plea...se

Please stop asking me if I'm expecting.

In the last 24 hours, I was asked by two different people who I know whether I am expecting another.  Another what, you ask?  A baby.  Yes, a baby.

In the first case, we ran into someone while eating lunch, and the woman flat-out asked me, "Are you expecting another?"  At first, I thought she meant if the open seat at our table was going to be occupied.  In fact, I almost pulled out the chair for her, until I saw the look on my husband's face -- somewhere between disappointment and hurt for me -- and my heart sank.  Oh.  She meant that.

The second occurrence happened at work.  It came with a gesture towards my belly, and having just experienced the mortification of answering the same question the day before, I recovered and moved on quickly.  "Oh, no, it must be the shape of my dress," I replied, and I even flicked my dress for good measure.  The weather has warmed up enough for flowy dresses, and I guess that's an immediate indication of pregnancy.  But inside I was thinking, "Really?? Who asks that?"

A lot of people, that's who.  Sadly, I have been asked this question at work and elsewhere before, and even by this same person a mere week after I had miscarried in the fall.  I had thought that my way-too-detailed response in the past would have swayed them from asking again, but apparently not.  Is it open season on any woman of child-bearing age for the slew of inappropriate questions?

I would never ask somebody this.  Do you know why?  Because a woman's reproductive status is deeply personal.  Because I know many women, like me, who have struggled and fought to get pregnant for YEARS, who wish it were as easy as knowing it were up to them and they could believe a baby into existence.  Because when you ask this question, it's hurtful to anyone who has been poked and prodded and tested and scanned and has been waiting and waiting and waiting... and still waiting for that glimmer of hope or a break in the endless cycle of their bodies failing them.  Because even though I am open to talking about all these things, it still stings.

So please stop asking me if I'm expecting, or if/when I'm having another.

If I were to answer this question honestly, of course I would love another.  When Anthony and I first got married, we'd joke about having six kids or compromise at four, as if it were up to us.  Little did we know the infertility journey we were about to take.  Little did we know it would take us three years to conceive through IVF, that we'd lose our twins halfway into my pregnancy, that we'd experience a failed cycle two years later.  Little did we know it would take a third cycle to bring us our miracle baby, and not without pregnancy complications, or that we'd keep the happy news a secret until I was nearly six months along before telling our own families, out of fear for us and protection for them.  Little did we know that three years later, when I finally got up the courage, we'd go for that final precious frozen embryo, and that I'd get pregnant, but then I'd ultimately miscarry.  So the short answer?  I would love to have another baby.  But we don't always get what we want, do we?

Sometimes I wish I wouldn't shrug it off as ignorance.  Sometimes I wish I could give the long answer.  Sometimes I wish that I had the will and the tolerance to explain how hurtful this question is, but today I make my plea: Please. stop. asking. me. if. I'm. expecting.

Instead, ask me about my beautiful, incredible rainbow baby.  Ask me about how she understands, even at this young age, that she has siblings who are with her always but not physically here, and how she goes out of her way to include them in her every day.  Ask me about how she's given me the gift of motherhood and taught me to love far beyond myself.

Maybe she'll be our one and only (living) baby.  And maybe someday I'll be at peace with that.  And maybe, just maybe, I will share that with you in my own time.

care-full

I was driving home tonight when I noticed a figure on the sidewalk -- a boy, about 9 years old, his arms and legs flailing.  It took me a minute to realize this was intentional, as he was literally, dancing in the rain.  I smiled to myself and thought, "Oh, to be a child again!"  Oh, to dance like that, happily, and in the rain, without a care in the world.

Immediately, I thought of Sophia, as I often do when I see another child and think of how something they're doing reminds me of her.  I was reminded of my witty, spirited girl, her melodic laugh, her burst of personality, her interpretive dancing.  And I thought about how not having cares... well, that simply wasn't true for our Sophia.  She has many.

At 3 years old, I see how she minds our very old cat like a mother, greeting her as soon as we're home, speaking to her like a best friend would, pulling out her dish to feed her despite my efforts of telling her shoes go off first.  I've noticed how meticulous she can be with her chores, when scooping the fish food out and getting herself dressed.  She remembers everything, and will remind us of anything we've said, at any given time.  Her incredible attention to detail astounds even me -- "My Hello Kitty is downstairs on the dresser, sitting on Darth Vader's lap."  And sure enough, it is.  I think of how she will patiently fold a blanket just like her Daddy taught her, or go into the closet to grab the broom and dustpan when she's spilled something, apologizing because it was her "fault."

Anthony and I have discussed how, even at this young age, we can already tell she has worries and potential stressors.  She's concerned when one of us is late coming home, tied up at work or school.  She tells everyone at school about how Bianca, her kitty, is sick and not feeling well.  She asks about her cousins and grandparents constantly, and why they're not around every day.  She listens, and absorbs, and surprises us with the depth of her understanding.  It's impossible to claim that our child doesn't have cares, because sometimes I fear she cares too much.  Sometimes I want her to be able to be a child, without the pensiveness and the threenager drama.

So that is why, when I arrived at her daycare and she spotted my umbrella, I eagerly handed it over, when usually I'd tell her that we couldn't open it until we were outdoors.  And when we walked outside under the awning during a torrential downpour, we stood there for a long time.  I didn't rush her into the car like I normally would, and we just watched parents and teachers and kids running all around us.  When it was finally time to make a break for it, I scooped her into my arms and we laughed all the way to the car as she carefully balanced the umbrella over both of us, alittle soaked and chilled.  When she told me ruefully that her arms had gotten wet, I told her it was okay.  She looked at me, dubiously, probably questioning my sanity.  But it was okay. 

And on our way home, I made sure to hit every puddle, to her delight.

1 in 4

a glimpse into infertility and miscarriage:

another surgery.  one last embryo.  9 days of torture, better known as the 2 week wait.  endless bloodwork.  BFP (big fat positive!).  23 shots.  70 pills.  explaining to my 3-year-old why mommy is crying.  the roller coaster of emotions: fear, anxiety, excitement, joy, uncertainty... overwhelming sadness, and the ultimate heartbreak.

so many are suffering in silence.  so many have hopes and dreams of starting and growing their families, but are falling short.  so many feel completely inadequate, like their bodies are failing them, unable to do what they were designed to do.  so many feel incredibly alone, even with a supportive partner.  so many are taking risks and chances, putting on a brave face or a big smile while inside they are really hurting.  so many choose not to share, because it's hard to talk about, and even harder to explain to anyone who hasn’t faced these struggles or experienced the pain of loss... over and over and over again.

you never know what someone is going through “behind the scenes.”  so be kind. be forgiving. and be thankful.

and know that i am with you.  i am 1 in 4, even with tons of help.  i see you, i understand, and you're not alone. 

a premise on promise

“A Premise on Promise”

Thanksgiving 2018

Dear Sophia,

While driving around the other day, you asked me why all the leaves were falling off the trees with a hint of sadness in your voice, and I paused briefly to figure out a way to describe autumn to you.  It was one of those trademark fall days – the crispness that was nearly tangible in the air, the breeze sweeping through the branches like rolling waves and courting the leaves in a dance, the vibrance of the colors warm and bright from the sun.  It was enough to make me exhale for a moment and relish in the amazing beauty of my favorite season.

So I told you that the leaves fall in autumn, and then the snow would come in winter, and springtime would bring regrowth and leaves again.  I explained how the seasons recycle and repeat, but amidst the change and transition we can count on the leaves coming back… and eventually falling again, like a promise.

It made me reflect upon this past year of growth (mostly for you) and change (with the additions of your cousin Bjorn and baby Alora, who you call a cousin), and hibernation (though not for me as I’m wrapping up my Masters, but one day soon!).  I marveled at how a year ago we claimed that you couldn’t stop talking, and yet these days the sentences flow out of you in stories and songs, or as a noteworthy “sophism,” and yes, even by way of disagreements and challenges.  I think of how we quickly realized that you’ve become a reflection of us – a mixture of mischief and heart, thoughtfulness and adventure – yet you have retained your unique mind and spirit.  A few short months ago you’d say, “I can’t” to potty training and we turned it around affirming that you could, and you would, until you were cheering us on whenever we felt unsteady and unsure.  I vividly remember the day you tamped down your innate fear of dogs and managed to pet one, a little shaky but so proud afterwards.  We are in awe of the little lady you are becoming – strong (holding your own in a class full of boys) yet gentle (as an expert snuggler to family and “Danca”), perceptive (incredibly in tune to our feelings and not missing a thing) and diligent (your negotiating skills are virtually unmatched for a 3-year-old!), inclusive (always including and asking about Lily and Lucas) while free (like your interpretive dances).

Not long ago we talked about promises and you’ve come to grasp the significance of them (and I know this because you’ve refused to promise when you know you can’t keep it 😉), a sacred oath that can bind people together.  This Thanksgiving, I’m reiterating an unspoken promise – that no matter the season and despite the inevitability of change, there is a single constant – us.  Your family.  Hold on to that when the days seem dark and bleak, or when you feel misunderstood or mistreated.  We’ll be here, in some shape or form, without judgement or scrutiny.  You’ll always be heard and have a seat at the table. 

Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart.  No matter where life takes you, you will have a forever home.  I promise.

Love,
Mommy

shine on

Whenever this time of year rolls around, the constant ache in my chest expands, like an oddly shaped balloon, the pressure building, threatening to burst.  I realize it's another year without the twins, and undoubtedly wake up crying on their birthdays.  Five. years.  It has been nearly five whole years since we met and lost them, five whole years since we held them in our arms.  It's an indescribable feeling to stare at your daughter's angelic face, realizing it mirrors your own; or hear your son's first and last cry, watching the rise and fall of his tiny chest until it becomes utterly still.

I think of our babies often, every day, in fact -- but late August always feels a bit more raw.

I read today that it's National Rainbow Baby Day.  It wasn't until after Sophia was born that I was first introduced to the term, "rainbow baby," and couldn't imagine a more fitting name.  After weathering a loss, it's a beacon of hope -- like a rainbow after a rainstorm.  And our Sophia, she is nothing short of a miracle.  She's not a replacement for our angel babies, but she has healed us somehow, teaching us to carry our darlings with us in heart and in mind.

To my rainbow baby, shine on.  Shine on as a symbol of hope, and strength, and perseverance, and courage, and love.  Shine on as we remember your siblings and what can come after -- beauty, and grace, and life.

no words

On Friday evening, I attended the viewing of a coworker's husband.  Upon arrival to the funeral home, I immediately spotted the line of mourners wrapped around the great room almost right up to the door -- and was struck by how eerily familiar it was to the receiving line at a wedding, though obviously somber in mood.  My coworkers and I huddled closely together, admiring the photos and personal belongings of the deceased, inching our way toward the family.  As we grew nearer, I found myself nervous and awkward, never one at ease with small talk and social niceties.

When it was my turn, I hugged my coworker, hoping that I could show, rather than say, how terribly sorry I was.  They had been married for 46 years, and I couldn't find a way to express that I wasn't equipped to understand the tiniest bit of how she must feel.  She introduced me to her daughter and we shook hands.  When I reached her son-in-law, I found myself babbling absentmindedly with a reflexive, "Nice to meet you..." before realizing and following up with an uncomfortable, "Well, under the circumstances."  By the time I reached her son, I told him how sorry I was, but he wouldn't make eye contact, so I was just left with a feeling of utter inadequacy.

The thing is, it pains me when words fail me in times that I want them to matter.  I struggle to vocalize what I want to say, when I want to say it, because words... They’ve always been meaningful to me somehow.

I drove home thinking about what I would have said if I had a second chance.  Maybe I would have repeated my name to the family, for starters.  Talked about how I knew my coworker, how much she's taught and helped me over the years.  Maybe I would have said I would pray for them or keep them in my thoughts.  And maybe none of it would have mattered anyway.

When I came home, I found my daughter and husband snuggled on the couch together, and thanked God that He gave us another day.  I hugged her, relieved, that I didn't need any words to show her how much I love her.  I read her a bedtime story, stroked her face and her hair, marveled for probably the thousandth time how she was here, warm and soft, and was comforted thinking of her musical laugh and the sound of her sweet words: "I love you, Mommy.  I love you, too."

this one time...

”This One Time…”

Thanksgiving 2017

Dear Sophia,

This world we live in is in a hurry.  On Mondays we’re hustling toward Fridays, on blistery days we’re hoping for the warmth of the sun.  We transition from one holiday to the next so fast they start to blur together.  Each year, the stores rush in displays and décor for the next season, the next main event.  We hardly had a chance to realize fall had arrived because the Christmas trees were up the day after Halloween.  Thanksgiving doesn’t have much of a chance.

Thanksgiving, though, is one of my most beloved holidays.  It’s an opportunity for family members who don’t usually see one another to sit at the shared table.  It’s the hum of conversation and sound of clinking glass; the soft words of family prayers and the pitter-pattering of little feet.  It’s not only about the plentiful food, but the chaos in the kitchen, like a practiced dance as we’re fighting over the oven and counter space.  It’s the greeting of the guests, the roundtable thanks, the laughter, and the kids’ table.  It’s the lingering after dinner, the leisurely pace, the pause we’ve been craving and savor in this busy, dizzy world.

This year, I decided to add graduate school to my already full plate – a demanding job with added travel and being a mommy to you.  What I soon found was that getting through each day felt like a cruel exercise in time management – any time I chose homework or the office was less time spent with you.  And so I’d sacrifice sleep instead, only to fall asleep during playtime.  As much and as hard as I wished for the power to stop time, I knew it wasn’t possible, so all I could do was learn to do my best with the time I have been given.

I’ve said this before: There are no guarantees in this life.  We’re not given a timetable or score sheet, and we’re not promised tomorrow.  I think about what I want to tell you today, even if you’re not ready to comprehend it.  And so, I write.

I write about moments and glimpses in time.  I write about your milestones, but also about our day to day, when you’ve made me laugh or pause or even cry, as I’m realizing what a big girl you’re becoming.  I write about a new word or phrase you’ve added to your vocabulary, another song you’ve picked up, hand motions and all.  I write about the pictures I’m sending to your e-mail address, snapshots of the places we’ve gone and new things we’ve tried and different foods we’ve eaten.  I write about times you’ve challenged me and other times you’ve equally surprised me.  I write about things I’m trying to instill in you but mostly about what YOU have taught ME, because you have been my teacher all along.

So what have I learned this year?

Be present.  In this world of distractions and the concept of multitasking, it’s easy to lose focus.  Whenever I’ve reluctantly turned my attention away, you gently remind me to be with you in the here and now.  “Mommy, look!” you’ll exclaim.  “Come here,” and I’m there.  Ever since you were a baby, you’ve wanted to be included, literally a part of the conversation.  Your daddy and I will be talking about our day and you’ll call one of us by name until we stop and look over, only for you to flash your trademark smile.  It’s a constant reminder to be mindful.

Be nice.  You have an incredibly kind heart and a caring, sweet demeanor.  Your teachers remark about how empathetic you are, so in tune with others’ emotions, hugging your friends when they’re in distress.  You look forward to feeding Bianca every day and showering her with kisses.  Even though your cousin James has surpassed you in size, you recognize that he’s younger, just as you innately know and respect that cousin Addie is older.  Every night since your cousin Ryan was born only a short month ago, you ask to see his picture – such a simple request, but you’re instantly happy.  You’ve shown us that there are so many ways to exhibit kindness and affection, and to express it as often as we can.

Be bold.  Somehow, you find a way to help us forget ourselves – the shyness, the self-consciousness, the awkwardness.  You order us to run outside.  You encourage us to dance in the middle of restaurants.  You invite people into our lives and connect us in meaningful ways.  And you’re not afraid – of differences, of discovering, of going a bit off-roading.

Be funny.  Whether you’re “teecle” tackling me or making up a new game to play, your laughter fills our home.  When times are stressful, you lighten the mood; when you have the floor, you’re ready to shine.  We often muse about our little firecracker, bursting with personality, easily offering up your big, cheesy smile.  You’ve taught us not to take life too seriously and to let loose and have fun.

Be you.  I hope you never lose your positive outlook on the world.  One day it may not seem as open or straightforward, but that inner optimism will get you though.  It’s the strut in your step, your creative nature, your independence.  It’s the way you belt out songs, how you need to organize things and put them away, the rush of excited conversation when I pick you up.  It’s your big, warm hugs, your horizontal sleeping, and, “I love you, Mommy,” which are the best words ever spoken, every time.

I want to thank you for teaching me to be, and today I capture this letter as our picture in time – despite the flurry and frenzy of the start of the holiday season.  Thank you, my smart, darling, headstrong, sassy girl, for reminding me to recharge and reassess, and for reserving an oh, so grateful heart.

Love,

Mommy