full circle

“Full Circle”

Thanksgiving 2022

Last year at this time, we were in sunny Florida, taking advantage of Sophia’s week-long Thanksgiving break from school with our first big road trip with the kids.  My mother-in-law (Mu) had surprised us after we had arrived, and we spent the next few days soaking up the sun with her and Nan, Aunt Colleen, and Uncle Mark, enjoying seafood outdoors by the water, walking on the beach, visiting Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park (one of our favorites) and “Monkey Island,” kayaking, and staying up late with the kids.  One day we ordered a Greek feast from Tarpon Springs for dinner and I remember finding ways to use our leftovers with our Thanksgiving meal.  Speaking of Thanksgiving, Eli fell asleep in the stroller before the table was set and then woke up later to share in the festivities with Grandma Carol.  Sophia wrote a story that she asked everyone to read, and I think we’d all agree that Uncle Mark’s interpretation was the best.  The next day, we met up with more extended family and then were on our way to Savannah for an overnight stay on the ride home.  It was such an amazing time together and a memorable trip for the kids.

Leading up to the trip, I started a gratitude tree with the kids where every night in November, we’d write something we were thankful for on one of the leaves to gradually fill the branches.  We were filling up two trees in parallel so we could surprise Aunt Colleen and Uncle Mark with theirs in Florida, and it served as a centerpiece on the table the whole time we were there.  Sophia has still been talking about that exercise so earlier this week, I asked her to decorate the following leaves on her own for a virtual gratitude tree.

Sophia is thankful for: Mama, Dada, Eli, family, and Bianca, her cat.

What this demonstrated to me, so simply, were a few things.  She is thankful for the people around her.  We, essentially, are her circle of trust (yes, a Meet the Parents reference).  She holds those who are gone dear to her heart – we lost Bianca over two years ago, but Sophia still talks about her frequently.  What our seven-year-old depicted so beautifully and easily was what matters most to her.

Thanksgiving has a way of teaching me to reflect and reset my perspective every year.  Amidst the flurry and clamor in the kitchen with every available surface in use, tripping over our kids running through and forging a path where there is none, a cacophony of clanging pots and pans and little feet and oven timers beeping and laughter (and sometimes yelling), I feast on all the welcome noise and delicious smells and unruly scenes before me.  For in this disorganized chaos, I see life – messy, cluttered, unscripted life – and I am reminded of what we try to teach our children all year.

Yes, there are plenty of big events to remember – trips, holidays, birthdays, celebrations.  Yet I’d like to think that our kids can discern those “in-between” moments that fill up our days and the leaves on our gratitude tree.  Sophia’s excitement for school.  The proud look on Eli’s face when he can put on his shoes.  How Sophia says “Eli” (uh-lie).  When Eli watches Sophia do something like a hawk and then attempts to do the exact same thing a second later.  Sophia singing all of the words to a Red Hot Chili Peppers song.  Eli requesting “Dirt” (“Buy Dirt”) and “Wagon Wheel” after reading 23582350 books before bed, no matter how many times you tell him it’s the last one.  Watching Sophia swim or run on the track team or skate on the ice like a natural – she can do whatever she sets her mind to!  Eli with his practiced “please” and “thank you.”  Sophia walking her brother down the aisle at church and to Sunday school.  Listening to Eli sing every song he knows in the car.  Sophia formulating an idea and then creating it out of paper, markers, and a pair of scissors.  Eli exclaiming, “Oh, my gosh!” to literally everything. Sophia climbing the counter like a monkey to grab herself a plate and cup.  How Eli gives the best hugs and still loves to snuggle and hold hands at bedtime.  Realizing Sophia is old enough for play dates on her own and doing math in her head.  Eli embracing his toddlerdom to the max – there is absolutely no reasoning with a two-year-old.  Waking up to both kids in the bed and wondering when and how they got there.  These are our moments, in our circle, that shape and define all that we seek and are grateful for.

So this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my husband of 15 years.  I am thankful for my beautiful rainbow babies.  I am thankful for family near and far, who will be at our table and those who will be missed.  I am thankful for another year to celebrate our hodgepodge of moments and glimpses and in-betweens, and appreciate them all as sacred and life-giving, as purely as a seven-year-old would.

ninth x 2

After we had lost the twins, I remember having this inexplicable fear that if I started to smile, and heal, and "move on," that somehow I would be leaving them behind.  I learned over the years though that it's possible to move forward and still remember -- to talk about them, cry for them, celebrate and honor them.

I usually try to take off work this time of year to pause around the babies' birthdays.  Nine whole years.  Nine years of memories we've made, with them watching over us, still in my prayers every night.  The other day when both of our kids were seated with us at the kitchen table, I asked out loud, "What if we had had more kids?  There aren't enough chairs."  Sophia replied, "If Lily and Lucas were here, we'd all sit together in the dining room."  Her simple response made my heart smile.

So much has happened in 9 years.  The twins have kept us grounded, remembering to live consciously, not letting the moments pass us by, hugging our rainbow babies a little tighter.  Being truly grateful.  And sharing the love, by cooking a meal or making a porch drop, through a card or a late night phone call to check up on a friend.  This life was meant to be shared and appreciated and celebrated.

(Tonight when we sang happy birthday, Eli joined in, too.  He just learned how to enunciate "happy birthday" with all of the celebrations this week).

We miss you so much, Lucas.  Happy birthday, sweet baby boy.

ninth

Every August 27th for the past 9 years, the ache is there, more pronounced than usual.  I pray for all of our kids every day, and Lily, she was the first.  Our sweet girl.

My best friend, who always remembers, gave me flowers the other night and I could barely stop the tears.  She knows how hard this week always is for Anthony and me.  I told her I was pregnant before I told my parents.  She was there after my water broke and I was on strict bedrest.  She was there after we came home from the hospital without our twins.  So, she knows just what I need... for our children to be remembered.

I'm currently reading Out of the Clear Blue Sky by my favorite author, Kristan Higgins, who captures what it feels like to lose a child so beautifully:

"These things happen.  Oh, they happen all the time.  Everyone's life--especially every woman's life--is marked by something like this, it seems.  Miscarriage, infertility, breast or ovarian or uterine cancer.  It's so personal when our female parts fail us in some way.  So hard not to think that we--that I--had caused this, should've known, should've done something.

...Because she was born after twenty weeks' gestation, my daughter got a fetal death certificate, which meant she needed a name.  We could have left that part blank, but it seemed so cruel not to name her.  But we hadn't settled on one yet, and oh, the deep, aching pain of naming a child who was already gone.  The tragedy of it all.  The absolute, wrenching grief.

...And still, I thought of my poor little baby every day.  I'd held her there in the ambulance....I'd memorized her perfect face.  Every year on the first of December, the day I'd lost her, Brad would bring me flowers, and I'd cry a little (or a lot), remembering the fear and love and grief so pure it was like a scalpel, slicing my heart in half.

But you keep going.  The memory is there every day, but the days grow and multiply until it's years and years.  Her story was so brief, and after a while, there was nothing new to say.  She was branded on my heart, and she always would be.  It became my private loss, spoken of no more.  Brad had lost her, too, but he hadn't grown her inside him, felt every wriggle and kick; hadn't known my secret fear; hadn't seen all that blood or felt her tiny body slide out of me, even as I fought to keep her inside.

...I missed my girl in a way that still surprised me.  That after five years, ten years, twelve, I could still sob, alone in the downstairs bathroom, for my lost little girl.

...We would be best friends, my sweet girl and I....She would be smart and kind and helpful....Popcorn and movie nights, walks around the kettle ponds, kayaking, cooking, baking, laughing.  School events, her friends filling the house with the sound of their laughter...

My daughter would be my closest ally, and I would be hers...She'd lean her head against my shoulder and say, "You're my best friend, Mommy."

The longing...it never goes away.  My little girl.  How wonderful she would have been."

--Kristan Higgins, Out of the Clear Blue Sky

Yes, how wonderful our sweet Lily would have been.  We love you, baby girl.