The Brutiful

Seven years ago, we became parents to Katherine, our first daughter. For six days, we embraced our doctor's "cautious optimism" and celebrated each hurdle she passed, even as my health and vision continued to suffer after her premature birth. But then we were grief-stricken as we had to say goodbye all too suddenly to our precious 19-ounce daughter.

It was the hardest thing I've ever had to face, but it would be incomplete to end there. I have to borrow Glennon Doyle Melton's word and admit it was the most brutiful time in my life, where I experienced the most brutal, raw feelings as well as getting to be present for some amazing, selfless acts of love.

So many comforted us by their words and actions. Friends and family gently surrounded us until we could begin to stand for ourselves, shouldering the burden whenever they could.

Here is just a brief glimpse of what we experienced:

• The day I was rushed to surgery, my older sister flew out and my in-laws drove out to be with us. They formed a special bond as they cleaned our home and stocked our fridge and pantry with food in between hospital visits, doing all they could to be useful. Heather, on top of reading aloud to me and helping me figure out the breast pump since my vision was quite blurry, even took the majority of photos we have of Katherine, given that as soon as it was clear we were being asked to say final goodbyes, she ran back to my room to retrieve my camera.
• The nurse who had been a primary caregiver during Katherine's short life happened to be off on the day she died. I'm not sure if the nurse just popped in to work and learned the news, or if she came in because of it. No matter the reason, she came to our room as soon as she heard, asking if she, too, could hold Katherine to say goodbye, weeping alongside us.
• As I was leaving the hospital, one of the nurses who had regularly cared for me during my ten-day stay gave me a huge hug and choked out through her tears, "We'll see you in here again." She, too, had recently lost a child and knew that another baby wouldn't replace Katherine or remove our grief, but those words were received like a prophesy, offering a hope that someday we would find ourselves there again, not forgetting Katherine, but welcoming another child into the world. That somehow we would survive this.

• After I was finally discharged, we had people providing meals every day for over a month, many of whom were previously "just" coworkers

• Several people shared stories of their own losses, some decades old. This reminded me that I was not alone in grieving the tragic loss of a child, and I could see that they had found joy again. As hard as that season was, it meant much to witness their fortitude. And being entrusted with those stories of loss was a gift. Here was something that shaped who they were years ago, a story so close to their core that they didn't often reveal it, and I was being given a glimpse, often through shared tears, of a pivotal moment in their lives
• Before Katherine was born, a new grad student was sharing how she was great at remembering birthdays. She asked when mine was (mid September) and vowed to remember. When my birthday rolled around, I was on maternity leave, grieving my brief introduction to parenthood. That grad student, with a couple other lab mates, had a huge box of specialty chocolates delivered to my door from the local chocolate shop. That, plus friends baking me a cake, helped me acknowledge a very difficult birthday.

• When Katherine's first birthday approached, my ob-gyn office remembered her by sending us a card with many handwritten messages

• My department regularly sent out packages via Fed-Ex. They congregated in our office, where the Fed-Ex driver would collect them at the close of every day. Some days, he would rush in and out in a hurry, others he might have time to linger for a few minutes. When we held the memorial service in Indiana, he drove to our church before it began to give us hugs and offer his condolences, even though he had a commitment so that he couldn't stay.

• Every day for weeks, several cards arrived in our mailbox. It was one of the most emotionally exhausting but healing times of the day. We'd read the condolences, often through tears. So many different friends or acquaintances sent messages, flowers, books, even some strangers wrote notes after hearing of our loss

• One family friend sent a necklace charm as well as the reminder that "You are still parents, even if your arms are empty." 

• A couple friends quickly knit and crocheted preemie outfits as soon as they heard of our daughter's arrival. They delivered them to the hospital, ready for whenever Katherine would get to wear them. She never got the honor, but those items are so treasured by me.
• A coworker, who had been struggling with infertility for eight years, dropped off a card near Christmas, sharing that she would be thinking of us, knowing how bittersweet it is to be surrounded by families with children when all we longed for was the same. We met at a coffee shop after Christmas, and the hours we spent being vulnerable and sharing our respective stories were so cathartic for me, although I'm sure, as we regularly sobbed, we must have been quite the sight. And learning that she was pregnant may very well have been the happiest I have felt for another's pregnancy
• My department paid for a memorial brick to be placed in Katherine's memory at the Angel of Hope memorial in town.

• I had bumped into a dear family friend while in Iowa and mentioned my pregnancy. She is a quilter and began asking me about color preferences. When Katherine passed away, she must have worked feverishly to complete the quilt and mail it to us, now to offer us comfort. It's still my favorite quilt, and in my monthly giraffe pictures of the girls, you will notice it draped in the chair behind them.
• We had been volunteering with the high school ministry at our church. When I was hospitalized and when our daughter was three days old, that Sunday the group created a fleece blanket for us, alternately speaking prayers aloud for each of us as they tied it together. Then, when we knew we wanted a memorial service but had no idea how or where to begin, Josh spearheaded everything, putting together a slideshow with pictures and music, mobilizing the students to get flowers, food, set up and take down, every little detail was covered. One student even left after the service to mow our lawn as a surprise.
• When the first Mother's Day rolled around, I dreaded going to church. During the high school youth group that morning, the student leadership wanted to acknowledge the mothers in the room. I was cringing, trying to hold it together as those around me were honored, only to be surprised when they included me. I heard it had been discussed ahead of time: "Should we give one to Faith?" And a student chimed in without any hesitation: "Of course."
• One of Eric's cousins had a beautiful piece of artwork depicting God's hands in the midst of the loss of a child that his family quickly made a print of and had framed in time to be displayed at the Iowa memorial service.
• When my original due date neared, my knitting friends remembered and took us out to dinner, knowing it was going to be a difficult time. And as the anniversary of her short life neared, they pooled together money for us to have a nice dinner out. When I needed to be alone on the first anniversary of her death, even though it was a busier time at work, my boss didn't hesitate to grant my request.

• So much anticipation, joy, and love was showered upon us once people learned we were pregnant again.

• Never did people suggest we should be over our grief once a certain amount of time passed or censure us as we slowly started to find joy again. Instead, friends would share their own times of tears when something would bring us or our daughter to mind. Or they would laugh alongside us.

Collective grief was a gift. Yes, we felt the loss most keenly, but knowing that Katherine's death was sobering and difficult for others meant something. She had not been forgotten. And friends, by coming alongside us as we were, joined us in that grief and affirmed us. I'm sure most of the steps above seemed like such a small thing - a meal by one lab, a card from a former classmate. But collectively, these things helped to heal us.

I wonder what life would have been like, were Katherine still alive. But I know her brief life shaped us as parents. We are different for her having lived, and we are better for it.

This may seem a strange transition, but Stephen Colbert helped to articulate my thoughts as this date neared. I read a recent interview with him, and at the close he shared about the experience of losing his father and two of his brothers when he was ten:

“I was left alone a lot after Dad and the boys died.... And it was just me and Mom for a long time,” he said. “And by her example am I not bitter. By her example. She was not. Broken, yes. Bitter, no.” Maybe, he said, she had to be that for him. He has said this before—that even in those days of unremitting grief, she drew on her faith that the only way to not be swallowed by sorrow, to in fact recognize that our sorrow is inseparable from our joy, is to always understand our suffering, ourselves, in the light of eternity. What is this in the light of eternity? Imagine being a parent so filled with your own pain, and yet still being able to pass that on to your son.

“It was a very healthy reciprocal acceptance of suffering,” he said. “Which does not mean being defeated by suffering. Acceptance is not defeat. Acceptance is just awareness.” He smiled in anticipation of the callback: “ ‘You gotta learn to love the bomb,’ ” he said. “Boy, did I have a bomb when I was 10. That was quite an explosion. And I learned to love it. So that's why. Maybe, I don't know. That might be why you don't see me as someone angry and working out my demons onstage. It's that I love the thing that I most wish had not happened.”

As I reflect on the hard experiences of my life - my mom's illness, the loss of my brother and my first daughter - Colbert's closing phrase resonates with me: "I love the thing that I most wish had not happened." 

The brutiful.

I would love to restore sanity to my mother, life to my brother and daughter, but in the same breath, I'm grateful to have experienced such outpourings of love in my darkest seasons. And having lived through those experiences means that I have been given opportunity to cry with others as they enter brutiful seasons of their own.

A Letter to My Daughter Gretchen: Three Months Old

Beginning upper right and going clockwise: 1-3 months

Dear Gretchen,

You are now three months old. I had hoped to start these letters to you sooner, but my ability to coherently gather thoughts when I did have spare moments were few and far between until recently.

The day of your arrival was filled with anticipation. The c-section went as expected and when I heard your hearty cries, I couldn't contain my tears. I don't know what it is that makes me sob when I hear a baby's first cry, but it is such an emotional time for me. Perhaps it's the wonder of knowing on one level that a new life was going to enter the world, but it stays surreal on some level until you are born. One moment I'm splayed out on the operating room table with Eric at my shoulder, listening to the various doctors work, and the next, the newest member of our family arrives and I dissolve in happy tears. There you were, so healthy with a robust cry, and suddenly we had another daughter to hold.

Acclimating you to handknits

You were 7 pounds, 11 ounces and 20 inches long. On your APGAR assessments, you scored a 9 and then a 10. I heard your initial cries, but unlike your older sister, who was inconsolable until we left the OR, you quieted as soon as you were swaddled. You were so sleepy and mellow your first day, with hardly any interest in eating until late that afternoon.

Your big sister Brennan has been enamored with you from the beginning. If anything, her fault is that she is overly affectionate. She frequently makes drawings for you, loves to plaster her face up against yours, asks to hold you, even shares her beloved closed-eyes-open-eyes baby with you, and if you're napping in my arms, she will request that I shift you so she can crawl up and join us in the recliner. I've held two napping daughters on several occasions already. She has also discussed on multiple occasions her ideas for future sleepovers when you're bigger.

I noticed early on you were a warm baby. In the hospital, you were overheating in the fleece swaddler. In fact, the first or second day home I took your temperature, convinced you had a fever. The reading was normal, but I discovered that you are quick to heat up and you didn't want (or need) to be as bundled as other newborns.

You didn't cry for the first few weeks of life. Now, you tend to reserve tears for when you're tired and wish you were sleeping. Being held in a baby carrier or rocked in the recliner soon ease your tears and help you drift off to sleep. Your legs are so strong - you were showing off early on how you could straighten them to hold your weight, and when I place you on your play mat, it's not unusual to find you have squirmed several inches away from where you started. I still don't know how you have shifted yourself 90 degrees in your crib on several occasions, even while swaddled.  I predict you will crawl much sooner than your sister did, whether or not we are ready for it.

Your sleep has been a work in progress. One difficulty I was stumped by early on was the fact that while you would take decent naps during the day, there was a season where you ate much more frequently at night, and therefore slept very short stretches. You'd want to eat, but you'd only take a half feeding before drifting off again. Even if we waited to change your diaper until you were half done with a feeding, you would tease me by appearing to be wide awake one moment, and then dropping off into a deep, deep sleep the next. You'd sleep 45-90 minutes, and we'd do it all over again. Those were exhausting days and nights.

Now, though, you tend to limit yourself to one, maybe two, wake-ups a night (the guaranteed tends to be around 4:30 am, but sometimes you might stir around 1 am or so as well). And when we visit family in Iowa, both at two months and at three months, you surprise us with sleeping through until 6:30 am or so. I'm trying to figure out what the variables are so we can recreate them at home more reliably (there are temperature differences, and your room at home faces east, so the early summer sunrise is not on our side either).

Speaking of your room, we have transitioned you from the bassinet in our room to the crib in your sister's room. I didn't expect this change to already have taken place, but as you were settling into your long stretch of sleep, which began mid-evening, we were putting you in the crib and keeping watch on the video monitor. When we turned in, we would leave you there until you woke to eat. And as some of those crib stretches went until 4:30 am or later, it just happened. Plus, with your growth, your arms can reach the sides of the bassinet, which doesn't help in resettling. Now I return you to your crib after the early morning feed, and you grant us about an hour more of sleep before you want one of us to snuggle you in the recliner for a little more shut-eye.

Hospital snuggles

I thought your older sister was a healthy child who steadily climbed to the top of the growth charts, but it appears you want to best her. She may have had three ounces on you at birth, but you didn't let that slow you down. At your one month appointment, you were 11 pounds, 7 ounces (weighing six more ounces than your sister at the same age), and by two months, you left her behind, reaching 14 pounds, 8 ounces to her 13 pounds, 6 ounces (97th percentile vs 92nd percentile).

From your first entry to the world, people commented at how much you resembled your older sister. When you were one month old, I took your first giraffe picture with you wearing the same outfit that Brennan had worn, and I also noticed I'd taken a photo of you in another outfit that was a close match to one I had of your sister.

Gretchen on left, Brennan on right

I created side-by-side comparisons, and not too many friends or family could pick out which pictures were of you and which were of your older sister (and some who succeeded focused on details that seemed to show fading in the outfits to determine the pairings, not your physical characteristics).

Brennan on left, Gretchen on right

Your days are filled with snuggles. I need to start making more of an effort to get you to nap in your crib instead of on mommy, but we'll get there. Knowing you are my last baby helps me to enjoy the contact.

When you're awake, you now love to smile. And really, once a baby smiles, the tired days are just that much improved. Even when you were having me start my day at 5 am and I'd stumble in the kitchen to find coffee and breakfast, it was refreshing to return to you on your play mat and watch you grin widely at me.

You love to kick your toys and bat your arms at them. Very recently you have taken to gripping and shaking toys as well. Tummy time is hit or miss, but you do a good job holding your head up in spite of not wanting to practice. You love to be in a sitting position as you observe everything around you.

We have gotten a few laughs from you. It warmed my heart that your first laughs were directed at your big sister. It is clear that there is great affection between you two already, so it was only fitting that you reward your sister's frequent overtures of hugs and kisses and silly dances by laughing at her.

Every parent is bound to wonder how a baby will change their existing family dynamic. After all, for us, we had already gone through and survived the sleepless nights of one baby, successfully potty trained her, were at a point where we could communicate with her and she with us. She even is off to preschool in the fall. But I was raised with three sisters and one brother, and I continue to be close to my siblings. If possible, I wanted Brennan to have a sibling.  I guess what I want to say is that even with the uncertainty of what the future held and not knowing how all our lives would change, our family didn't feel complete until you arrived.

One moment sticks out to me that I'd like to share, knowing that you may not read these letters until you're an adult yourself. The last night in the hospital, Daddy couldn't stay with me, instead needing to go home to take care of your big sister. You and I had a quiet evening together.

One of my night-shift nurses commented on the knit blanket some dear friends made to welcome the arrival of your big sister, one that I reclaimed for your arrival. The compliment wasn't unusual by any means - nearly everyone who saw the blanket admired it - but the nurse was an accomplished sewer and showed me a picture of a recent project of hers: a spectacular formal dress for her teenage daughter. The nurse began to check my vitals and noticed in my chart that I had experienced repeated nausea and vomiting throughout the day. I had tried to be proactive and warn them of this likelihood, as I experienced the same with your older sister, but apparently I was not clear enough in communicating my history, as they told me it's not uncommon to feel nausea, not understanding mine wouldn't be touched by the normal medications. We went through quite a few treatments and medications before I was finally given an effective dose of medication late in the afternoon (this was quite different from before, when things were resolved within an hour or two of your sister's birth).

The nurse was apologetic that it had taken so long to get things under control, but I admitted that if all I have to go through to get a healthy baby was a surgery that came with some nausea, it was a small price to pay. How fortunate that even though my body wasn't going to be allowed to labor naturally, I could still welcome a new baby to the world. I briefly mentioned Katherine, and how a little nausea is nothing since I got to hold you in my arms at the end of it all. I learned then that she had also lost her first child, and as we talked about what we had learned through our similar circumstances, I kept looking down at you in awe and gratitude.

Life can be so hard sometimes, sweetheart. I so wish I could shield you from every ugly and hurtful thing, but that wouldn't do you any favors. So my wish for you is that, as you encounter the hard parts of life, you find kindred spirits. Find others who will hold you up and support you through dark times, and don't be afraid to look back and remember the painful seasons and reflect on how they have shaped and changed you. You may sometimes feel alone, but those experiences are not unique to you. There is something comforting to me to know that others have faced similar tragedies and come out the other end.

I read Kurt Vonnegut: Letters a year ago and this excerpt, from a letter Vonnegut wrote to his daughter, stood out to me:

Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.

You have a choice when you encounter hard times. I pray that you will be soft. That you will allow your heart to remain tender and that you will be shaped into someone who can still find joy and beauty around her.

Growing up, I used to be someone who excelled at masking her emotions and bottling everything inside, and yet I can be quite transparent in conversations now. I may cry, but I don't shirk from sharing about your sister Katherine, or my brother's suicide, or my mother's mental illness. These events, while being the most difficult things I have ever faced, have made an impact on me. I want them to matter, to make a difference in me for the better. I know of no better tribute I can pay than to recognize that I am better for having known and loved these people. Their lives have improved mine.

Your daddy and I were told several times in the months after Katherine's death that we impressed friends by how we let God work through us as we relied on Him. We would look at each other in disbelief, thinking we had done no such thing. All we recognized was that we were somehow surviving. But it touched others to see that we weren't shutting people out and that we weren't becoming embittered by our loss. We were genuine and frank when asked how we were doing. And that made a difference to those around us. I can now connect with others on a different level than I could have before due to my circumstances. I've had countless conversations, with friends and strangers, that I would have missed out on had I hardened myself and shut myself away from the outside world.

So, Gretchen, be genuine. And don't be afraid to let others see glimpses of your life's experiences. For you may find that you are not so very alone. There I was, in my hospital room, sharing tears with a nurse I didn't know five minutes earlier, all because I was open to mentioning my first daughter. A nurse who was touched enough by our conversation that, when paged to help another patient, returned after her task was done just to talk some more. Those overtures matter. I don't expect to see that nurse again. In fact, I don't even remember her name. But each step I take to be in the moment and not shirk away from transparency helps me to connect with others and see people as they are. That makes a difference.

The meaning of Gretchen is pearl. The above aside of mine suddenly takes on added significance as I reflect on your name. Pearls are formed in mollusks by irritants. They are valuable and rare and while beautiful, only come about as a defense after prolonged contact with outside forces.

It almost feels wrong to be ending your first letter on such a serious note. But let's focus on the hopeful side: May you, Gretchen Joy, embrace your name. May any difficulties you face in life only shape you to be ever more beautiful in character and spirit. May you draw others to you and may your life impact theirs. Don't be afraid to let others see you as you truly are and don't try to transform into someone you're not, for as the psalmist declares, "For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well" (Psalm 139:13-14). You, dear daughter, are so very precious.

So much love,
Mommy

A Letter to My Daughter: 2.5(ish) Years Old

25-32 months (beginning in top left, going from L to R)

Dear Brennan,

You're nearly 2.75 years old now.

Much has certainly happened. I'd say I would only hit highlights here to keep this short, but you probably know by now that my fingers don't know when to stop typing. Plus, it's the only way I'll remember some of these things, so I'll document away.

You experienced trick-or-treating for the first time this past Halloween. The weather was pretty cold and windy (due in large part to the effects of Hurricane Sandy). We had been given a ladybug costume, so I bundled you up after talking you through the process. I drove to a nearby neighborhood, and we spent about 45 minutes going door-to-door. Due to your limited speech and overall shyness, you would be mute at each door. However, you happily handed over your pail, and as we turned away from each home, you could barely wait before you were begging, "More? More?" You somehow knew the items in your pail were desirable to eat (although I'm not sure about the Pez someone dropped in there...), even though much of it was new to you. Is now the right time to tell you I ended up eating most of it over the last few months...? (Hey, some of it was actually too hard - or too delicious! - for you to handle!)

"You ate my candy?!"

In the last eight months, you've finished with teething - the final canine and all four two-year molars have come through. We're certainly happy to be done with that season, as overnight sleeping is harder for you during those times.

You asked to nap on the couch

There have still been stretches of weird sleep interruptions, though. I'm not sure what the cause is - it isn't regular enough to make me think we need to sleep train and almost makes me wonder if you're still feeling the molars come in - they're through, but not completely.  Honestly, though, I think one of the perks to you being an only child at this time is the fact that we can respond to your needs instead of having to let you take the back seat were you to have an infant sibling. I suspect others might view this behavior as catering to your whims and a little too indulgent, but if you're having an off night and having mommy or daddy come in for a few minutes to comfort you helps, I'm more than happy to offer you the reassurance that your parents love you and are there for you. I just need to make sure I don't fall asleep. Typically I can slip back out after you've drifted off again, but too often I fall asleep on the floor next to your crib, waking up hours later stiff and uncomfortable, only retreating to bed then. Aches and pains and increased caffeine intakes are small prices to pay, though - this season will go by all too quickly.

What you're forced to do when Mommy and Daddy tire of Duck, Duck, Goose - play with inanimate friends!

Whenever we see our extended family, I'm delighted to watch you interact with your cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. They all enjoy you, and you thoroughly enjoy the times with them all. I have fond memories of visiting cousins and grandparents, and watching it happen for a new generation is special.

Time with family is precious

We spent Easter with your paternal grandparents. Daddy said we could go to the town Easter egg hunt. I was expecting the traditional hunt: city park covered with eggs, a line of children released at the same time to collect as much as possible. However, this small town had a charming tradition. Everyone lines up to receive a ticket, then all the children walk up and down main street, scouring the windows of all the local businesses for the matching number. Once found, the child goes inside to collect their "basket". We found yours at the movie theater, and you were quite excited by the popcorn and M&Ms. You turned in your movie ticket, however, to Papa, who gave you money for your piggy bank.

I'm not one to romanticize a certain age or time and can honestly say that my favorite age of yours is wherever we're currently at. I think a friend's father described it well: "It doesn't get easier, it just gets different." There may not be the middle-of-the-night feedings, but now I'm wrestling with how best to guide you and discipline you and encourage you in new things. There are highlights and struggles at each age, and I delight in witnessing more and more of your personality emerge.

There are certain aspects of your current age that I want to remember. You sometimes take off outside, running with the awesome toddler run, arms flailing to the sides and your legs churning. It's not graceful, and it may not be much faster than walking, but it's absolutely precious.

We introduced you to Candyland and Chutes and Ladders recently, and you enjoyed them, not caring whether you won or lost. You didn't yet know that drawing a "special card" in Candyland that actually sent you back to the beginning was a bad thing. And we exaggerated our excitement when we "got" to ride down a slide in Chutes and Ladders. I know all too soon you will be aware of winning and losing and take it more to heart, so I'm savoring this stage as long as it lasts. And hopefully we can instill in you the desire to do your best and encourage others in their successes, even if it means you "lose".

A couple weeks ago we met a friend at a coffee shop. I was leading you back to the children's area when I realized you were overcome with the song on the radio - you couldn't not dance. You trailed after me, holding our napkins, pumping your arms and wiggling your body. I loved every moment of it, and I loved watching other patrons we passed, from college-aged students to elderly individuals, catch sight of you. From young to old, their faces beamed and it warmed my heart. You had no qualms, no embarrassment, no awareness of their attentions. You were just being yourself and, in so doing, bringing joy to those around you. That's an important lesson to learn.

You with some friends, both new and old

I'm also pretty delighted as I watch you explode in your vocabulary. At your annual appointment in October, I told the doctor I knew you were behind in your acquisition but that I wasn't worried. However, I did ask her to let me know if or when I should be worried. After having observed you, she said while she did expect two-word sentences at that point, she didn't see any reason to be concerned. However, we could have you evaluated in a few months if we didn't see much progress.

You kicked me off of my mat while I was trying to exercise

Come January, I scheduled you for an evaluation. A professional came to our home, asked us questions while she also observed you. At the end of her time, she agreed that your vocabulary was small compared to your peers, but she didn't recommend admitting you to their program. In her assessment, the words were there and they would come when you were ready. In short, you were too comfortable in your non-verbal communication and we needed to frustrate you more. She gave some suggestions and we tried to implement some to encourage your speech.

Around that time, you probably had a couple dozen words you used. You did make some progress over the winter with adding new words, but we were pretty entrenched at the stage of you only using a single word or two.

Even with your limited vocabulary, you've still found ways to entertain us. Below is an account I shared with friends:

So Brennan still doesn't talk much, but her favorite number at the moment is three. The following is not an isolated incident.

Parent: Okay, Brennan, before you can be done with dinner, you need to eat TWO more bites.
Brennan (plaintively, holding up the appropriate number of fingers to add to her plea): Three?
Parent (solemnly, after pretending to seriously consider this alternative): Okay, THREE more bites then.

We really want to laugh and tell her she's doing it wrong, but I can live with her poor negotiation tactics for a bit longer.

Suddenly, in the last three or four weeks, you have had huge strides in your vocabulary. Some of this may very well coincide with visiting one of Mommy's friends, who had a daughter five months younger than you but much more verbal. It's amazing to witness your progress, and you often repeat many of the words I say as we talk. Earlier this week you even composed your first original song: "Mommy, Daddy love me so much! Hugs! Kisses!"

You love singing and playing instruments

You still love books, and you adore puzzles. When you turned two, Grandma and Papa gave you some 24-piece Dora puzzles. With those, you started out by handing us the pieces, we'd place them, and you'd snap them together. Then you started figuring it out yourself, and we've since been on the search for more challenging puzzles. You enjoy 24-piece ones, but they're not a challenge. And I absolutely laugh when we go to the library and you play with the wooden puzzles with about nine pieces (or less...). In fact, I recently picked up three 63-piece puzzles from garage sales, and in a couple days, you already managed to figure out how to do one of them without any assistance (and when we help with the others, we just tend to group like pieces together, or point to the box to show you what piece we need to look for next). It's because of your great attention to puzzles, beads, and other fine motor skills that kept us from worrying about your vocabulary acquisition.

Puzzles, reading, and crafts are favorite ways to spend time

You are developing your own sense of style, offering suggestions (or demands) as to what you want to wear. On one memorable day, you insisted on wearing a Spongebob shirt we had been given. I was surprised, as this character is unknown to you. When I asked who was on the shirt, you excitedly shouted, "Cheese!", so I had to humor you.

Your emerging style

One night at dinner I was excited to introduce mandarin oranges to you. I said when you finished with your plate, I had a special treat. I set the orange down next to my plate and ran to the kitchen to fetch something. When I returned, the mandarin was sticker-less but suddenly possessed bite marks through the skin. The bite turned you off, and it took you a while to agree to try a slice. However, in that interim, you assigned yourself the job of Chief Mandarin Peeler. Heaven forbid we try to have a mandarin without your assistance!

You recently became fascinated by the book Nathan and Nicholas Alexander, starring a mouse who wants to live in the elephant's toy box. We had some stuffed elephants, but I decided we needed to add your own toy mouse to the mix, so I told you I would knit one. While you slept, this mouse was made.

I had suspected he was going to be creating living quarters in your toy box when you slept (we’d been peeking in there after nearly each reading to see if we had our own mouse visitor). But you've chosen to let him bunk with you. In the days immediately after his arrival, he was often found in your hand or nearby as you occupied yourself with other activities.

Another exciting development is potty training. At a garage sale last month, I picked up a second small potty so each floor's bathroom would have its own. I happened to show you how when you got bigger, there was an insert that could go on the big potty, and apparently that was the incentive you needed. A week and a half ago, you woke me up around 5:30 am, standing by our bed saying, "Mommy - big potty!" Your diaper was basically dry, and you went right away! I dug out the training pants, and you were on your way! That Friday, you went successfully 12 (!) times, telling me every 30 minutes or so: "Momma, potty!" We've had a couple less than awesome days in that department since then, but we've also had four accident-free days (and several with only a small accident). You rock at using bathrooms in public; I'm especially amused at your delight when you hear other patrons go: your eyes go big and you applaud them (fortunately, these cheers are masked by the flushing of toilets). There have been far fewer accidents than I expected, and other than the toddler room at church the first Sunday, no accidents in public. Yesterday was a big milestone as well; you went poop on the potty for the first time! You were excited as it happened, telling me, "Momma - big snake!" [I'm sure the internet is glad to know of this story - you can thank me later, or bill me for your therapist.]

All these developments reveal to me what a big girl you're becoming. You are generally patient and sweet, not often annoyed or upset. One of your recent disappointments was when you learned you couldn't marry Daddy because he was already married to Mommy. For days you'd shake your head as you sadly told me Mommy and Daddy were married.

Still processing that you can't marry Daddy

Your hair is still pretty curly, especially when it's humid outside. Just about every time we go out, a stranger comments on how beautiful your curls are. Today it was a parent at storytime, yesterday it was a Target employee stocking shelves, last weekend it was both at a Philosophy gathering and at the church potluck. I love to pull the curls that hang near your eyes, saying "Boing!" as I release them; I've done this often enough that you do the same now, too.

What you did instead of nap - playing "Row, row!"

I still guard my tablet and iPod closely, using them sparingly as special rewards or entertainment when out in public or in the car for long trips. Some of the apps have reinforced your knowledge of the alphabet (you know all uppercase and lowercase letters and can successfully count to 15 or so). And some apps are just for fun, like when you take a call from Elmo.

And now here's where I transition from documenting your milestones and move to more general impressions and thoughts.

On a sobering note, a couple events have taken place, one which made enough of an impression in our country that you will hear about it as a part of our history, another which happened in a smaller sphere.

The latter event, heavy on my heart, was the death of a student. My second year of teaching was spent with delightful seventh graders. They've now since graduated, many of them finished with their sophomore year of college. Since January, three members of the class of 2011 have died. One of those happened to by a student I had in class. This April, she was murdered violently by her ex-boyfriend.

Certainly you know I have lost loved ones, but this news really shook me. I think it was the gruesome nature of a crime committed against someone I nurtured in my classroom for one precious year. And the fact that I am a parent to a daughter means I reflect on events like these more internally. I remember Becky as a sweet and spunky junior-high student. And in the intervening years, while still possessing a vibrant personality, she also found herself in a relationship fraught with domestic violence. Apartment neighbors heard fights, co-workers saw bruises, but nothing was done, and now everyone is reeling from the consequences.

In the immediate aftermath, I was pondering all of this. You are my precious, beautiful daughter. I have hopes you will live a full life, filled with love and following your passions. Certainly Becky's parents wished the same for her. Darling, I know finding love will likely be a priority of yours. But remember that you have value, you have inherent worth. Never let anyone tell you differently. Never let anyone abuse you verbally, emotionally, physically. Do not settle because you think that is all you deserve or as good as you can get. Find someone who will support you, encourage you, challenge you to do and be your best. Be with someone who treasures you and is amazed by you. Find someone who values your beauty inside and out and protects you.

It can be tough enough believing in our intrinsic worth. At least this recovering perfectionist and people-pleaser has self-talk that can fixate on my shortcomings. Maybe the house is a mess, or we're still in our pajamas when Daddy gets home, or I'm unshowered (or all of the above). Maybe I was too short with you, or I worry that I'm not giving you enough attention. But you know what? Your daddy is my primary cheerleader. He counters my negative self-talk with affirmation, love, gratitude, and grace. He repeats to me what he knows to be true, and he is genuine, so I believe. Find someone who values and respects you like that.

You were aghast to learn goats go poopy and potty on the ground!

The other event that has had an impact across the world happened shortly before Christmas. In December, there was a mass shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary, where 20 young children died as well as several adults. I was shaken up over it, as many were. You struggled sleeping that night, and as I was next to your bed, holding your hand to help you drift off, I couldn't help but make the comparison that while I was being slightly inconvenienced by this small change in my evening plans, there were 20 sets of parents out there, mourning the loss of their 5-year-old children, just wishing they could be snuggling with them that night. Wishing they could be frustrated when their child woke up crying, or complaining about toys strewn over the floor that needed to be picked up yet again. Wishing they could hassle their children about homework or about not finishing their dinner. All too suddenly the routine and normalcy disappeared, and memories of those times took on special significance, times that would be wished back if possible. The extraordinary ordinary.

I think Daddy and I have an advantage in this area - it's credit to your sister Katherine, the influence she continues to play in our lives. Her life was so short that it makes it extra special to get to witness your accomplishments every day. I was nearly brought to tears the first day you started potty training. You are getting so BIG and I get to be your mom and witness it firsthand. What an amazing honor. The ordinary is profound.

We LOVE spending time with you - you're basically the best kid ever

That reminds me of what a former pastor's wife wrote recently. Laundry used to be a huge chore for her, folding and sorting over and over again, the task never completed for long. She used to grumble as she faced the unending sort/wash/dry/fold/put away cycle, until she realized it could be an opportunity to pray. This transformed the task into one she treasured; as she folded socks, she'd pray for her children's steps to be guarded, as she folded underwear, she prayed for future grandchildren, and so on. It's both silly and profound, isn't it? How am I facing my daily tasks? Grumbling or being grateful I have a home that gets messy? Annoyed or blessed by the books and toys given to you that may spill over, but also offer many hours of entertainment and enjoyment? Fixating on the extra time required to do common tasks as you want to add your "help", or delighting in your willingness and desire to contribute to the tasks required to keep our home running? It's all a balancing act. The same task can either be treasured or reviled. But I have a choice in how I view it. And how I view it will shape my character.

I often think in tangents and stories, and the above train of thought reminds me of the following quotation from Martin Luther King, Jr.:

If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.

This is said more for my sake than yours now. My primary jobs are wife and mother, and I should approach all the tasks related to both with this attitude of joyful servanthood. This is my calling. And as you get bigger and want to help more and more, where "help" still means "slowing me down," I more often than not remember that I'm investing in you, trying to teach you what you need to leave home an accomplished young woman. This may mean taking twice - three times? - as long to vacuum because you want to be RIGHT THERE guiding our progress with every step. Or patiently helping as you transfer clothes slowly from the washer to the dryer.

All this to say, it can be a dark world out there. I'm just treasuring the fact that you don't yet know about the evil out there and I can protect you from it for a while longer. To you, injustice is Mommy not letting you have cookies for breakfast (as if that's ever been a thing, but that didn't lessen your tears). And of all the negatives out there, I don't want our home to be another example of disappointment, sadness, hurt, and anger. I want home to be a safe place, a place where you thrive. A place you find comfort while we all grow and support wherever you find yourself.

Upset that we didn't give her giraffe yet another ride on her bike

Even with these sad events, there are still bright spots, still hope. During the school shooting, I stumbled upon a quote from Mister Rogers that was making the rounds on social media:

When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world.

That quotation pretty much sums it up for me. I can't protect you from everything. But I sure will do my best to instill in you the ability to see all the beauty in the world. All the amazing things, from the simple to the profound, that we get to witness each and every day. I trust you will become someone who looks at how you can make a difference: reach out to the ostracized, stand up for the bullied, help those in need in both small and big ways. 

No pressure, huh? Truly, though, I hope as each day goes by, we learn more and more about how we can love and serve those around us, whatever we may do.

Hugs and kisses,
Mommy

Why I Write in This Medium

When I started this blog, it was an outlet for teaching anecdotes. Then I moved and was no longer teaching, but I certainly had more time to knit, so I began to catalog some of those achievements. Then I got pregnant and shared some of that experience for friends and family that lived at a distance. And after losing Katherine, I processed some of my grief through these public writings.

I realize some may not understand why I felt the need to share some of those raw feelings in such a public forum. I'm not sure if I can completely explain that need either. I surely have many journal entries that never saw the light of day here because I thought they were too personal. But there's a feeling of anonymity here, this space online that, unless someone leaves a comment or references my posts in conversation, I can pretend it's this private space all my own. No one is forced to read, and for all I know, few do. I may be absent from this space for weeks, but it just draws me back when I have a spare moment. Here's a limited glimpse of my life. And I couldn't imagine writing about teaching and knitting without focusing on experiences that meant so much more to me than those insignificant bits. So I shared. And I hoped that maybe it would make a difference. I hoped it would help in my healing. That maybe if I could put words to the experience, I would remember the time better, even if it meant recognizing how deeply we'd been wounded, how far we had to come from.

While not the first time some stranger has written me about sharing my story, someone contacted me on Ravelry this week, a knitter that had the misfortune of losing their premature daughter this spring due to pre-eclampsia and HELLP Syndrome (misfortune sounds like the worst word ever, so forgive me for not being able to select a better one). She said my words brought her comfort. She's very early in this period of grief, but it helped her to know that others had gone through the same diagnosis and yet followed that up with a healthy, typical pregnancy and a full-term baby. It gave her hope that there will still be a chance for them.

It's when I get a comment from someone who has been helped by my words that I feel like I have made a difference. In whatever small part, Katherine continues to influence people.

So, Katherine, had you lived, you would have turned 3 last Sunday. I would have loved to know what it was like to be a mother to you on this earth for more than a week, but I take comfort in knowing that you made an impact on my life, and because I was willing to share, even in the midst of the pain and hurt, I have helped others. People that have lost their own children. People that need to know one experience doesn't dictate their future and remove all chances for another child.

Today marks the day three years ago that we had to say goodbye. And it's hard to know best how to recognize this day. I wish it wasn't on our radar, but I am grateful for the ways your short life shaped mine. And I'm still working at it, trying to not keep my guard up, to not assume the worst. To let people in. To be vulnerable. So today, I'll live like I try to each and every other day. I'll draw alongside my husband who has walked beside me as we went through this dark journey. I'll hug and kiss and play with your little sister, think of the blessings you brought us, and pray for our continued healing and those who might be a little earlier on this journey. We have scars, but they're a little less raw today, and we're trying not to let them get the best of us. It wouldn't be fair to you and your memory if we were embittered, despondent people today because we were only fortunate to have six days with you. And by God's grace, I can say that we are not.

It seemed somehow fitting that this was the week someone wrote about the impact my story had on them. We're still seeing how we've been influenced by your life. And I can remember the early months of your loss, how we shut down and somehow made it from day to day. All the tears. The daily meals friends brought by. Returning to work. Physically healing first, then slowly the emotional and mental healing followed. The setbacks as we tried again, and the fear that accompanied the thought of a new pregnancy. Holding our breath as one more week passed without complications. And somehow our story was able to touch others and help them in their own grief and uncertainty. So however infrequently, I'm encouraged to keep returning to this space.

A Letter to My Daughter

Dear Baby Daughter,

At nearly 25 weeks, I’ve now officially passed the point in pregnancy where I was at with Katherine when I was rushed to my emergency caesarean, so everything from here on out is new to me. It’s bittersweet to mark this time; after all, there are so many memories of what was going on at this stage in my pregnancy with her, and I’m glad there are no symptoms currently to be concerned about with you, but I still wish things hadn’t turned out the way they had and that we could be introducing you to your big sister when you arrived.

Nevertheless, I keep doing my best to trust. When I was right around 23 weeks pregnant with Katherine, we made our annual summer trip home. My first full day back in Indiana found me swollen beyond recognition and being checked into the hospital for observation. In two weeks, I had put on 20 pounds due to water retention, and it all went downhill from there. Here I was, nearly two years later, facing a summer trip home at basically the same point in my pregnancy as before, and I admit there was some anxiety. What would I do if I started to swell and was a couple states away from the doctors that knew me and my history?

However, I had a clean bill of health from my doctor and she wasn’t concerned with me traveling, so we made the long drive home. There hasn’t been a hint of swelling, even with the warmer temperatures. I delight when I see my rings unable to stay balanced and upright on my fingers, instead sliding upside-down because of how loose they continue to be. Just one more sign that I don’t have evidence of swelling and that I am healthy at this moment.

The trip home was filled with unending relaxation and good food, great visits with friends and family, and so many naps I lost count. I’m sure you enjoyed the change in routine, but I admit now that it’s over, it’s hard to adjust to just one nap a day again, especially since it doesn’t occur before 5:15 PM. I feel great during this pregnancy, but I do find myself fading more quickly than before I was pregnant, and I do get the requisite winded feeling after exerting myself for any length of time.

Your activity, growing ever stronger, is a comfort. Remind me of this when you start attacking my ribs or keeping me up at night! You like to make it known when you’re getting hungry, which considering I like to eat every couple hours, means you’re also shaping up to be a grazer, at least in utero. And then, once I’ve eaten, I can tell when the food has reached you and you start to dance in appreciation. Come bedtime, you start up your jumping again, usually against the side of my stomach that touches the mattress – this may not bode well for when you learn to jump in your toddler years and realize that the mattress makes an ideal platform, but right now it’s amusing. Some days are quieter on your end, but you don’t fail to let me know you’re still there doing well, even if you’re a little sleepier than the day before. You’re getting big enough that what were once flutters are now more decided movements, and you can even span a good distance when you stretch, so I can feel kicks and punches simultaneously on opposite sides of my stomach.

While home, two of my sisters got to feel you kicking. You even managed to scare my older sister, which made me laugh. At first, she felt a couple subtle movements, then you gave a really good jab, and she pulled away suddenly, shocked at your strength and giggling at her response.

I’ve officially popped – it happened around 22 weeks, and I currently seem to be all belly. You’re happy hanging out right in front, so while anyone who gets a side glance knows full well I’m pregnant, I’ve been told they can’t tell from behind that I’m expecting.

Your daddy is so good to me – I can’t wait for you to meet him. I decided it would be a nice gesture of solidarity if he gave up his beloved caffeinated soda while I swore off caffeinated coffee, and he’s humored me in that move. Although my former car was sufficient, he traded it in for a newer, more reliable car since it had safer crash ratings and he could rest easier knowing you would be better protected should an accident ever happen.

When I had a mild panic attack after seeing some white spots upon standing up suddenly (different from some earlier light-headed spells), he humored me by buying an automatic blood pressure cuff so I could confirm my levels were still low, thus keeping me calm when doubts creep in. He drove the entire way home from Iowa, even turning down my offers to help, because he wanted me to be well rested upon our return. He didn’t mind that he had to load and unload most of the car on his own – many of our items fell into the “over 20 pounds” limit that I’m not allowed to touch.

I haven’t yet sent him out on a craving errand, and I tease him that apparently he’s lucked out because of it. I talk to friends and learn of their late-night cravings that send their spouses running to the car, but you haven’t yet driven me to request specific food items beyond what I can find at home.

Every single day, he’s beyond helpful with never a word of complaint and even as my body changes, he still finds me beautiful. You and I are lucky to have such a thoughtful, loving man we each get to call husband and daddy. I already know you’re going to be treasured by him and he will dote on you every moment.

We just ordered your crib, which was another big step for us as we admitted that it was time to hope that this might actually happen for us and we could take more concrete steps to prepare for your arrival. Now we just need to find a dresser to buy that will hold all the baby girl clothes friends and family are passing on to us – I’m reminded again at how the predominant color for baby girls is pink, so in my knitting I’m trying to add some variety to the color palette.

I anticipate the coming months of growth, and each day and each week that passes in this uneventful pregnancy gives me added hope that we will get to know you longer than we did your older sister. Know that I already love you so much, and I look forward to getting more glimpses of your personality in the coming weeks, and then seeing you face to face in late summer. Feel free to stay inside a long time yet – I’m more than willing to experience all the uncomfortable awkwardness that comes with making it full term and being quite pregnant in the humid summer months. I’m happy to endure any aches and pains and sleepless nights that might happen as I grow in size – just do your best to stay in there until the doctor decides it’s time for you to come out, preferably as a full-term, plump, healthy baby.

Love,
Mommy

Reflecting One Month Later

Today marks one month after the earthquake in Haiti. Last month was the first month since starting this blog that I didn’t write. A couple possible blog topics crossed my mind, but they seemed trite compared to what was being experienced by Haitians. In fact, I thought I could share a story told to me by some individuals in our department who happened to be in Haiti when the earthquake hit. They’ve been interviewed by the local news and the university, so I think I’m at liberty to share their first names here. First, the principal characters are Father Tom and his employees Sarah and Logan. Logan was the one that shared their experience with me.

One of our research faculty members, Father Tom, is head of a program to eliminate a couple of prevalent diseases in Haiti; they have a clinic in Leogane, so he splits his time between the States and there. He and three of his employees happened to be in Haiti last week for meetings. Tuesday's meeting (January 12) was originally supposed to go until 5 PM in the Hotel Montana in Port-au-Prince, but one of the attendees wanted it to end early, so they modified the agenda so they were finished for the day at 3:30. There was some mingling immediately afterwards, and sometime after 4 PM Logan and Sarah were going to join a potential donor in her room on the 4th floor for a drink before dinner. The hotel had only four floors, so they were on the top floor.

Once they arrived, they spotted a terrace and, as the weather was perfect, they made the decision to sit outside and enjoy the view. As she looked over Port-au-Prince, Sarah was commenting how far Haiti had come in the last few years, making visible progress in all areas. They hadn't even been there ten minutes when the earthquake began. At first, the hotel rumbled mildly, and Logan looked around confused, wondering what was happening. It gained in strength and they were thrown violently to the tile floor, spread-eagle with nothing to hold on to, as they felt the hotel pancake underneath them. With one jolt, they fell to the third-floor terrace, then the building shook again, and they were on the second, and again, and then they fell once more.

The first person Logan saw as the dust settled was Father Tom (with the way Logan described it, I amused myself with picturing ethereal visions of Father Tom emerging untouched from the destruction all around). Fr. Tom had been a floor or two beneath them underneath a terrace, but as the earthquake began, he moved to the center to avoid the falling building. They stumbled and climbed over the rubble to reach the ground.

They found one of their Haitian employees had broken a leg. Sarah used to be a first responder, so they tore up Logan's shirt, found a couple sticks, and splinted his leg. After stock was taken, it was determined that not a single person associated with the Haiti program, or any of their families, had died, and the only injury was Claude's broken leg. I think Father Tom said there was still one person they were trying to track down, but those are pretty amazing numbers given the tragedy that took place.

In Leogane, where their hospital is located, 80 percent of the buildings collapsed, but the hospital is still standing (it helps that Father Tom, when he was given his grant from the Gates Foundation, had the College of Engineering at our university review the building plans and make alterations so it would be structurally sound to withstand an earthquake; at the time, he was given grief for spending several thousand dollars when it had been ages since an earthquake took place, but in hindsight, $5,000 dollars spent before building began sure seems like a sound investment given the outcome).

During the aftershocks, Logan spoke of seeing buildings fall around them and hearing all the screaming, but also at night, there were sounds of people praying and singing. He and Sarah made their way to the American Embassy within a day or so of the quake, where the Coast Guard was able to get them to the Dominican Republic, and then they flew out commercially and arrived safely home Friday night.

As Logan recounted the experience in our office, I had to hold back tears. Just visualizing what they experienced and wondering how I would be sleeping or acting after living through such an event is enough to make me emotional. For that moment, I could distantly relate to what Logan's mom, another employee in our department, said she is experiencing. Here, our people were all safe, and yet so many are suffering in the continuing mess. Call it survivor's guilt, or whatever it is when you're only casually connected to several individuals who experienced it and lived. They were on a terrace in a hotel where many were buried and died, and through luck, chance, or providence, their meeting ended early and they were on the top floor, not down below as they should have been.

Here they are, now removed from it all, safe and sound in the States, trying to find ways to continue their work and send aid back to Haiti. In time, they'll resume their disease elimination work in Haiti, but right now, their hospital will be transformed to provide general care. It's pretty staggering, and I don't know how quickly I could reenter my life.