Birth Day

Today, the delightful woman who made me a mother turned 21. She and her new husband, Ronald, came over after church for a birthday celebration meal. (Each child has always gotten to choose the meals on his or her birthday, and even when you're married and moved out, that's still the deal. This year's choice? Home-rolled sushi followed by spaghetti with homemade meatballs. Hey, I don't plan the things...I just cook 'em!)

When my sweetie little-girl-all-grown-up came in, she handed me these beautiful flowers.

"Happy birthday!" she said.

"It's not my birthday. It's your birthday!" I replied.

"Yes, but you did all the work!"

Amen to that--and your sweet self was worth every minute of the pain!

Happy birthday, dear EV. I blinked, and your childhood was over. Happy first-time birthday where my home is no longer yours. I'm so very proud of the woman you have become!

----------
*Entry 5, May - The 12 Months of 2015 Blog Challenge 
The title is from the "most recognizable song in the English language." And here is a super fun article containing five fun facts about the Happy Birthday song.

Stockings Are Hung by the Chimney with Care

It's the day after Christmas, and I'm looking at a Christmas mantel that looks decidedly different this year. This is a bittersweet thing for me, this particular expression of the reality that "things change." This year, the stockings look different... because they are different.

Many years ago, as we married and began to have children, I began looking for Christmas stockings for our little family. I selected some beautiful needlepoint ones, and over the years it became harder and harder to find another... and then another... and then another... to match the rest. Whenever I found a needlepoint stocking, I bought it, whether we needed it right then or not! By the time my third child, OG, was born, we were desperate and without success until my sweet friend Niki saw one—at the drug store where she was working as a pharmacy technician, of all places!—and snatched it up for us.

Those stockings are precious to me. I love them. I love the sweet memories of having stuffed them full of fun "little nothings" for the ones I love. For many years now, they have hung along our mantel, perfectly spaced... the same exact way, every year.

Enter Ronald. Last Christmas Eve, Ronald showed up at the hospital where my daughter was having surgery before we even did. (It was the wee morning hours, still dark outside!) He was by her side, along with her parents and grandparents, all day long. He sat by her bedside and held her hand throughout the day, until my husband finally prodded him, late that evening, "Ronald, go be with your family. It's Christmas Eve!" We should have known then how serious things were, but since they'd only  just had their first date a few weeks before, we hadn't realized it yet.

That's how it goes when old friends from church, who've known each other for years, finally have their first date!

This year, EV and Ronald are engaged, and we are feeling the "growing pains" of our last Christmas together as just our little family of six. Her heart is torn, half here and half there... she still lives in our home, but is busy preparing for her next one. Come February, our four walls will never be her four walls in the same way again. Our mantel will not be her mantel. Next Christmas, her stocking will not hang here... not really.

Facing this dilemma, I began to prepare for the inevitable—either removing EV's stocking from the line-up or adding one for Ron. The second option was far preferable to the first, but any stocking I would hang among that lineup of coordinated, matching needlepoint stockings was going to look sorely out of place! The last thing I wanted to accomplish was making him feel out of place!

And so, this year, in a deliberate move of inclusion, I bought all new stockings. The beautiful lineup of needlepoint treasures has moved to the staircase—a new holiday decoration that forever preserves for this Mommy's heart the lineup of stockings that graced our mantel for two decades. A season of our lives is ending, and it is a bittersweet thing to bid it farewell! It is a season I have loved very much... yet the children have grown and are maturing into women and men before my very eyes... and these stockings no longer hold us all.

We added a bunch of nails to the mantel—enough to include my dear father-in-law and eventual spouses for each of my children, should they all be married one day—and I bought matching pairs of stockings for each of them. They opened them on December 23 along with our annual Christmas PJs, and EV placed a stocking for Ronald next to her own on the mantel.  I love how the nails just happened to work out so that, for now, the couples can hang together as a unit and still look relatively evenly spaced with the singletons!

It is a different look, to be sure, and I'm working hard to get used to it. For now, we've been working hard to give these new stockings their first year of "history," knowing that it's the memories that give them their true beauty anyway.

The thank you hug from my daughter "for working so hard to make Ronald feel included" is a good start!

And I can always walk around the corner to see the old ones, too...
Double the nostalgia... double the fun.

---------
*Entry 2, The 12 Days of Christmas Blog Challenge
The title is a line from the famous poem "A Visit from St. Nicholas" by Clement Clarke Moore, but it is also a line from the song "Christmas Time Is Here" by Brian McKnight.

The Weary World Rejoices

Well, I must confess that it feels a little absurd to lift that line out of context and compare the rejoicing of the whole world regarding the incarnation of their Savior with the inane subject of Sunday afternoon R&R, but the "rules" of the Christmas Blog Challenge allow for such liftings without exposition of the original glorious meaning of the lyrics or acknowledgement of the banality of their new application.  So please bear with me.  I mean no disrespect!

I love Sunday afternoon R&R.  The original meaning of the phrase--rest and relaxation, I believe--has been expanded in this case to include any number of other r-activities: rest, relax, read, reflect, renew, refresh.  Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The practice of "quiet play time" was begun when my children were very young, as soon as they were old enough to give up taking two naps a day and went to only one.  The time of the morning nap was continued, but with "quiet play time" taking its place.  Mommy still got two times during the day away from the constancy of toddler-mothering--and at least one time away from everyone, once younger siblings came along and the children's naps were on different schedules.  This was good for everyone involved, and so was continued even once all napping ceased for a particular child, somewhere around the age of five.  "Quiet play time" was part of our kids' homeschool afternoons throughout many years of childhood, until the school load became intense enough that they could no longer spare the time.

This school year, however--when all of our school days are packed from morning gathering at 6:30 AM until bedtime whenever schoolwork is completed--it occurred to us that we will all always convince ourselves that we simply "cannot spare the time."  I remember my first introduction to the idea of the "tyranny of the urgent" in college, via Charles Hummel's book of the same name.  How frequently the urgent thing beats out the important thing in our schedules!  The thing-with-the-pressing-deadline or the thing-with-the-fixed-start-time will always win out if we let it, and that which is pressing in the short term will crowd out that which is pressing in the long term.  How subtly we begin to forgo that which will nourish our souls, without even realizing we're doing it.

So this year, after reading the wonderful book Sleep: It Does A Family Good, we began putting R&R time on the weekly schedule and fiercely guarding it.  Sunday afternoon opportunities are weighed carefully, and are only rarely allowed to break into the sacred Sunday-from-two-to-five time slot.

Sunday afternoon R&R does not always consist of a nap, though the findings of the sleep scholars that were put forth in the aforementioned sleep book bear repeating.  They have discovered--quite contrary to what we've always been told (which is that "you can neither 'make up' nor 'bank' sleep" and that "lost sleep is lost forever")--that extra daytime sleep, as long as it occurs within about ten days of the "lost" sleep that deprived us of our usual restorative amount, can make up for and correct the ill-effects of that lost sleep.  (It is interesting to me that the "within ten days" caveat discovered by the researchers--who were not Christians and made no reference or even connection to the Judeo-Christian Sabbath--pretty much assures that a regular practice of a weekly "day of rest" will always fall within ten days of whatever lost sleep threatens to lead to sleep deprivation!  How wise and loving our God is in His requirements of us, which are always ultimately for our good!)

That said, I always lie down during Sunday afternoon R&R and attempt to fall asleep.  If my body is tired and needs the extra rest, I can usually fall asleep quite easily.  Sometimes I sleep a short time and awaken refreshed and alert.  Sometimes I crash out into a "sleep like death," as we call it, and awaken after several hours, groggy and still terribly sleepy.  This serves me well, too, though, as it alerts me to the fact that I'm likely skimping too much on my nightly sleep during the week and that  I need to be more careful about re-establishing and guarding a good bedtime and wake time.

My children have varying opinions on naps--whether they like them, and whether they find that they affect that night's sleep for them.  But regardless of our differing opinions regarding the actual Sunday afternoon nap, we've all come to appreciate the forced, scheduled time to do that-which-we-don't-usually-make-time-for-during-the-week (but which we find refreshing, relaxing, and restorative).  The only "rule" is that it must be an "alone" activity--like "quiet play time" was those many years ago. Reading a book for pleasure... putting in some good time writing (a particular favorite for my author son)... catching up on correspondence... knitting... whatever... If you find it relaxing and restful and restorative, there's a time for it carved out each week, for your benefit and blessing.

Today, my R&R time involved a quick nap--I fell asleep with my hand resting on the warm palm of my dear, snoring husband--followed by this time blogging.  This is an activity I deeply enjoy--capturing a swirl of thoughts and feelings and trying to coalesce them into some meaningful communication that makes sense--and rarely take time for amid the hustle and bustle of our daily days and their busy-ness. How thankful I am that R&R time provides a guarantee for weekly refreshment, and that the annual Twelve-Days-of-Christmas Blog Challenge forces my hand to the blogging thing.  If nothing else, I'll try to capture some meaningful "memory moments" for my children to read one day, if they're ever so inclined. In the meantime, it's good for me.  Indeed, the "weary world rejoices" when forced from its franticity into deliberate pursuit of rest. 

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. 

On this day every year I remember, with a bittersweet mix of grief and gratitude, the five little ones our family has been blessed with since our fourth child was born. 

One day we'll meet you in heaven, dear Jordan, Eden, Carlan, Quinn, and Ellery. Though we never properly met you, we miss you just the same. 

Three years ago, in late July, I wrote of the loss in a post entitled Losing Ellery: 

Well, as I sit here recovering from the grogginess--general anesthesia yesterday, dozing in and out of sleep all morning--I pause to capture a few emotions.  The nurse yesterday told me the anesthesia would be in my system for at least 24 hours, and that I shouldn't drive, cook, operate machinery, or make any important life or financial decisions during that time.  The last one made me smile.  Does getting on the computer to post emotions to the world on a blog count?!

At any rate, here they are--groggy, confused, and "under the influence"--but this is what I'm thinking about on this day.

This D&C was the first I've had performed under general anesthesia.  In some ways, it is much easier, emotionally, that way. Well, at least during the "during"...

The natural miscarriage that was our first one--at thirteen weeks--was really horrible.  There was lots of bleeding (as in "you might as well just sit on the toilet" bleeding) and excruciating pain (as in "this feels just like labor, but I don't get the joy of a baby at the end of it so it is even worse" pain).  We had been taken aback by that first miscarriage--shocked, really--because I had never had any trouble before.  The kids and we were so excited about the baby, and we were all pretty devastated when it died.  We called that baby Jordan.

The next miscarriage was my first D&C and was actually two procedures since they didn't get all the tissue out the first time.  I was awake for these procedures--and the barbaric nature of it all is in your face as you listen to the grinding motor of the suction machine, wince under the pain of the scraping and poking going on inside you, hear the sounds of the "uterine contents" that is your baby make its way into the jar attached to the machine.  It really does seem like something out of early last century; you'd think this technology would have progressed beyond blind scraping and sucking with a machine that looks like something you'd use to blow up your air mattress.  Anyway, this is different from the natural miscarriage that lasts days in your home, but still emotionally difficult as well as physically uncomfortable, and you tend to cry all the way through it, too.  Nurses and doctors who want to be compassionate but who do this all the time give you small smiles of pity, and you just want to crawl away somewhere and bawl.  But you put on a brave face and assure them you're fine, and yes, they can keep going.  We called this baby Eden.  

My third miscarriage was, mercifully, more like a very heavy period, just six weeks along, a mere two weeks past the positive pregnancy test.  By three-in-a-row, you're getting a little jaded and numb anyway, so it was nice to have this baby leave us in a little less emotional way.  By this time, I began to realize that I was dealing with the pain of the loss separate from the procedure of the miscarriage itself... it was more of a lengthy, philosophical journey of "processing" and pain and prayer and tears.  Saying goodbye to little babies you'll never meet is difficult business...this one we called Carlan.

Our fourth miscarriage ended with another D&C; that time, like this one, my body was not getting the hint that the baby had died and that all this pregnancy stuff it was growing was not needed.  The moment the machine started up--though it had been years since the last one--all the emotions of the past D&Cs returned, and I relived the loss of all our babies even as I had to listen to them "remove" this one.  It is tricky stuff, trusting God in the pain of our lives, receiving His will when it seems so out of sync with what you think you would prefer.  This fourth little life was relinquished a couple of years ago now, at a little over ten weeks along.  That child we named Quinn.

For a couple of years after this, I did not conceive.  I had begun blogging by then, and was processing a lot of the emotions of these losses onscreen.  I find it therapeutic, having to capture all the myriad of thoughts and emotions into some sort of coherent thing that I can come back to and read.  I remember my 41st birthday being particularly difficult, as I faced the reality that my advancing age may, in fact, rob us of the joy of another child born into our family.

And so now, at age 43, we say goodbye to another baby.  I've really processed the emotion of this loss over the past several weeks, and so by the time I got to surgery yesterday--this time under general anesthesia--the goodbyes of my heart had been said, the tears shed.  It was rather a perfunctory-feeling thing yesterday, since they put me under and I woke up with it all over.  No bleeding and pain, no grinding machine, no reminders of what was happening to me and to a little baby-who-would-never-be, at least on this earth.

And so I sit, a little groggy and a little sore, with a little spotting, toying with letting the tears which tickle the corners of my eyes, come... but not so sure I want to cry anymore.  I remember one particular morning, a few weeks ago, when iivo and I just sat and wept--both of us--as we read the poem I'd written as I wrestled with letting another little one go before its time.  The goodbyes were really processed then, and the nature of this miscarriage really allowed the event itself to pass without emotional fanfare.  I embrace the part of that that is a mercy and respite, and yet I mourn the part of that that maybe doesn't mark it pointedly enough.  Your departure from us, little Ellery, is just as bittersweet to us as those of your lost brothers and sisters were.  And we are sad that it is now fully completed.

We release you to the One who loves you more than we ever could have, even if we had gotten to hold you in our arms and mentor you through this world with all the love we could muster.  We look forward to meeting you one day.

Motherhood

I would imagine that, in the end, this may be a little how it will feel...



There's a reason they call it the "Empty Nest Syndrome"!

"Ten Things Every Mom Needs to Know"