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.