Oh, Hello Again.

Hi Blog and Internet People!

Apparently this blog has become less about funny stories about my kids and more just therapy for me, because today's post is going to be all about me processing a recent sadness. Those of you looking for a light laugh might want to move on.

I am part of a fabulous book group. They are incredible ladies, and we actually talk about the books we read *gasp*! I am all for social time as well, but the English teacher in me craves insightful book analysis every once in a while. And we read deep books--no light and fluffy for us! Well, except for the Nora Ephron memoirs, but she's so funny and insightful that it was worth it.

For this month, we read "The Light Between Oceans," by M.L. Stedman. I had heard of the book before, and I knew it was about a couple who lived on an island south and west of Australia, and that they found a baby in a dingy and decided to keep the baby instead of figuring out who she actually belonged to. I even knew there was some loss in the woman's life before they found the baby. And yet...

And yet, reading about her first miscarriage was like ripping a scab off my heart. It has actually been some time since I really thought about losing the baby. September, when the baby was due, was a hard month for me, but I've been busy and preoccupied since then, and I had somehow convinced myself that I was healed; my loss was dealt with, and I could put my grief away.

For the first 70 pages of the book, I was fine. I enjoyed it; I even wrote down a few quotes that stood out to me as a nice turn of phrase, or a poignant commentary on life. Then the woman got pregnant, and like a train wreck, I couldn't turn away. And as she lost the baby, I saw so much of my own experience in hers. She keeps apologizing to her husband, and I remember the guilt I felt as I lost yet another baby. I could relate to her sense of inadequacy; she says, "How hopeless am I? Other women have babies as easy as falling off a log." Every Sunday at church, it seemed I was surrounded by reminders of my failure as pregnant women thrived right and left. I can understand her sense of blame; "It's my fault, Tom. It must be." I felt that same way; maybe if' I'd started folic acid sooner, if I'd gone to a specialist earlier, if I'd done something different, I would still have those babies. She, too, has a sweet husband, desperate to make things better but no idea how to do so.

The page after the miscarriage shows the woman walking through her house, seeing a half-done christening gown and a picture of her parents; grief has greyed and faded all the things that have previously brought her joy. I have moved past that bleak world, but I remember feeling that same way not so long ago. In fact, I still have a half-full bottle of prenatal vitamins in the cupboard that I avoid making eye contact with.

If you ask me what happens next in the book, I have no idea. That's where I stopped. I am no longer that angry mess of grief and loss, but I remember when I was, and it's too soon for me to read about someone else going through that. I can, however, tell you what happens next for me. I hug my kids, kiss my husband, help make gingerbread houses in my son's kindergarten classroom, take my daughter to yet another soccer practice, make dinner for a friend going through a hard time, and life goes on. I do, however, also see myself avoiding any books with a mention of the word "miscarriage" in the description! This hurts too much to do again any time soon.

Fire works.

Yesterday began much like most Independence Days begin in our world. Allie and I went on a Fun Run in the morning. It was 2 miles, and we finished with a respectable time of 20:03. She placed 5th in the Kids Under 12 category, and we were sweaty, but we didn't get passed. Also, Allie has legs like a gazelle. When that kid decides to get serious about running, she will be a force to be reckoned with. Then we had a pancake breakfast at church, there was a short patriotic program, and I got teary-eyed like I always do. Boden spent most of his time pulling the American flag decorations out of the grass, and at one point had a fist-full of about 15 of them.

Normally, at the end of the 4th of July, we find ourselves at the Sammamish Commons, fighting for blanket space and trying desperately to keep the kids entertained until the show starts. This year, however, events took a decided turn for the better. A friend of ours invited us to his family's house to celebrate the 4th with them. He was rather convincing in his arguments, so we agreed. We were a little concerned about them setting off fireworks in his backyard, because the city has been cracking down and issuing fines for this for the past couple of years. Fortunately, just outside of Sammamish, where his family lives, is unincorporated land, where apparently they can light things on fire to their heart's content.

We showed up to a fabulous party already in the works. The kids bee-lined for the pool. (Can I just insert that this was a milestone for me? This was the first time in the past 8 years that I have been able to sit on the side of the pool and chat with friends, without having to get in the pool myself to help the kids. It might not seem like much to you, but to me, this was HUGE!)

Boden being social with a lady friend.

After much chatting, snacking, and socializing, the menfolk announced that the Civil War Reenactment was ready to start. Wait, what?!?

Some people read fireworks warnings and take them as warnings. Not this bunch... Apparently, they read the warnings and saw suggestions. So the men and teenage boys put on protective eyewear and non-flammable shirts, and then proceeded to leave their common sense behind. They divided into teams and each team had a pile of bottle rockets, Roman candles, and Bazookas. These fireworks state very clearly, "Do not hold in hand." I'm sure the "Do not point at other people" warning is implied. And yet, that is exactly what Alex and the other guys did, for about 20 minutes. We found out later that in addition to the fireworks they were shooting at each other, some of the men had set up fireworks in the field earlier, and rigged them to remote detonate on trigger when one of the teams got too close to them. I was reassured that we did have a fire chief in the audience, and I decided that I would only panic if he did.

In those trucks were all the other fireworks for the big show later that night. Smart place to make home base, right? Please note my sarcasm here.

 As the men and teenagers ran around the field like idiots, shooting rockets at each other, the women and children stood a fair distance away to watch. (Not far enough, though. A few stray Roman candles sent us scurrying out of the way.) The field filled up with smoke and we felt a little like war wives, hoping our husbands got out alive. What is it with men and the need to shoot at moving targets? I imagine women through the centuries have asked themselves the same question.

Here's a short clip of the insanity. Please don't mind the cackling in the background. It was all absurdly funny.

After the "battle" was over, the boys and men all came back up to the house, counting burn holes on their shirts, showing off ash streaks across their skin, and bragging about how many people they had hit. Alex reenacted the famous kiss picture from WWII, storming over to me with an announcement that "I survived!" and then kissing me in a low dip. While this (the reenactment and the kiss!) was the highlight of the evening, our hosts also put on a great fireworks show with a professional-grade fireworks once it got dark.

Even their sparklers were much more flammable than the wussy ones I have been using up until now.

Here are my take-home messages from the 4th of July this year: 1. Having a party with a small group made up of people I already know was soooo much better than bickering over blanket space at the city fireworks. 2. All men are idiots, especially when they have fire in their hands. 3. Bug spray should be applied every half hour to avoid being eaten alive or sucked dry. 4. Boden will still sleep like a champ, even after he has guzzled several sodas.

In the tradition of my mission, I am going to include a bug bite count on my posts this summer, just for sympathy. Feel free to feel bad for us.
Alex: 0 (Alex claims he found one just now, but I think that is just his competitive spirit kicking in. Oh, wait. Now he says he's up to 2... No, I take that back. Now he's at 4. Think he'll be up to 14 before I finish this post?)
Kami: 4
Allie: 13
Boden: 1

So Good for My Self-Esteem

This morning, Boden asked me, "Why is your belly so big?", "Why do your feet look so old?", and "Why do you have all these moles on the back of your arm?" My, he's good for my self-esteem. After the foot comment, however, he did say, "Well, your feet look old, but you look young on the top." Thanks, kiddo. That makes me feel better, I think.

Silly Things I Am Sad About

I have been working my way through the grief process in fits and spurts. I am just fine, fully functional 95% of the time. Dentist appointments, soccer games, music classes, teaching, homework... all of that is still happening smoothly and easily. And then silly things like this happen:

And then I go to Target to pick up birthday presents for upcoming parties, and the baby changing table in the bathroom starts me crying. I am in no way wanting to use a changing table in a public bathroom, but I was anticipating it, you know? It was an element of the future as I knew it, and now it has no place in the future as I know it.

Or getting the kids in the car, something I do about 18 times a day. And usually, it is just fine, normal, full of "Do you have your seatbelt on?" and "Please roll up your window" and "Stop bugging each other!" But every once in a while, I look at that space where a car seat would have gone, that place I was anticipating putting a baby those 18 times a day when we loaded up in the car, and it makes me sad. It makes my kids ask, "Mom, what's wrong?" And I answer, "I just miss the baby."

I look at the toys the kids don't play with anymore--the Little People and the outgrown dress up clothes and the baby dolls and the big Legos. I was ready to give them away or pack them up after Christmas, but then we found out we were pregnant, and suddenly, there was a reason to hold on to them again. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, they were about to find new life. But now... what do I do with them now? Do I save them for grandkids? Or pack them up and send them off to Goodwill? I don't know, because I can barely look at them without crying.

And then there's my garage, full of things we had packed up to take to Goodwill--the changing table Allie performed astonishing feats on when she pooed with her diaper off, a high chair that Boden made the most creative disasters on, a portable crib that they both slept in as newborns, and the rocking chair that I rocked both kids to sleep in. They were all ready to go, once Alex and I resolved our differences over whether to have a garage sale (his idea) or just dump them at Goodwill (my idea). Like the toys, we thought it was inspiration that we couldn't resolve our differences; after all, we would need them now! And now... now we don't. Part of me is looking forward to getting them out of the garage finally, and part of me can barely handle the sight of them and the lost potential they now hold.

And the books...don't even get me started on the baby books! The book corner in the kids room is a mess, just a jumble of books, Nerf guns, cast off socks, and American Girl doll clothes. I have been needing to organize that corner for a while now, but I keep putting it off, because I know that at the bottom of that pile, there are baby books. They are those books that my kids are no longer interested in because they are too babyish for them now, too young and too chewed on. And when I look at those books, I see all those nights I won't be reading them to our new baby. So the pile of clutter just grows.

So, these are the silly things I am crying about lately. And when I look at them with an objective eye, I do feel silly. But with my mother's eye, with a glance of grief and loss, I see those babies we lost and I miss them. But every day is a little bit better, every day I can cope better. Someday, I will reach the point where I can deal with all these jobs I keep putting off, hopefully some day soon, because that pile in the kids room is threatening to take on a life of its own. But for now, I just ignore them and cry. I do just have one favor to ask: If you ever see me crying in a Target bathroom, please just avoid eye contact and pretend it never happened.

We Will Survive

As we went through the D&E today, I received kind and supportive emails, asking how was I dealing with everything. As I think about how I am doing, I am surprised to find that I am doing better than I had thought. Maybe this is because I have been through this process before, and I understand better how I go through the grieving process and can better understand my emotions as I grieve. But there may be another reason I am handling things well. As I lay here in bed, waiting for the grogginess of the anesthesia to wear off, I can hear Alex teaching Allie and Boden tongue twisters. They are lisping their way through "Sally sells sea shells by the seashore" and struggling through "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers." With such funny family memories happening, even in the midst of my grief, is it any wonder we will survive? I think that is the very reason we will.

Odd Child

Today, a friend watched the kids while Alex and I went to the doctor. After we picked them up, she texted me and said that Boden was making her laugh, trying to convince her that her skin was blue. She asked if he normally does things like that, and it got me thinking. Boden has announced to a whole soccer field of people that he has to go potty; he has walked around the craft store with his pants down, looking for me to wipe his bum (if he had just turned around, he would have seen me); he has randomly kissed and hugged strangers; and he used to give "high five" with a closed fist, causing him to earn the nickname "nutcracker" from my brother-in-law. So in the grand scheme of things, convincing someone their skin is blue is pretty mild.

Of Loss and Hope

Yesterday, in spite of all we could do to prevent it, our baby's heart stopped beating at 16 weeks. I went in to the doctor's office on a whim, wanting to hear the baby's heart beat between ultrasounds. They couldn't find it on doppler, they couldn't see it beating on an ultrasound. More powerful ultrasounds confirmed that the baby had died.

When we came home to tell the kids, Boden's first question was, "Does this mean the baby won't slime my toys?" That's my guy, focusing on the positive. Allie didn't respond like I thought she would initially. She just wanted to go jump on the trampoline at a friend's house. But last night, when I came in to kiss her good night, she told me she had said a long prayer for me that I would be happy. I told her that while I may be sad for the next little while over the baby, I am blissfully happy because I have her and Boden. She then had so many questions, like "What if the baby's heart starts working again? What if the baby is actually fine? Will they check before they take the baby out?" Her sweet innocence and faith are so precious to me. 

Like Allie, I, too, have so many questions. Why did this happen? Why didn't the shots prevent this? What am I supposed to be learning from these experiences? How can my heart survive this painful roller coaster ride again? Will we ever find our equilibrium? While I don't have any answers for why it happened, I do know there is a great deal I can learn from this, if I will let myself  be humble and faithful. Right now we are working through our grief, and I am sure that will continue for a while. But at some point, I do feel we will be able to look back on this and see how the experience, not the loss but the experience, benefited our lives.

One of the hardest parts of losing babies like this is having to re-imagine the future. As I think to this summer, I have to keep reminding myself that there isn't a reason any more to stay around home. This September, my mom won't be coming to help with the kids while we have the baby, and there is now no longer a reason for me not to be involved in PTSA next year. All those things I was looking forward to: holding a sweet newborn, nursing, rocking the baby to sleep--I have to face that those aren't going to happen now. 

Right now, I am just talking to God and reminding myself that we can do hard things, and that hard things are indeed what we are here to do, so that we can learn and grow. I am spending time with Alex and the kids, and enjoying sweet words of encouragement and comfort from friends and family.

This being the 4th time we have lost a child in pregnancy, the 3rd loss at 16 weeks, we have grappled with the reality that our family may not be as large as we had hoped. Alex and I, at one point, had very excellent reasons for why a family with two kids is just about perfect for us. We just need to dust those reasons off and remind ourselves again. Alex and I have great hope and confidence that our lives will be rich and complete, and we are so thrilled to have Allie and Boden with us.

To those who have reached out to us, thank you, thank you, thank you. While I can't seem to get through a conversation without falling apart, we do appreciate your texts, your meals, your willingness to watch the kids. You have seen us through this before, and I know that we will get through it again.

And to our sweet babies, I don't feel as though you are a senseless loss. Rather, I hope and pray that one day, you will know us, and we will know and love you. We love you and miss you already.