the thought of making a Halloween costume ("as a good mother should"-- or any other crafty thing) give me hives.

When you feel like a horrific parent because you are actively choosing (when you don't HAVE to) to work outside the home?
And yet, this *thing* in you drives you to heal and help others.

When you want your family to be your priority-- and you tell yourself and others that it is-- but your time reflects that money is your priority?

swirling.maddening.chaos.destruction.construction.resolve.dissolve.build.rebuild.renew.revamp.redesign.

How do you know which is a selfish *thing* and which is a God *thing*?
Or are they both?
Are they neither?

How do you determine, after hours of agonizing prayer and frustrated fist shaking, which one is the right decision?

(insert internal conflict discussion in my brain)
Is there such a thing as "best of both worlds" and having success in each?!?!

Will my kids be scarred for life if I work for 9-10 hours a day 4 days a week?
Will my kids be scarred for life because I possess none of the "good" stay at home mom traits but choose to do it anyway?

What causes the least amount of scarring?

Is that what parenting boils down to? :-/  The least traumatic choices as parents?

How do I expect to be successful in the professional world (afterall, I did spend 4 years and a couple 'hunnard' grand to BE professional) and be an intentional mommy?  How in the world can I be a flourishing business owner (with overhead and physical space) and still be the biggest time, social, spiritual, and love influence in my kids' lives?  Especially when the hours of greatest "need" for my target market is when I *SHOULD* be with your family?  

And how do you make more family when daycare already costs more than you can bring home?

 (leaving my brain and now thinking outloud, on a grander scale)

I've been encouraged to think that I'm sacrificing now for a better future for our kids.  And that small town, poor farm girl part of me screams-- WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT MONEY MAKING THE FUTURE BETTER?!?!?!?!  And the realistic, culturally enveloped part of me yells back-- EVERYONE, YOU IDIOT!!  MONEY MAKES EVERYTHING EASIER AND BETTER!!!

Before I had kids, I thought much the same way.  That when they were little, that was the best time to be "gone".  But now that I have kids, now that I want my kids to know they are my priority, I am more and more convinced there is no "good" time to be absent as a parent.

And I step back.

I listen to the intention and the expectation.
Swirl.
Battle.

This is the hurricane of intention and expectation. 

Just as the winds of hurricanes are far reaching, currently and forever, so is the choice to parent with intention.  And work with conviction. 

And find the calm between the two.

I am reminded

A year ago we were trying to figure out how to tell our parents, ever so reluctantly, that we were expecting a third baby.  We were not ready for a third.  We were not trying to have a third.  But we were having a third.  May teens, 2012.  A new baby was supposed to arrive.  New office for me.  Boys new in daycare-- an astronomical expense.  Just getting into a rythym with the office and all the new things I had to learn.  I was frustrated that life was again about to get even crazier.  It felt like the stress would never end.

We had found out in early September that I was pregnant.  We didn't tell much of anyone for almost 2 months.  We were trying to be excited about it when we told them.

And by this time last year, we were getting there.

We decided to tell the grandparents on my birthday.  We were going to my parents the weekend before and coming home to Keith's parents basically the Sunday of my birthday.  My mom had already figured it out.  I was sick.  I wasn't eating.  And all I could do was sleep.  And I was already showing at 10ish weeks.  My parents were cautiously excited, knowing just how stressful the last 3 1/2 years had been.

For Keith's family we were trying to be creative so we decided on a cake.  We got me a cake (very unusual) and put "happy birthday to a mother of 3" on it.  I still remember driving up Ash Street connector to go into Prominence Point Publix to get it.  Wondering how on earth they were going to respond.

Excited and worried is what I think filled the air.  Babies are exciting.  They also bring worry.  And stress.  Anyone who tells you otherwise is blowing sunshine-- no matter how anticipated or how unexpected the baby chaos may be, it is still a bit of chaos.  Babies are wonderful.  Babies are.  All encompassing.  If you are great at total self sacrifice, no showers, little sleep, and sore boobs, then maybe babies are easy for you.  But babies are challenging--fabulous--but hard

By Thanksgiving we were full on excited about another baby.  Really.  Really. Excited.

Christmas.  Bubbling.  Crazy happy about another little boy.  Everett.  I had him named before I got home to tell Keith.  With the "boys rule" camo outfit I bought to tell him.

We decided to keep that to ourselves for another little while.  Trying to make it fun.

January.  Earth shattering.  Life altering.  Devastating.  Gut wrenching news.

18 weeks left to mourn the baby I was carrying.  We were given no chance of life.  But we thought about it.  Prayed about it.  And contemplated every "what if" any set of parents can come up with.

And we came up with love.  Earth shattering.  Life altering.  Devastating.  Gut wrenching love.

There isn't a day that I don't think about the baby missing in my Moby wrap.  There isn't a moment that I'm not one thought away from tears.  There is this hole.  This... Emptiness... where a baby belongs.

Every test known to modern science said it wasn't our genes' fault that Everett is in heaven and not in Canton.  Everything they know to look for says his death was unexplainable.  Comforting and maddening.  Encouraging and frustrating.

And I am reminded.  Of everything I have learned in this wretched, beautiful year.

I am reminded that time doesn't heal wounds.  Choices do.

I am reminded that emotional walls have no place in deep, personal relationships.  Honesty, work, and vulnerability do.

I am reminded that life is fragile and only love matters.  Only relationships matter.

I am reminded that so much can change in an instant and yet, Christ is constant--whether we remember that immediately or not.

I am reminded that choices are what make circumstances.  Not that we choose every situation, but we choose how to participate in every situation.  And we choose how to allow those things to influence our lives.

I am reminded that only faith, hope, and love remain.  But the greatest of these is love.  That faith and hope bring us through the days of inner torture.  Of self disgust. Of enveloping sadness.  Of utter despair.  But love allows us to breathe.

I am reminded that He makes all things new.  That he will right is wrong. Healing flows from Him.  That restoration is His song.

I am reminded.   Of how 6 lbs, 20 weeks, and brokenness can change the weight of the world, a lifetime of decisions, and make restoration possible.

What do you do?

So what do you do with walls?  What do you do with hurt?  What do you do with judgment while you are trying to heal?  With callousness of social norms?  What do you do when taking out your trash brings turmoil instead of good?

You keep taking it out.  

You get your trash out.  You remove it from rotting your soul.  

You share it to allow others to see that they are not alone.  That pain is real, even for those who love the Lord.  That loving God and growing beyond the wounds does not simply mean that all is over.

Wounds do heal, and often can be stronger when the right stressors are in place.  That is why you set a broken bone-- to heal it properly.  That's why therapy is often active after surgeries-- to lay down scar tissue in the right directions along the lines of everyday forces to create movable, flexible, healthy patterns of strength.  Neglecting wounds causes long term inflammation, sometimes infection, and if not treated properly, almost always more problems in the future.  Improperly cared for injuries lead to compensatory reactions through the entire body.  THE ENTIRE BODY.

Emotional wounds are no different.  In fact, I would venture to say that emotional wounds are possibly far more likely to cause long term problems.  If you can't identify your hurt, explore it completely and see its current impact on your life, then you've missed a huge chance to grow.  A huge chance to improve all of your relationships.    A chance to be better.  A chance to help others.  A huge chance to see just how strong Jesus is.    When you try to do it all yourself, you will fail every time.  Your lines of stress are almost always laid improperly, selfishly, and keep you from moving freely throughout the rest of your life.

So what do you do with your trash?  When your skeletons come out?  When the ugly is revealed?  When you remember?  When you face it, willingly or un-?

Do you hide?  Do you try to bury further the things that keep you bound?  Do you allow stigmas of your trash to quiet or squelch your healing?  Do you just halt altogether because its too hard to keep going?  Do you eat?  Do you starve?  Do you run, kick, jump, and punch till you can't move?  Do you poison your own life and the lives of others with your bitterness, selfishness, and disgust?  

You do something.  What is it?

The easy and always church answer is always Let Go and Let God.  Makes total sense.  But for those of us with control issues, this isn't the easiest task.  For those of us with pride issues, this is nearly impossible to do.  For those of us with deep (or deeply buried) wounds, this is painful.  Sometimes excruciatingly so. 

But it's the only thing to do.  The only thing that brings healing.  To open your relationship that is broken.  Even if it is with yourself.  Especially  if it is with yourself.  

So as I pilfer through my trash, I have found that a major broken relationship with myself that has created many of the walls I've designed for self preservation, protection, and to cover my shame.

Because, somehow, we've been taught that shame is what we should feel for our failures.  For our sometimes catastrophic interactions with life.  Because life is just.  Life.

And so I ask the 'they' that have established these norms of shame...When is the last time you learned a really life changing lesson at the peak of success?  When is the last time you learned a life changing paradigm in the midst of smooth sailing?  

I was talking to a patient who, unbeknownst to me prior to that conversation, had been raped-- she said something so profound and so hard.  She said, "unfortunately, rape is as common as miscarriage and people shove both under the rug."  So. True.  No one thinks we should share the ugly.  Women are shamed and encouraged to never speak of it.  There are movies.  Shows.  Books.  All that demonstrate this social norm that is devastating.  That makes a victim feel guilty.

After the inappropriate actions of my youth minister and then being date raped, I realized just how much I blame myself for these things.  For my stupidity.  For being gullible.  For believing the best in all people.  And I hated me.  Hated me.  For all of my scholastic honors, I was an idiot.  And, sadly, when it comes to sexual abuse of any kind against a woman, there are generational norms that have been established to make us BELIEVE it is our fault.   There are societal stigmas that make us FEEL like it is our fault.  Like it is something to be ashamed of.  Like abuse is something to hide and bury.  Like it should simply be forgotten.  

Ask any victim if inappropriate conduct, assault, or abuse-- physical or otherwise.

You never forget.

You bury.

You move on.

You change you.

You do anything to forget.

But you never do.

 Why are the hard things of life stigmatized, judged harshly, and swiftly 'removed'?

Because real things happen to real people and real people have stories.

Real stories only heal when dealing with them in the light of God's truth and Jesus' love.  

God's truth is that sin is ugly and almost unavoidable.  Whether you choose it or it chooses you.  

Jesus' love assures us that nothing can separate us from His love.  Angels nor demons.  Height nor depth. Not sin or 'story'.  

Gods truth is that relationship matters.  We were created for relationships.  When those relationships are broken, we are broken.

Jesus' love says that we can endure anything.  Anything.  And anything.  Anything. Can be restored. 

Anything.

Feeling unloved.

Hopelessness.

Loss.  Deep, pervasive loss.

Pain.  All encompassing pain.

Stupidity.  Complete, full on, prideful stupidity.

Feeling alone. Very. Very. Alone.

And often times when we are taking out the trash of our lives, we feel alone.  We feel stupid.  We feel pain. We feel lost.  We feel hopeless.  But the truth of God's word and the love of his Son can somehow, inexplicably, BE THERE.  If you want to heal the brokenness.  Burying the brokenness only creates low level rumbling.  There WILL be an earthquake.  The earth WILL shatter at some point if you don't deal with your hurt.  If you don't deal with yourself.

Everett began chipping away walls in January.  Because we chose-- we actively chose-- to make losing our son the best possible experience.  The most faith building, marriage building, parenting building experience losing a child could be.  We chose to do that with losing our baby.  It didn't take away the pain.  It doesn't fill the Everett sized void in our lives.  It doesn't make any of the days better.  But it did keep us from rotting away.  From breaking relationship with Jesus, ourselves, each other.  It allowed us to lean into each other, to love on each other, in a way most couples will never even try-- because most won't have to.

As the walls got picked apart, the foundations began to show themselves.  Sometimes walls can be so big and strong that you don't even know where they came from.  How they got there.

I knew I had walls--fortresses-- in my life.  And having that patient walk in 3+ weeks ago who could have passed for my assaulter's dad allowed me a glimpse into the foundation of my walls. I don't recommend walls in marriage, but I've never met an honest couple who didn't have at least one barrier to real closeness.  In reliving that night (for the first time in YEARS), I could find some real untruths I had built in my life.

1.  Men are selfish, self centered, primal creatures with no regard for women.

2.  Sex is simply a tool of power operated by men who have no regard for women.

3.  Relationships with men that become physical (not just sexual) can not have real meaning.

4.  Men did not respect nor did they value women or their desires.

5.  Stupidity, not sin or anything else for that matter, separates from God's love. My choices.  Separate.  Me.  From God.  From Restoration.

I believed these things.  Whether I knew that I believed them then or not, I did.  I think I recognized #3.  Because I would reflexively "check out" of all relationships that included touch.  I changed me.  Because "touch" changed me.  I was/am no longer a "hugger" of adults, especially men.  I was/am not a "toucher", especially men.  I had GREAT friendships with guys. Anything more was a game. 

I lived by untruth #5.  So unforgiving of myself,  so guilt ridden in my story.  So low in my shame.  That I left God.  Because He could never love someone so stupid.  So naive.  So moronic.  As I. 

And so walls were constructed.  Self preservation.  Walls.  Instead of healing.  Doing it myself instead of asking Jesus for help.  Walls of protection around my emotions. Walls of "shut down" as soon as a relationship moved into a physical realm.  Hating myself so much that I believed that no one else could love me either.  Especially a self centered man only seeking to get laid. (my general overwhelming view of men)  

You can't do that and have a working marriage.  It just. ...Won't work.  Had I not unearthed that terrible night weeks ago, our marriage-- as strong as it already is because we choose it to be daily-- could never be as strong as it is *going to be*.  Because I am healing the broken relationship with myself.  I am understanding God's truth and Jesus' love in light of my world. 

This is what I have discovered.

1.  Sin sucks.  Choose it.  Be a victim of it.  Sin just sucks.  Its reach is further and deeper than most are willing to see and acknowledge.  Sin is ugly.  Sin has lifelong implications.  For everyone.  Not just me.

2.  Sin, my own and those sins against me, are nailed to the same cross as everybody else's. Jesus' love has covered me, smothered me, and cradled me to survive anything.  Anything.  And no one will bury me from sharing it.

3.  No matter the wall, no matter the foundation, no matter the source-- a broken relationship with yourself is the source of all other broken relationships.  Whatever its origin.   Healing always.  Always.  Always. Only.  Begins with me.  

Recognizing the source of the stench and then taking out the trash.  That is the only option.

I'm certain your story is different from mine.  I hope it is.  Sadly, if you're a woman reading this, it might not be all that different.  

Your walls, your untruths, your pain is different from mine.  Or maybe not.  

Your revelations may be very different from mine.  Maybe not.  

But I encourage you to love yourself, your spouse, your kids enough  to take out your own trash.  Don't be dumb like me and do it publicly if that's not your avenue, but start the healing process.  

Experience a peace you can't begin to imagine in your inner chaos.  

Experience joy you can't begin to imagine in your unhappiness.  

Experience love you didn't know existed.

Take out your trash and see how it changes you.

Tonight. This early morning.

I have found myself doing everything but thinking about Everett.  There's a certain amount of guilt, we'll call it overwhelming, that comes with that.  Because I haven't forgotten him.  I just can't devote any time to him because there are so many other things that require me.  And I feel like I'm neglecting him.  Neglecting me.  Because I can't just love him like I should be allowed to.  Talking about him makes people uncomfortable.  Ignoring him makes me uncomfortable.  And so life has this precarious tension of ignoring the 6 lb baby that isn't in the room.  Or the house.  Or at school.

And I find myself missing him.

Wanting him.  Thinking about how he would be rolling over, or trying to.  Thinking about what his smile would look like.  Thinking about Kipton with him.  Aiden with him.  Snuggling him at night or during the day. And all I have is this stupid bear.

This stupid bear that I can't sleep without.  This stupid bear that somehow brings me comfort.  This stupid bear that catches my silent tears.

I find myself overly preoccupied with pregnant patients' OB appointments.  And every pregnant lady that walks by.  I am so blessed to have my two little boys sleeping next to me--one to my right, one to my left- in their Jack-and-Jill rooms, me sitting between them.  I am so thankful for their sweetness.  Their enthusiasm for life.  Their wreckless abandon for life, love, and ice cream.   But I am human.  And I havent figured out the "only feel joy" part of being Christian.

Because I am a mommy who has a dead baby.  So I should be able to be sad.  Especially in the quiet.  I don't share my sadness in person because I don't want your pity.  I don't want your gumbled up words that never come out right.  Because maybe heaven is a better place but that doesn't change the fact that I miss my baby.  That I want to hold him for just another a few minutes.

There are moments of total selfishness that I want to turn back time and not let anyone hold him.  That I don't want to share any of my time.  I wonder if the stress of changing arms constantly tired his lungs even a minute early.  I wonder if not inducing earlier resulted in weaker lungs.  I wonder what we could've done to make it last just a little longer.

I don't need empty reassurances that nothing would've changed things.  I know that.  And I'm glad that his grandparents were able to hold him.  But tonight.  And for the last week.  I'm sad.  And I can't ignore my heart anymore.  I've a million other wonderful and sometimes even funny things to write about, but tonight.

Tonight.  This early morning.  I am sad.

Because I love my little sleeping, snoring beauties so much that I am sitting between their rooms to hear them sleep.  And I miss their brother.  And somehow I feel closer to him when I'm with them.  Life is less painful with them close.  Life is often loud, but it is fun and busy and filled with all sorts of things that roll.  They are light of my world.  They make this life enjoyable.  But.

Tonight.  This early morning.  I am sad.

Because there are times I want to be pregnant again so much I can hardly stand it.  Then I see myself in a mirror.  And I think... I sure as hell don't want to START a pregnancy fat.  Which makes me question my sanity.  Is THAT  a reason not to get pregnant?   But I hate myself right now.  (and please, no comments to attempt to make me feel better-- there is NOTHING you can say that will change how I feel about being fat.  I've been here many times before, was fat as a kid, and fat is not fun, especially when you should have a baby to show for your abdominal roll but instead, all you have is this stupid bear). I hate back fat.  I hate three abdominal rolls of disgustingness.  I hate soggy, saggy, empty, flat boobs.  I hate thunder thighs.  I hate not being able to run 3 miles.  I hate being able to do the same exercises I was doing 5 years ago, but looking like a cirque-ish sea cow on land.  I hate swimsuits.  I hate that somehow  my a$$ is large,  but my boobs are non-existent.  I hate pants that don't fit.  I HATE being fat.  I HATE it.  But worse, I hate that I preoccupy myself with wanting to tell people I had a baby 11 Thursdays ago so they won't think I'm JUST fat.  I hate that I do that to myself.  I hate that I don't want to get pregnant quickly LARGELY because I'm LARGE.  How.  Selfish.  Self centered.  How.  American.

And so I'm sad.  Saddened by the state of my selfishness.  Of my vanity.  Of my pride.  Of my emptiness. Of my humanity.

Because it is my humanity that feels the loss of Everett.  The loss of his lifetime.  The loss of his smile.  His coos.  His chunkiness.  His toothies.  His toesies.  His nose.  His fingers.  His belly.   His first day of high school.  His wedding.

And I suppose if my humanity was more in check and my Christianity more in control, I would see this life through rose colored glasses. I would think only about Everett being perfected in heaven. I would think only about how pretty I looked at church and how many people could see me there, I mean, how I could I serve the church with my time, talents, and money. (my mistake).   I suppose if my faith was stronger I would see me as Jesus sees me: fat and selfish, but still a recipient of his love.

So I'm sad.  And fat.  And I'm ok with that tonight.  Because I am not satisfied with that for a lifetime.

I wonder why we think somehow as Christians sadness is not okay. That constructive self criticism is not okay? That feeling your humanity is not okay?  Doesn't James say it's STUPID to look in the mirror and do nothing about what you see?  To keep going on about your life as if your hair and stench need no attention?  Since when is it ok to be fat and unhealthy?  Since when is it okay to defile your "temple" with excess weight but not any other "body" sin?  And why is any emotion other than joy greeted with scripture references to be only joyful?  There used to be this entire grieving process that was customary and now we hurry people to the "joy comes in the morning" part.  Why can't it be that joy comes FROM the MOURNING?  That is often where we find Jesus.  The real Jesus. Not the church Jesus that forces you to wear a tie and sing songs written in 1879.  The real Jesus. Who extends a hand for comfort.  Who offers a moment of quiet for your pain.  Who cries with you. Who forces you to look into His eyes for your mirror.  Who tells you like it is but loves you anyway.

And as my house sleeps tonight, I rest fitfully in my hallway.  Wrestling through my humanity.  Liste ing to the breathing patterns and dreams of my 2 perfect little boys that I got picked to raise.  Missing my son I will not hold again.
Maybe tomorrow..  In the early morning.  I will be peaceful.  Because in my mourning, I have found a shared tear from my Savior. In my humanity, I have found Jesus.

Kids Change Everything

Keith asked me to read the Bible through with him in 3 months.  I'm a REALLY slow reader.  I absorb and think, I don't just see words and say them.  I link.  Maybe that's why school is easy for me.  IDK.  Anyway, I have read the Bible through 2 times I remember and maybe more.  And this time I decided to skip Leviticus and I'm skimming Numbers.  Because I've read Leviticus/Numbers twice so far and have yet to really get much out....except to think.... Did there really have to be rules for this?  Seriously?  THAT is incredible perversion.  And, by the way, we figured out that sleeping with someone gets them pregnant, why not just give the lineage?  Why do we care if someone "spilt his seed outside on the ground so he would not make her pregnant"?!?!?  Is that really relevant?  Because I could think of a lot more things I'd like to know that aren't there instead of THAT.  

And then you read Genesis and Exodus. And you think... Is this really the same God I read about in the New Testament? If He is the same always, and these stories are true, this is really God?   ....and I think, would it be possible that he just might send babies to hell?  Because in Genesis he says children are evil at an early age and then in Exodus he says the sins of the parents are on their children.  The same God who says his mercy is overwhelming just because people continue to exist.  Who wiped out infants and two year olds to start fresh.  This is the same God?  The only difference is Jesus...?  But isn't Jesus God? 

{super speed thinking}

((((And is Jesus really his only son because the beginning of Genesis talks about the sons of God walking on earth and we typically call them angels or nephilim and they had sex with women and then had kids--but angels aren't supposed to be called sons of God because they are separately created beings not made in the image of God-- at least we've somehow come up with that line of theology. So, if these "beings" weren't angels but were called the sons of God, who/what were they??? ))) 

{aaaaannnd breathe}

 And suddenly, if you read the Old Testament with anything other than blind faith of its perfection, it seems possible that the horrible could be true.  Not even babies escape His wrath.  Because if he is the same yesterday today and forever and he is  I Am (in the Hebrew conjugation form meaning continuous with no beginning or end, just ...is).....then how could Jesus, who is God, CHANGE everything?  How can the two be the same and yet be so different?

Because Jesus spoke of love.  The Old Testament prophets spoke of war, judgment, & death.  Jesus spoke of self discipline.  The prophets spoke of sacrifices for atonement-- not change.  Jesus spoke of being a beacon of light and life and change.  Jesus wanted the little children to come to him.  In the OT, kids were a means to be richer, something to trade "for something better", and if you were a daughter, you were screwed--literally---by anyone your father (or brothers) thought might be beneficial.  

You mean THAT God is the same as Jesus?

What...like he had a kid and His perspective changed?

Doubtful that its true, ....But I get that.  Kids do change everything.  Hopefully for the best.  And I may never get my confusion and frustration answered about this I Am business and the apparent change of demeanor, but until then (never), I like that thought. 

That a kid who died changed everything for everybody if people would only choose a better way.  I'm good with that made up answer.

 

The Normalness of Abnormality

Why CAN'T we get him, Mommy?
That was Aiden's retort question when I answered him this morning.

He asked if we could go get Everett and bring him home.  Two of his friends at school have brought their babies home.  He wanted his baby to come home.

Thankfully for my emotional state, he is an easily distracted almost 4 year old.  He happily followed me to Kipton's class and then showed me to his new Pre-K room.

And I.
Well I've sobbed inside all day.

I couldn't take the day off because I wanted to sit and cry.  But I certainly wanted to.
I haven't been able to get my brain straight all day.  I've had an excruciating headache, with vision loss and everything.
Because of repressed emotions,  exhaustion, and stress. There's no option to slow down.  There's no option to take a day off.

I had 3 chances to vote yesterday.  Wouldn't you know the time I chose meant a perfect a little 9 week old baby boy was sleeping in his carrier in front of me.  The police officer watched as I teared up, staring at the baby.  He caught himself and looked away.  I couldn't stop staring, and wiped a tear away.  He caught my 'wipe' and his face softened as he watched something he couldn't understand.

Easier.  That's what everyone says.  It gets easier.  The thing is, you don't really want it to get easier.  Easier somehow means you're forgetting.  You're hardening.  You don't care.  And the guilt is overwhelming.  Because its the furthest thing from true.

It doesn't get easier.  The pain becomes normal.  Someone has made sense of it that way.  And I suppose that is true.  The absence gets to be normal.  The void.  Becomes a part of you.  So it's just... normal.

It doesn't get easier.  It gets manageable.  You learn how to handle these days.  The ones you want to flick off everyone in sight and scoop a baby up.  The days you want to beat the bejeezus out of 'parents' who hurt or neglect their babies.  The days you want to have hundred little ones, just trying to 'make up' for the one that isn't there.

You try to find a way to exert the emotion.  The hurt.  The Pain.  Of permanent Absence.  Of a Life that has Exited.  Of A Life That is MISSING. 

We are all feeling it.  Normal.  The normalness of abnormality.

The boys are blossoming.  Keith and I are closer than we ever have been or ever thought we COULD be.  The office is BOOMING.  I barely have time to do all my paperwork everyday.  We have started volunteering at church.  We're getting involved.  Creating the life we WANT, not just one that happens.  We are CHOOSING to enjoy the boys, not be bothered by them.  We are choosing to be actively involved with them.  Honestly, life is really fantastic.

Because normal is different.  Normal is keeping pictures of Everett in my purse for Kipton when he sees a baby.  Normal is counting Thursdays.  Normal is losing weight.  Normal is preoccupation with work.  Normal is sleeping with a band-aid covered teddy bear named Everett.  Normal is staring at little boys.  Normal is wanting to snatch them and run.  Normal is missing my little boy.

Normal is trying how to decide to answer the "How many kids do you have?" question.
Honestly or Easily? 

Honestly or Easily?



Because not missing him would make me callous.  Not missing him would mean I didn't care.  Not missing him would mean I've forgotten him.

And no matter how much you might not talk about how you feel when you hurt, it's good to hurt.  Because you haven't forgotten.  Because you can't.

So I will answer with honesty, a little pride, and little sorrow...
I have three.  A four year old, a 2 year old, and little one in heaven.

And it's abnormal for little ones to be in heaven.  But it's our normal.  And the normal of way too many others.  And though it may sting.  Though it may ache in my inmost parts.  My answer will become normal.

Not Lost. But gone nonetheless

6 weeks. 3 days. You realize life never really stops. I don't even really tear up anymore when I tell people my baby is dead. I stopped saying "lost" because I know where Everett is. And people assume I had a miscarriage if they didn't know I was pregnant. And somehow, dead sounds more... Real. More. Solid. Lost is a big misnomer when it comes to babies dying. Or anyone, for that matter. Because you lose your keys, and you find them. You lose your temper and regret it. You lose your weight (and usually find it). You lose a game and play another. "Lose" just doesn't have the sting that "my baby died" does. And, if you haven't noticed, I'm a reality facer. A cut the crap kinda girl. I'm not a fan of sugar coating. So why should I tell someone I lost my baby? I know where he is. And one day (maybe, in our limited vision/version of heaven) I'll find him again. But he isn't lost. He's dead.

He's dead.

We were in BJ's yesterday, surrounded by babies and Kipton kept reaching for them saying, "I want him". And I asked him if he missed his baby. Both boys said "Yeah. I miss him." Very sweet moment. Then I asked them where our baby was, and Kipton promptly replied,"We eat him". I laughed out loud and assured him we didn't eat the baby, the baby died. I gave him one of the picture cards I keep in my purse and he began to kiss, then eat it. At least I know why he thinks we ate the baby.

Because the biting truth of reality hits hard. And sometimes I almost have to be reminded. My baby is dead. Not lost. But gone nonetheless.

And all I have are pictures for comfort. And a teddy bear. Ok, I have 2. But anyway, the hole,this, void; It doesn't go away. It lingers and haunts. As we eat breakfast, I think about how much easier it is without an infant in the mix--and I want to throw up-- or at least
punch myself. HOW could I have just thought that?!?! Or getting ready for school? Or how would Aiden be reacting if there was a new baby in the house? Would he be so good? WOULD WE BE THIS CALM? I wonder if Kipton would be so happy, or if he would have remained aggressive as attention is drawn from him to a baby who needs Mommy even more than he does? And you wonder, are we a better family, in a better place, with a dead baby rather than a 6 week old? And you want to...throttle yourself for even considering it. But it's true. In a million ways, it's true. I'm sure that any family who has had 3 kids in 4 years would tell you it's hard. It's hard to manage it all. Pay for it all. Love each one as best as you can. It's hard. And maybe a little more time between babies would have made it a little easier. And if a mom is standing there, frazzled, exhausted, and chasing a 2 year old while holding an infant, and yelling at an almost 4 year old, it doesn't sound bad. It sounds honest. Reasonable. But a mom with a dead infant of 6 weeks, chasing a 2 year old, and yelling at a 4 year old, it sounds atrocious.

But it's true.

And we are so much better because of Everett in so many ways. We are better parents. Better, kinder disciplinarians (but firmer and more consistent). We are gentler. We are more loving. Less demanding. More playful. Less preoccupied. More intentional. Less "by default". We are the kind of parents I think our kids will be proud of. The kind that leave minimal scarring. The kind that recognize our shortcomings and try incredibly hard to correct them. The kind of parents that don't expect our kids to be something special, the kind that recognize they ARE something special. The kind of parents that are willing to forgo wealth in order to be truly family oriented-- home schooling (hopefully), weekends where Daddy is home-- not constantly gone, Mommy who will get in the bounce house with them. Parents who are lovingly, actively, intentionally involved in their kids' lives. And we know full well we aren't perfect, nor do we have good days everyday, but we know we are consciously parenting. Consciously looking for ways to improve ourselves and our parenting skills.

And it's true.
It is because of our dead son. Not sure we'd be here if Jan 10th 2012 was a very different day. Not sure we'd be as happy and peaceful if our lives had not been hijacked and shipwrecked. And it's a horrible, beautiful realization. That one little boy could do so much.

And keeps doing so much.

And yet....

I know every Thursday will be hard for a little while longer.
I know that life's demands keep coming.
I know I believe in a God who makes all things new.


And one day, new will mean whole. With no Everett sized void.

But until heaven is here, he will hold a large piece of my heart. For those 42 weeks, 6 days, and 3 1/2 hours will be the start of the life we said we wanted but were unwilling to fully work towards. Those 20 weeks of agonizing uncertanty opened our hearts to a fullness of God's unfailing, unconditional, all encompassing love-- despite our sin, our doubt, and fears. Those 6 days I wrestled and wrestled with control. Only to be reminded that I am not in control of anything. Those 3 1/2 hours of overwhelming joyous sorrow that left an emptiness in a post partum mother's arms and heart that cannot be filled, only appeased by a band-aid covered teddy bear. Those 3 1/2 hours that changed me and Keith for the better.

Everett sized void

Coffee or no coffee, sleep is still hard. Except after a week of not really sleeping. Then it's classified as passing out. Especially when it's 8:30 on the toddler mattress on the floor next to Kipton.

So much of life is back to normal. Which, let's face it, means busy in America. Back in the office. Doing everything that is required to make an office work well. At least most of the time. Mondays and Fridays I get to be a full time Mommy, which I love more than I did. We have much more fun as I have tried to stop accomplishing my "to do's" and just enjoy my boys.

Aiden has decided to love movies. The heat wave here this week (106 degrees on Saturday) has made it Mommy and Movie Monday. We (somehow-- usually in the car) get Kipton to sleep, put him in his bed, and Aiden and I snuggle up to watch a movie together. He hardly ever snuggles me. And soon enough he won't snuggle me anymore. So we pick our movies wisely and spend the afternoon loving on each other. And he's never been better behaved than as of late. As we've changed the way we discipline and implemented more love and affection and less harshness and rigidity. He's never been so...compliant. He (mostly) listens really well. He laughs more. Whines less. The Time Out Pad and Star Charts are such great motivators for him. He's so proud of his tattoos or "special special" treat at the end of the week. Bedtime is less traumatic. Fewer poopie accidents. He's been so much fun. We just hang out. We do a little art. Sing a few songs. Talk about a few things. Have a little circle time. And being a Mommy has never been so... enjoyable.

Kipton. Lawd help us all. Kipton is a mess made in heaven. Exuberant or exasperated. There is no inbetween. He has learned through our direction to take his excitement and/or boiling over energy and use it for zerberting or laughing or kissing or hugging. Which is really cute. Until you realize he has over boiling energy all day. All. Day. But hugs, zerberts, kisses, and impromptu dances are so much better than throwing, biting, and hitting. And he went from this pent-up aggression-filled little bulldog brute to a gentle, sweet, sharing, caring zeberting fool. Like tonight, while I was laying down with him for bedtime, he took his chubby little hands and rubbed my face and oh-so-quietly whispered "my mommy. sweet mommy. my mommy." No amount of TV, work, or Facebook would've been worth missing that. And I've never loved him so much as I do now.

So life is back to normal. Except normal now means I really ENJOY my kids. Perhaps I'm the only mom who felt more stressed out and pressure to be a maid and chef than to let go and enjoy her children. Enjoy teaching them. Having conversations about monsters. Or motorcycles. Or going on pretend train rides. Or redneck pools in the front yard. Or chase at the park. Normal now means I'd rather just play with my boys than make sure they're learning everything a 7 yr old should know (at the age of almost 4) in a school-type setting. Normal means they may not be able to read 500 words by kindergarten, but it means they know Mommy loves being with them. Mommy enjoys playing with them. Mommy wants to hang out with them. Mommy also means what she says and stars and treats can be taken away if you don't make the right choices. And you'd be REALLY surprised what a 2 year old can understand. We were. Or maybe we're just really inexerpeinced parents who don't expect enough from our boys.... No matter what, normal now means happier, less uptight parents which means happier, more loving kids.

And I've never been happier to be a Mommy.

And what makes it hard is that I wouldn't be this way if it weren't for Everett. If I didn't have to evaluate my entire life-- from my grudges to my parenting style-- I would not be who I am today. So sleep is always hard. Coffee or not. Because I look back on every day with a smile. Knowing. Living. The change my little one has made in our family. And I miss him. Everyday. I miss him. And the only time I have to see him is at night. When Keith is snoring. The boys are tossing and flopping in their beds. When the dishes are put away. The floors are swept (who am I kidding?!?!) When the makeup is gone. The TV is off. And Facebook has been put to sleep. I miss him. And I want to hold him again so much it hurts. So much it makes me sick some nights. Some nights I hold my iPad with his picture and just... cry. Silently. The tears fall. Because I miss him so much. The sweet moments we would be having with our almost 5 week old. I have fallen asleep with my phone in my hand, the last picture ever taken of him clutched tighly in my hands.

So much I can't think. Or sleep. Not even with Ambien. Because Keith is a deep sleeper and Kipton is not. And sleep brings nightmares (always has for me) of losing my boys. Like the family who lost theirs two weeks ago because of a drunk boater. I have nightmares of ceiling fans crashing down on them, killing them instantly. I have nightmares of car wrecks, taking everyone but me-- to live in my own little hell for the rest of my life. I have nightmares of terrible things happening to my little ones. Things I can't protect them from. Things I pray against all the time. Things I beg will never touch them. Things out of my control.

And it all seems so pointless. Because all things are out of my control. Except how to conduct myself. How to share life with everyone. How to treat my husband at the end of a not so great day. How to change my rigidity to softness to be a better parent. How to be teachable. How to listen more than I talk. (ok, sometimes I listen more than I talk, but I'm REALLY good talker). And I know some of these realizations would not be true for me right now if I hadn't lost my baby. If he wasn't dead. If I hadn't held him and then watched him be taken away, never to come back. If I didn't miss him so much my bones hurt. If there wasn't this...Everett sized void in my arms. And I get so irritated by the churchy comebacks and the Bible verse comforts because I'm not looking for anyone to try to make me feel better. I'm not looking for anything from anyone at all. But in the same breath, I believe them. Their comforts. Their offerings of inspiration. Because I know that all things work together for my good because I love God and am called to His purpose. I know that He knit Everett together in my womb. I know that His ways are higher than my ways. His thoughts, higher than my thoughts. I get it. Really, I do. And there is peace, really, there is.

But there, too, is this... Everett sized void. A life missing years of memories. And I've come to undertand that no one, even in their most sincere attempts, can understand-- can fathom-- the loss of a baby...until you've lost one. Until the realization that there will be no memories made of giggles. Of boo-boos. Of Halloweens. Or Christmases. Or a first loose tooth. Or messy high chairs. Middle school dances. Graduations. Weddings. It's a life that's... missing.

Gone.

And promises of heaven's reuniting should bring me peace. But there's not enough detail for me to know if I'll really see my Everett again. If I'll hold him. Or if he'll be all grown up. Or if any of it will really matter in the presence of God. I don't know.

I don't know.

And perhaps that is where my Everett sized void comes from. Me missing him so much. Because I'm not sure I'll hold him, and see him, and be his mommy in heaven. And that's what so many seek to comfort with. Heaven. And I...I just don't know. Because I think heaven is beyond our capabilities. Because if John really did see into heaven and all he could get out was the jumbled mess of descriptions we have in the Bible, it must be beyond our ability to comprehend. And, if you think about it, will anything about life as we know it matter in the presence of God?

I don't know.

I don't know.

And I have no control over any of it.

And so sleep comes ellusively. Fitfully.

Because of the Everett sized void in my arms.

And yet, because of it, my life will be better. Tears may be frequent. Questions may abound.

But life will be better.

So you have another cup...

The adrenaline is gone. And along with it, all motivation, energy, and clarity. I sit in my kitchen after working most of the day, needing to go back, listening to Pandora, having a cup of coffee, trying to get some perspective. Some 'umph'. For any and all of things I need to do.

To plan a huge marketing campaign so the office doesn't all-out flop. I should be finding seminars to go learn stuff, mainly how to bill insurance and actully get paid instead of continuously resubmitting claims. i should be pouring over the numbers of the office for the last 2 months and trying to figure out what needs to be done to most cost effectively build clientele. Trying to determine what little things the office needs to make it friendlier, warmer. Or looking for professional networking opportunities. Or for another contractor or two, maybe another LMT or an MD who thinks outside the pill bottle.

Or I should be seeking out a gym membership and running off my fatness. So I won't have to go to Goodwill looking for something to wear that doesn't make me look like a marshmellow in spandex. Or I should just take off down the road in the 96 degree GA heat on the black asphalt. That'll shed some pounds. Or I should start the 30 day Shred...again.

Or I should mop. God knows the house needs a good shalacking. But the toys are in the play room (that's all I can say) and there are no dishes in the sink. The trash has been taken out. And there's a nice layer of filth that coats the furniture. So why should I disturb it?

I have about 200 thank yous that need to be written. I've done 4. I might get around to sending them next month. Or in August, let's be honest.

There are a hundred million things I should be doing.

But the adrenaline is gone. My energy is vansihed-- or possibly vanquished-- by the mountains in front of me. And the toddler mattress I sleep on next to Kipton most nights.

I have held two baby boys in two days. And my whole body weeps for my Everett. And I have never been happier for friends who have healthy babies. I am emotinally spent without having time to grieve. How can that be?; it's been 4 weeks tomorrow, right?

Monday the 28th was Kipton's birthday and Memorial Day. Grandma wanted to have a party for Kipton as Keith and I were just too tired to want to do anything. So we had a party Monday afternoon/evening for his birthday and Memorial Day. We checked into the hospital Wednesday 30th at 5 pm. Thursday the 31st, Keith and I left the hospital two hours after they took Everett away in the basket. Keith slept. I cried until the Ambien took effect. We came home the following day (Friday) to spend the whole day with grandparents, the boys, and Yaya. Went to Target to buy my Mom's retirement present. Had a bithday party for Grandma Friday night. Drama ensues. The next morning, we went to WalMart to pick up the John Deere tractor from Yaya and a retirement cake for my mom I prepped the house for grandparents and boys to come over for lunch and playtime in the backyard. Family friends were brining food later, so I just decided we'd call my sister to come up, too. To have a retirement party for mom; I mean, those who love her most were already going to be at the house, what was 2 1/2 more people? Sunday we had lunch at Grandma's and brought the boys home.

The next week was filled with memorial plans, picture aquisition from our photographer who was on a vacation and STILL got us our photos, drama control, and eulogy writing. I went to work for a few hours twice that week to do bills and office stuff. The weekend was more family time. The following Monday we found out Keith's brother and family from California were coming in. Monday and Tuesday we shopped. Endlessly. For something, anything, that I might be able to wear and not feel like the beached, dying whale I felt (feel) like. (Thank you Off Broadway for the most fabulous shoes ever that made the rest of the outfit easier. And everything previously bought had to be returned.) Wednesday I worked for a while at the office and got ready for the 3 house guests. Dinner was at our house for the whole family on Wednesday to celebrate Justin and the girls' arrival, thankfully the in-laws provided pizza and salad. Thursday was a family fun day for the kiddos-- and super draining for a 2 week post partum mommy and daddy who lost their baby and were trying to accomodate for everyone around them, AND exhausting for 2 little boys who had felt so much angst for a week,their routines/schedules completely uprooted, and had been fed incredible amounts of sugar. So it was fun as long as we were playing and not contained. Friday was more prepping, pictures, frames, gifts for family, sudden packing up of clothes for a family who lost everything in a house fire, just... craziness. And then more drama management. Saturday morning the pictures were screwed up so we had to get them redone, Yaya arrived just in time to keep the boys for us, then we got in a fender denter at Target and the memorial service was 2 hours later. With family time at the service. And then more family time after the service. Sunday, more family time. Monday was a day for Keith and I to breathe. Tuesday Keith and I went back to work and then dinner with the family again. I worked Wednesday and part of Thursday last week. Had the boys home with me on Monday, went to work Tuesday, and now it's Wednesday.

And after typing all that, I need to breathe. Because the adrenaline's gone. And with it, my brain. And I'm tired. No, I'm exhausted. And I can't be. Becuase despite the fact that there's been very little rest, there can't be more rest. And it sucks. Because you just have to put your big girl panties (no punn intended for my extra large rear) on, and go on. And I might as well do it with a smile, because grouchy doesn't help anyone. Bitterness doesn't heal anyone or anything.

And I've just decided there will never be enough time to grieve.

Not now, at least.

So I'll have another cup of coffee. And hug my Everett bear. And wordlessly pray to make it through another day.

Without snapping at anyone for saying something stupid.
Without verbally punching someone for their selfcenteredness.
Without sobbing in front of patients.
Without making holes in the wall.
Without regretting anything.

Because sometimes we all speak without thinking.
Because we're all selfish occassinally.
Because sorrow won't pay the bills.
Because regret rots your soul.
And we all need a little grace from each other sometimes.

So you have another cup of coffee. You give a little grace. And even though the adrenline's gone and the energy, clarity, and gumption with it, and exhaustion has set in, life rolls on.

And hopefully as time keeps rolling on, the big girl panties get smaller, energy levels and clarity return, and hope-covered peace will fill everyday.

Some Days

Some days tears fall. Some days words fall.

The other night words fell. They just... Appeared. In verse. And that almost never happens for me. But in less than 30 minutes the whole of my heart and mind fell onto the page in rhyme and rhythm. And I was so peaceful. So. Calm. I wasn't fearful or angry. Just. Peacefully sad. Restful. And I thought that it might be my last Everett post. Intentionally deciding to move on as it seems so fashionable to do. So...spiritual to do.

And tonight I have cried for the last hour. Trying to find every picture I have on hand. Scratching these (explicative) bug bites and crying. Uncontrollably at points. I finally just got out of bed so I could cry without fear of waking Keith.

And there is no reason I should be awake. I've had 2 glasses of wine and 2 benedryl to help the itching that covers my body from toes to shoulders. Stupid chiggers. I don't like chemicals, but I hate chiggers. They will not survive the wrath of a grieving mother, I assure you. They will die. And there is no chigger heaven, but there better be a chigger hell...

There isn't enough coffee to keep me awake during the day. Or enough energy to make me want to DO something. And sleeping seems so...impossible in the stillness. Because when the joyous noises of a four year old and a two year old are silent, my mind is not. When the tv is off and all there is to hear is the crickets...if you can hear them beyond the other side of the snoring, my heart and my mind beg to see pictures of Everett. Some days I give in. Some days I don't. Some days I'm not strong enough to remember why I'm fat. Some days I'm not strong enough to let go and cry. Some days I'm peaceful, thinking I've grieved my last night, just thankful to have met my son alive. Some days I'm far too exhausted from chasing my wonderful little boys to invest in myself emotionally. Some days.

I share the tears, not because I seek prayers or pity. But because if you see me, I will not cry. I lack the strength in person to face my reality. I share the tears because I find there are those who seem to need them from me. But I can't seem to give them. Not on cue. In the middle of OfficeMax, I can. In the car, alone. Alone at night with my thoughts and pictures. But not on cue. I will talk about the boys, talk about the office, talk about hair, nails, your back or neck problems, your diet, but I can't talk to you about my Everett. Not yet. And it seems to be a need for a few, to SEE me cry, to SEE me broken. And I lack the strength in person. So they leaving wanting...wanting something I cant give.

Some day I will be able to TELL the story or say more than "we are as good as can be expected, if not better", or "I have my days, but mostly I'm doing well". These are true answers. But they seeM shallow, because they are. But shallow is all most people want to hear. They want to hear that you've gotten over the death of your son. They want to hear that you're happy he is in heaven. They want to hear that you are ever praising God for the time you did have.

And while all that may be true. It isn't the whole truth. The whole truth is that I still waiver somewhere between f*** you, God and It is Well With My Soul. It's just that I'm honest enough to say it. To write it. To admit it. Because although I know Everett is in heaven, it doesn't make trying to explain that going to church (where Aiden associates most closely with Jesus' home) is not going to see Everett. Because although I DO feel blessed to have held him and met him alive, I still WANT him to be alive. Because even though I think God is using my son to influence lives-- at the very least the four of us in this house-- I don't LIKE the way it's happened. So I sit here, somehwere between my emotions and my decision to have faith. Because being at peace, and feeling the peace, doesn't mean the storm stops. It just means I'm anchored hard. But the storm still comes. And I can't seem to ignore it.

And the tears still fall.

Especially at night.

In the quiet.

Alone.

It's easy to remember your blessings when the boys are laughing. When you're outside getting infested with chiggers and being feasted upon by mosquitos, swinging and playing. When you are being zerberted continuously by your exuberent 2 year old. When your four year old is on a first name basis with his John Deere tractors (I gotta get my John!!) It's easy to remember your blessings when the car always starts or when church reminds you too. Or even when you watch a few minutes of news.

It's easy to remember your blessings and feel blessed. It is much harder to feel blessed when you remember how cold your infant son was, even wrapped in three blankets. It's harder to remember to feel blessed when your body can't seem to understand where the baby is.

But it's a choice.

It always is.

And it isn't an easy one.

To choose hope.

To choose peace.

Or forgiveness. Or grace. Or love. Or whatever it is you lack because life has stolen it from you. And you feel slighted. You feel inadequate. You feel destroyed. Bitter. Angry. Victimized.

It's not easy to choose a different way than you usually do.

Even through the tears. It's not easy to remember your blessings when you feel so weak.

Some days you feel the intensity of life. Some days you feel the overwhelming peace of faith. But each day you choose to have faith. Each day you choose how to respond. Each day.

Some days hurt. Some days heal.

Everyday keeps rolling by.

It doesn't stop. Time. It just keeps going. And the choices of my heart dictate its story. Some days are easier than others. Some nights have sleep. Some nights don't. Lingering between craving to remember each moment. And longing to stop the pain. Between happy memories. And agonizing ones. Between sobbing at the feet of Jesus. And singing It is Well With My Soul.

As I Lay Me Down to Sleep-- A poem to Jesus for my Everett

As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my boys to keep.
And though my heart does surely ache,
I pray the Lord this pain to take.
So when I wake and see the morn,
The Son does give my heart untorn.
For He alone can take this pain
And give my heart a brief refrain.
For though this world gives harshly to,
His peace and love are constant. True.

But now I me down to sleep,
And for my son, my eyes do weep.
My arms they long to hold him tight,
Yet only Jesus will mend this night.
So for His comfort I will pray,
As life my son has taken away.
His face will ever mark my soul
And life will ever take its toll.
But to my King I lift my voice,
Knowing fully I have a choice.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I ask the Lord my soul to keep.
For though my soul feels empty sorrow
I know there can be peace tomorrow.
I need only to seek His hand, His face
To feel His love and warm embrace.
His love will catch my every tear,
His hands will calm my every fear.
I need only ask as tears do fall
For Him to hold me and hear my call.

So as I lay me down to sleep,
I beg the Lord a simple peep
Into his lovely heavenly dome
To see my boy in his new home.
To touch his face and kiss his cheek,
Though it strike a tearful leak.
I ask the Lord to hold him dear,
For I long to have him near.
My son, my boy, my little one
Who met his Jesus as life begun.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I know the Lord my heart will keep.
For if He loves me as He claims,
My life and pain He takes, renames.
And as His own, my sorrow goes
He takes this horror and peace He sows.
Though tears may fall and sadness fill,
The Lord of all does choose to heal.
If only I open my heart and choose
To hear Him, let Him, and not refuse.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
And though my soul will often weep,
Dear Lord I ask, I beg, I pray
Please keep my pain and doubt at bay.
And if I die before I wake,
I ask you for my family's sake
Reveal your love fresh and new
In ways they know from only you.
And have my son there for me
To hold for all of eternity.

Tears for Heaven

I miss my baby. I want to hold him again. It's been 3 weeks today. And 20 minutes as I type this right now. I've seen patients for 2 days this week, but decided I needed a day to breathe. And Thursdays I really have a hard time. And I wonder when I won't anymore. When I won't count them. Or stare at the clock at 9:54.

I'm not sad all the time. I have laughed and played with our boys. I have laughed with family. I am looking forward to joining a gym and losing the half of cocunut cake I ate. I enjoyed the distraction of work. I like being a chiropractor with counselor's heart. I like my new shoes and am looking forward to the first run. I'll be out to Goodwill to get some clothes today. I'm excited to see Yaya in a few weeks. Looking forward to a quiet lunch with Gigi tomorrow. To take the boys to the farm. To take Aiden on a weekly Mommy-Son date. (Kipton and I spend a LOT of time together). I LOVE playing with those precious boys. I'm excited about starting a small group with our new found church friends. I still have many many things that bring me joy.

But I woke up in a full on panic the day we brought Everett's ashes home. We have 2 urns-- a teddy bear and a picture box. His ashes are in both. They spread them into the two holders in an office at the funeral home. And in the middle of the night, in my half-sleep state, I panicked. Terrified. Petrified. That part of him fell on the floor. Or on the desk. And it was swept up and thrown away. I *KNOW* it essentially doesn't mean anything. They're just ashes. But I was in an absoulte, sweat drenched, heart pounding, barely breathing panic. That Everett was thrown away.

There has been so much to do, so many boxes to check. Other events that have required attention. Family gatherings. That three weeks later, there is just now time to breathe. Time to realize. Time to... hurt. But not really. Because I don't have a job. I have a business. I don't have leave. I have rent, utiities, and payments to make. (This is a not poor, pitiful me statement). So I've already been to work like 5 or 6 days, most of which is just administrative work. And there's a retreat factor to being there. A forget factor that enables me to pretend like my life doesn't include a dead baby. So work keeps me busy, even if it is a little stressful.

But normal is not normal.

I don't *usually* cry Keith to sleep. Then go cry in the shower. Then cry myself to sleep.

I don't *usually* wear a necklace that has the ONE day my son was alive imprinted on it.

I don't *usually* ache from the inside out.

I don't *usually* wonder if people can see the sadness in my eyes.

I don't *usually* wonder if I'm doing a good job of pretending my heart isn't in pieces.

Normal is something we will all learn. Normal always changes. That is what is NORMAL about normal. Change. And I know time will dim the vividness of the emptiness. Time will quiet the screams of longing. Time will dull the sharp pain of loss. Normal will always include these things. Just not this clearly.

I will always want my baby.

To hold him again.

To hold him longer.

To love him in my arms.

To watch him grow.

But now normal will include tears for heaven. Because I long for my little one. And I miss him terribly. I feel like part of me is missing. Just... gone. And I hug my Everett bear. And I cry. Becuase my baby is gone. And I'm selling a crib that should be holding him as he naps. And we've given away his clothes to a family who lost their home to a fire. And I'll take the newborn diapers I kept, just in case, to the pregnancy crisis center. There's 30 lbs to lose that remind me constantly that my baby is dead.

Normal.

Will never be normal again.

Everett's Goodbye

I haven't been writing, because I've been writing this. My eulogy. For my infant son. His service was Saturday June 16. It was beautiful. The best and of worst of days.


As is customary, there must be "shit story", right?


Short version of the story:
We ordered some pictures for family and the memory box to place up front with my sweet boy's teddy bear urn. The pictures weren't the right size, so we had to reorder and repick a few on Friday night. Saturday morning we should've been able to get the at 10am. At 11:30 when we got to Walgreens, NONE od the pictures were printed and 0% had downloaded(order was there, just no pictures there to print). We rush home to make a CD of the pictures to take to Target. Get frames for the gifts for family, and see how much more complicated we make the day.


We sat down in car, said how tired we were, and looked behind us to back up. To our horror, there was nothing in the mirror, but there was a tiny little Lexus sports car behind us. In utter disbelief of what had just happened, Keith got out, explained why we needed to get going as quickly as possible, exchanged information, and I sat crying hysterically in the front seat. I couldn't take anymore. I felt so defeated. EVERYTHING surrounding Everett's birth had drama attached to it. EVERYTHING. And all I wanted was peacefulness for his birth, death, and service. And now this. This unseen pricey tiny car was going to muddle up his memorial service.


And then I remembered.


We get to choose what we think about. We get to choose our attitudes. No matter what is surrounding us, we get to choose. I grabbed Keith's hande, half smiled through tears, and said "We will not let this ruin our day".


I could've gotten mad at Keith. I could've let that fester in my heart, and steal from little boy's day. I could've chosen to let the bad win.


Because there's always going to be stuff that happens to ruin a day, drive a wedge in relationships, or steal from something great that is about to happen. If you let it.


If you let it.....



This is Everett's Goodbye.......


I started this pregnancy crying.  On the toilet.  On a Sunday morning.  Mad at God.  Again.
I ended this pregnancy crying.  In a hospital bed.  On a Thursday morning.  Sad.  Again.  


I can't tell you the number of times I've wondered what I did.  To have such a screwed up life.  Screaming out to the ceiling.  How did I get here?  With 2 kids, a baby on the way that was bound to die, and a business that can't survive me being pregnant AND losing a baby at the same time. What did I do, God?  What did I do?  Am I such a horrible person that I have to mimic Job's life?  Well, God, I'm not interested in writing a story that will change lives or be inspirational.  I just want MY life to change. 


I can't tell you the number of times I've  been told how blessed I should feel to be Everett's mother.  To be a part of that chosen group of strong women whose faith would not be shaken by such a tragedy.  To be chosen by God for this journey.  Bull....hockey. Strong, I am not.  Unshaken faith, have I not.  Blessed?  Are you serious?  My son, who had a name before his prognosis.  My son, who has brothers.  My son, who most will mourn for a day, but I will miss for a lifetime.  My SON.  IS BEING TAKEN FROM ME.  Blessed?!?


Everett changed it all.  Pretty much one morning in the shower.  With a Dreamworks movie.  About Moses and the Israelites.  I had cried myself to sleep yet another night.  Terrified, confused, and strangely enough, wordlessly praying to have the family of 5 I had always wanted.  Hoping against all hope.  When the animated version of Moses' face flooded every part of my brain.  And the music starts. The words so powerfully perfect in my broken heart that I began to sob....


Many nights we've prayed
with no proof anyone could hear.  
Now we are not afraid, 
even though we know there is much to fear.  
We've been moving mountains long before we knew we could.  
There can be miracles, 
when you believe. 
 Though hope is frail, it's hard to kill.
Who knows what miracles you can achieve, 
you will when you believe.

I guess that was all I needed.  To be reminded to believe.  With no proof anyone could hear.  To have hope.  Even if it's frail.

Somewhere around 29 weeks gestation, my little Everett changed everything about who I am.  About how I thought.  About my faith.  About my goals.  About my family.  My physically doomed little boy became a miracle beyond all imagination.  

Our next ultrasound was at week 33.  Keith and I both walked in cautiously hopeful.  We read of little miracles and huge miracles of physical healing for babies doomed to die.  And part of us was sure we would get that gift.   Because so many people were following our story and praying that God would "show up".  

But He didn't.  In fact, there was no good news at all.  A few things had actually gotten worse.  And I laid there.  Screaming in my head.  Throwing a full-on 3 year old tantrum.  At God.  I walked out of that appointment headed to another, furious at the world and daring Dr. Kupke to be an arrogant, controlling, man.  And we found him to be anything but.  His goal?  For us to hold our little boy.  For as long as we wanted.  Without interruption.  From anyone.  Short of healing my son completely, it was the best news we could have gotten.  And my 3 yr old tendencies began to wane.  

I never stopped hoping.  And I couldn't choose to stop believing.  Why?  Because there are moments of total peace that make no sense whatsoever.  Because if this is all there is, infant death is simply a cruel trick of life.  And I can't believe that.  Because I must have hope of holding my Everett again.  I have to believe in a Jesus who would send peace to help me survive holding my son as his life ends after 3 1/2 hours.  I have to believe in a Jesus who will give me a chance to hold him again.  Because this can't be it.  It just can't be it.

But still, I don't understand.  I don't have a clue what or where heaven really is or how it works.  All I know is comfort doesn't come from things you touch, drink, eat, or even the people around you.  Comfort comes from a place we can't see or understand.  Because comfort is something you can't understand until you mourn.  With a fully broken heart.  Broken.  So much that money, fame, respect, or even shoes can't heal.  

Comfort doesn't mean the questions and confusion end...it just means life can take a different turn if you want it to. It means that bitterness doesn't have to be your friend.  It means that hope and change can be your new normal.  It means that despair and emptiness can have their fleeting moments of reign, but peace and joy can take their place.  But it's a choice you make.  A choice.

We chose to carry Everett every second his heart would beat.  For 42 weeks, 6 days, three and a half hours, he knew nothing but love.  I fully believe that in the womb, babies still sense emotion.  Whether it be from a hormonal/neurochemical bath, energy interpretation, or supernatural understanding of love that only a soul, not bound but time or age, can feel-- Everett knew that every tear was shed out of love.  When we held him, and he would look at me with his left eye, barely open...he knew.  When Kipton hugged him, searched for him constantly, kissed him, begged for him, he knew.  When the grandparents met him, he knew.  As Daddy rocked him, he knew.  As Aiden kept his eyes ever on the baby, he knew.  He knew we chose to love to him.  

And I've begged and pleaded openly with God to let me have my son.  That I could love him the way a mommy should.  I have begged to have this hellish nightmare of reality taken away.  I have pleaded for my husband not to be punished for something I've done wrong.  Because somehow this all makes more sense if I've done something to lose my priviledge of mothering Everett.  It all makes more sense if I get what I deserve.

But as I have written many times, ....shit happens.  Life just sucks occasionally.  Somethings will never be explainable or understandable.  And in times like losing your son, the standard "God's Plan" answer just doesn't cut it.  Because sometimes we can eventually make sense of tragedy and sometimes we can't.  Many attempt to attribute spiritual significance to these kinds of moments.  Moments when the world doesn't make sense.  Many attempt to attach eternal significance to these kinds of moments. And maybe they're right.  Maybe that is the case...and because I can't have my Everett back, that is what I hope for.  Significance for his unexpectedly long, yet tragically short life.  

Knowing we would lose Everett for 20 weeks, we had 20 weeks to choose.  Choose anger. Or love.  Choose turmoil.  Or peace.  Choose emptiness.  Or hope.  

Keith and I chose to love each other.  To allow the other to mourn in whatever way was needed.  To give space and individuality in order to be a stronger couple. As Dr.Phil says, we now never miss a good opportunity to shut up.  We now listen to each other with grace. And really, really listen.  I am more in love with Keith than I have ever been.  We are a team for the first time.  We have chosen to lean in on each other. And we have found strength in each other most couples will never know.  We have chosen to love above all else.  We have focusd on our marriage, our boys, and our family goals.  Everett's story took our marriage from desperate need to incredible strength.  

Maybe I was just a terrible mother before Everett, but I want to be a supermom now.  Not with secret powers of pintrest, shutterfly, or scrap booking-- although I wouldn't mind having those powers-- but with secret powers of intuition, listening, graceful discipline, encouragement, and warmth.  Now more than ever, I want Aiden and Kipton to know Mommy loves them, that Mommy hears what they haven't figured out how to say, that Mommy cares what is on their hearts.  I want Aiden to know that Mommy sees him watching, thinking, processing.  And I will listen and chat with him about baby Everett's new "adbenture" in heaven.  I want Kipton to know that I will hold him while he screams for the baby, that I will comfort him as he sees a baby leave and crumbles into hysterics.  I am a softer, kinder more loving mother than I would have been without Everett.

My little Everett...this is your story, sweet boy.  You have taken broken, ugly things and made them beautiful.  Little Everett, you have changed our hearts.  You have changed our lives.  Your tiny little feet and extra long toes have left a lifetime of footprints on our hearts.  And it breaks my heart, baby boy, that you will not leave footprints in the sandbox or at the beach.  It breaks my heart that you will not know these changes you have brought about.  And I wish we could've gotten here without losing you.  I wish it could be different.  I wish everyday that Mommy knew how to fix this.  I would've done anything.  Anything.  But that's not how it happened.  And I don't understand it.  But know this Everett, you are the reason I will be better.  You are the reason I will be better.

(Keith comes back to the stage)

The story of Everett is a sad but beautiful one.  One that has touched many lives, not just ours.  If his story has touched your life in a meaningful way, we ask that you let us know through the cards on your chair. If you have been changed or have something you want to change as a result of hearing Everett's story, please jot it down.  These memory cards will be placed in his scrapbook as a testament to his life.       You don't have to participate and a signature is not required, but if you have been touched in a permanent way by Everett's story, we would love to know about it.  To memorialize his life.  To be reminded that there's to more life than this.  To rest assured that there can be miracles when you believe.