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.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
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 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.
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