Remember to Forget

* Originally written on Thanksgiving Day ...*

Today is Thanksgiving.

I was a little dumbfounded when the thought occurred to me that I completely forgot the third anniversary of our having left Portugal, November 2^nd.   Our exodus from that tiny island, from the military, from a large and close-knit group of dear friends, from security (as secure as one can be in the military) – six months pregnant, a bit of money in savings, and hope in our hearts.  This was my last view of Terceira …

We were nervous and the sense of trepidation was palpable.  But mostly, we were excited to go home, wherever “home” might be.  We just knew Bo would find a good job with all his experience and education, and were prepared for the three or four weeks it might take to discover it, visiting with our families while we waited to settle in to our new someplace and prepare for Leila Grace’s arrival.  Coming right at the start of the holiday season also seemed a fortuitous and celebratory way to be welcomed back this side of the pond.

We set up camp in a bedroom in Bo’s mother’s basement.  Three or four weeks went by and nothing happened.  Bo pounded the pavement, went on countless interviews, making it to final rounds in most, only to be passed over.  I would meticulously press his shirt and suit (the only job I had at the time,  besides being an incubator), each puff of steam from the iron a prayer sent up that maybe this time would be the time.  That they would see the strong, capable, eager man I saw and hire him on the spot.  He’d leave, handsome, polished, prepared; and come back, just as handsome, but a little worn around the edges and disappointed.  As the weeks went by, the baby bump grew and grew, and the numbers in the bank account shrank and shrank (funny how those two things seem to coincide), as did our confidence.  I often wonder what that time was like for him.  As much as we talked, I know there were things he didn’t – wouldn’t – tell me, so he wouldn’t worry me any more than I worried already.  As frightening as things became, this was a time of being knit together – to one another and to the Lord.  After all, what else did we have?  (Truthfully, what else do we ever really have?) 

Three months later, just shy of 9 months pregnant, something came through.  Even though it seemed like an eternity to wait, looking back I now see we could have waited a whole lot longer, especially in this economy.  There but for the grace of God go I (I think that’s how the saying goes) … A job, a home and a baby all in the course of a month.  Then more months ticked by, more life …

 The first anniversary of our leaving the island, as we looked back at it with such rose-tinted spectacles, was undeniably melancholy.  I think we were still mired in our growing pains, fighting against the life we had chosen – had prayed for.  (How ungrateful and faithless!)  The second anniversary, then pregnant with our sweet Luke, was a fond remembrance that occupied a few moments of thought.  This year, the third anniversary came and went silently.  Remembering how we forgot, I have a vision of a figure – one to which I desperately clung with such longing two years ago, hoping it could somehow bring back what used to be.  One year ago, I welcomed the figure as we briefly reminisced about what once was, and I introduced it to my new life.  And this year, it arrived, saw my obliviousness to its presence, and graciously moved on.  As have I, finally.  Now having fully embraced what is before me, and left what is behind me; grateful for all of it, but mostly so overwhelmed with the blessings of today.  And for these things, I give thanks.

Shabby Chic

I had purposed for days now to write a post tonight.  Wednesday evenings are generally when I have time to do that sort of thing, as the husband is in class until pretty late.  There are so many things about which I'd like to write, but honestly - I am so dadgum tired (just showed my Alabama roots).  The source of my exhaustion is my beautiful toddler.  And I can think of a thousand things to say to paint a picture of all that she does that so drain my body, my mind, my will at the end of the day; but honestly, why would I want to drain you, too, kind reader?  And as many of you are parents already, no words are needed, I'm sure.  So, instead, I will dedicate what little ability to form coherent thought that I have to recording (more for myself than anyone) a few of the things she did today that warmed my heart.

First thing in the morning, I get her from her room and bring her into bed with me.  Luke is usually still asleep for at least a short while, so we get this sliver of alone time, snuggling under my down comforter, where she waits patiently as I continue to drift in and out of sleep, smelling the perfume of her blonde, curly head.  When she's finally had enough of waiting, she turns around, puts both her hands on my face and starts talking to me.  "Mama sleepy?  I so sorry, Mama!  Mama, see my bear (pulls Birthday Bear out from under the covers)?  Mama, guess what?  I so proud of you!" And on and on, occasionally leaning in with her lips puckered so I can proffer my cheek to receive this precious benediction, and then the declarations continue.  And who could keep their eyes closed and ignore such a sweet morning song?

While I go through my start-of-day chores, she "entertains" her brother as they play on the floor near my feet.  Half the time, I'm having to make sure she doesn't smother him with something, but the other half, she is taking her most favored toys and not only showing them to him, but sharing them.  Not balking when his tiny fists snatch the items from her before she's ready, but watching him with a smile on her face.  As difficult as it's been for her since he's become more of a peer and less of a giant lump of immobile (nonthreatening) baby, I truly believe she enjoys this new phase where she can share with him all her treasures - and snacks.

As lunch was winding down, she and I were finished but Luke was still in the high chair.  I got up to get a cleaning rag and when I came back, Leila had climbed into my chair and was dutifully helping Luke finish his lunch.  She would lean towards him with a bean, to which he opened his mouth like a little bird, and she dropped it neatly in.  A few seconds later, she said, "Would you like more?  Say please!" and then she would give him another.  This went on for several minutes ("More?  Say please!"), as I watched from the kitchen.  These are the moments that got me through the chaos of bringing Luke home and navigating Leila's torrential emotions: the hope that before long he would be able to interact with  her and she would know the joy of finding a friend in her sibling.  And here we are, at the start of that gratifying journey.

  

Other things from today include many kisses, randomly breaking into song and giggling shyly when she realizes I'm listening, trying to help with the laundry, comforting Luke when he cries, sporadically breaking away from her playtime to wrap her arms around my neck and lay her head on my shoulder ... These are the kinds of pearls I value, the treasure I want to keep hidden away, never to be lost.  On nights, like tonight, when I'm feeling particularly shabby, I can take them out, adorn my heart with them, and adulate in the extreme honor of being her mother.

 

Order ... Harmony.

Those of you who have known me for any length of time know my background in Musical Theatre, and that despite the years it was a part of my life, there is actually very little of it that I enjoy, but my all-time favorite work is Stephen Sondheim's "Sunday in the Park With George."  It was inspired by the life of Pointillist painter Georges Seurat, and his most recognized piece, Sunday on the Isle of La Grande Jatte (1884).

I love this painting so much we had a copy of it commissioned for our home.

The story is too intricate and painfully beautiful for me to insult by trying to abridge it.  But during the song in which George is finally seeing the fruition of his hectic, passionate vision, the opening measures are underscored by a cacophony of noises from the subjects in the painting - which until that point had all been many random sketches, piece-mealed here and there from different visits to this park (nothing like what you see above); and the chaos of it all is accompanied by the orchestra in discordance with one another, as though each instrument were playing from a different score.  The maelstrom reaches a fever pitch until George enters and booms, "Order!"  And then the only sound you hear is the ringing of one note, like a bell, clearly calling everything and everyone to order.  The subjects obey.  George then, calmly yet powerfully, says what has been his mantra to himself while trying to complete his work, "Design ... tension ... composition ... balance ... light ... harmony. " As he speaks each word, the subjects silently, reverently, travel to their spot in the painting.  And as he softly sighs that last word, "Harmony," the last piece of the puzzle falls into place, and the instruments majestically soar in perfect ... harmony.  The masterpiece is complete.

The life of Georges Seurat is not one I would want to experience (it was filled with great pain, loss, isolation and misunderstanding).  But as chaotic as his circumstances were, as his brain worked, as his vision was, he knew that the only way to achieve harmony was through order.

Those of you who are close to me also know (aside from my love for this musical) that I struggle daily with order.  In some areas of my life, those in which I know someone is watching or something I would have to answer for - like in my job (previously) or in raising my children - I give my all.  But when it's something that's simply up to me to do or not do, and I only have to answer to myself, if I find it particularly unpleasant (cleaning, exercising, etc.), sometimes it just plain doesn't get done.  Not so I can just sit - Lord knows with two babies to care for I am always  doing something.  But I don't make the less-enjoyable tasks a priority.  And, God bless him, I have a husband who is too gracious to mention (or too busy to notice) when these things do not get done.  I will gladly trade the folding of clean laundry or the loading of a dishwasher for a half-hour on the floor trying to get Luke to crawl or dancing to Yo Gabba Gabba songs with Leila Grace.  But what about after they go to bed?  Well, to be honest, I would even more gladly trade my to-do list for an hour or two on Facebook or catching up on the DVR.  My reasoning?  I've earned it.  I work hard with the kids / some days they just completely wear me out / I never have a day off / I need "me time" / I need a break, too ... ad nauseum.  And yes, that may be, mostly, legitimate.  But the eternal conundrum lies in that that thinking makes me unable to truly enjoy the break.  In the back of my mind - heck, in the front of it! - is the constant clamor of what still needs to be done and what I should be doing instead.  I am notorious for should-ing all over myself, as the expression goes.  As in the song, it's like all the tasks are screaming out to me in their discordant tune - the phone calls to return, the correspondences to reply to, the pile of ironing, the stack of dirty dishes, the dustballs on the floor, the toothpaste muck in the sink, the food in the refrigerator that has now grown legs and is about to walk out on its own!  The longer I leave it, the louder it becomes.  Knowing this, knowing how twisted up inside I get over this, why do I allow it to get to that point?  Paul said it best in Romans when he mused, "I don't really understand myself; for I want to do what is right, but I don't do it.  Instead I do the very thing I hate." (7:15, NLT)   

I suppose this is part of life, the human struggle, especially for those who live as much in the flesh as I do.  I want harmony - I long for it.  Who doesn't?  But I always want to bypass the 'order' part.  And I don't think you can have one without the other (neither did George).  The funny thing, even for those as scattered as I am, we equally crave order, though we may not acknowledge it.  I believe even those who buck at the system and balk at authority and rules secretly crave orderliness.  I think God created us to desire order - it mirrors how He created the world; everything in its own place, its own time. All the pieces converging together in a symphony; one that can sound discordant to we who can only see so few things at once and think all it is is all we see and it's all chaos, random.  But if we could see the whole score, as God does, we would know how beautiful - how purposeful - it truly is, every minutiae, all there, all on purpose, to create his perfect composition.  Harmony.  

Why?  Because He loves us.  Because there's blessing in it.  He wants good things for us, and has already planned them ("For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future."  Jeremiah 29:11).  I know this.  So why am I so captivated by the very things that withhold harmony from my life?

I found myself reflecting on all of the things above as I was - FINALLY!!! - reorganizing the kids' clothes, taking out what they'd outgrown and replacing them with the pieces I've been collecting the last few months to (hopefully) last us through the next season.  I've had stacks of new and old clothes piled high in my room for well over a month now, in disorderly heaps that taunted me every morning when I woke up and every night before I fell asleep, and even in-between, during the day, as I was downstairs doing anything but taking care of them.  Despite all that I'd collected, I'd been concerned about the lack of a few key items: comfortable play pants for Leila, a jacket and sweater for Luke, as well as a Halloween costume.  Previously, I had hurriedly tossed outgrown items in their closets, thinking I would put them away properly later, and tonight, "later" had arrived.  In digging these strewn things out of Leila's closet, I discovered no less than five pairs of pants/playclothes that we had been given last year that didn't fit her then (hence their being shoved to the back) but are perfect now (thank you, Mom!).  And while pulling out the clothes tote that my sweet friend Laura Ashley loaned us for Luke, I was surprised to find a perfectly sized sweater and an adorable giraffe costume!  (Thank you, Laura Ashley!)  And because I finally finished organizing and putting away all our clothes, my brain has been free to help me compose a blog entry; something I've been wanting to do for over two weeks now, but couldn't because I was so muddled with all the 'should-ing.'   

These are simple things, and (understandably) not incredibly earth-shattering to those who are reading.  But to me, it was a dear reminder - the fulfillment of a promise - that there is blessing in order.  It is the path to harmony.

Little Man

This is Luke's birth story, originally posted in a note on Facebook.  Mister Man gave us a run for our money.  He was due around January 11th (this year), tried to come on Christmas Eve, and then didn't even arrive until January 21st.  I think he will always want to keep me on my toes.  :)

* * *

 January 29, 2011

Finally have a little bit of time to jot this down.  Mainly recording for those who knew I was trying for a VBAC and were so supportive and encouraging of our long wait to give me the best chance at one.  :)

At 41.5 weeks pregnant, my body finally began to show consistent signs of early labor.  A few days prior, a non-stress test and ultrasound showed Luke was healthy and contented while still in utero, and I had made some progress, so we chose to leave well enough alone for now.  Two days later, I went back for another check on him to find that I had been losing fluid and the placenta was starting to break down.  My doctor wanted to admit me that night, but I asked if we could wait til first thing in the morning (the 21st) so I could go home, get my things together, and have just a few more hours with Leila.  Doctor agreed, so I drove home in a snow storm to get myself ready.  Bo's mom drove down to stay with Leila, we made our final preparations, and Bo and I left at 4am for the hospital.

My doc had been very supportive of my decision to VBAC, so our plan of action was to encourage and augment the labor my body had already started, but being very wary of aggravating my c-section scar and avoiding uterine rupture.  We started at 5 and my body took to everything well and Luke was doing well.  My contractions started coming right on top of each other - wow.  That was uncomfy.  I knew I would want an epidural line put in in case we wound up in the operating room doing a c-section, so after breathing through them for a couple of hours  I asked for the epidural.  Soon after, my best friend Laura Ashley came - she was going to be our support person through labor, etc.  So glad to see her face.  :)  My contractions continued to pick up and progress was made - my water ruptured on its own, but in a slow leak.  A few hours later, my doctor decided to break the rest of the bag to progress things as there started to be some concern about Luke's heart rate and his head was not quite engaging. 

Things definitely sped up after that.  We tried different positions and movements and things were trucking along very quickly.  I had been in active labor for 8 hours at thispoint.  Then there was a change: one minute I'm laughing and joking with the nurses about the crazy hip movements I'm doing while praise and worship music is playing on my iPod, and before I knew it I was being told to lay back down and nurses were rushing in from everywhere - alarms going off - frantic asking who had paged my doctor, and no one could tell me what was going on (Bo and Laura were in the waiting area grabbing a quick lunch - which was about to be cut even shorter).  So I glanced at the monitor to see what was happening.  Luke's heart had gone from being consistently in the 140s/150s to the low 80s - and it didn't move.  I kept asking if he was ok and they tried to tell me he was but I didn't believe them - especially when my labor and delivery nurse started saying, "Come on, baby - hang in there - come on ..."  This went on for about 5 minutes.  I started rubbing my belly where I always felt his butt and started talking to  him, begging him to hang on, and his heart beat picked up a little bit.  Aparrently it was enough to buy us time to get to the OR, as that's where we rushed to next.

They had already changed my anesthesia at this point so it gets a little fuzzy here.  I remember my doctor coming in and telling me what needed to happen at that point to get him here safely and apologizing that the VBAC hadn't worked, and I remember saying, "Whatever!  Just get him out!"  Quickly wheeling into the OR, bright lights, soothing voices, a blue sheet way too close to my face shielding me from everything.  What I remember distinctly were three things:

1. The acute sharp pang of disappointment, the feeling of utter failure, as I had once again wound up having my child surgically cut from me in my inability to deliver him as God intended.  (Argue with the folly of this statement all you want, but it's how I felt at the time.)

2. Bo coming in - never had anyone in a blue paper suit looked so much like a knight in shining armor.  He immediately grabbed my hand and I held on for dear life.  He watched the whole procedure this time, and again, watching HIS face as he saw our son being born was the second best thing to MY being able to see it.  As soon as we heard that cry, we both looked at each other with joyful tears streaming down our faces.

3. Kissing Luke's sweet face for the first time, as soon as they'd wrapped him up, being awash in relief knowing he was ok and I was ok.  Suddenly it no longer mattered to me HOW he got there; just that he was there.  All nine pounds of him.  :)  (His APGAR was a 9, by the way.)

Bo went with Luke for all his post-birth stuff while I was sewn up and sent to recovery where Luke would be brought to me so I could nurse him.  The only hiccup was that his blood sugar was too low, so the nurses gave him a little bit of formula.  I guess this wouldn't have bothered me so much except that had I been informed (even though they told Bo, but daddies don't think about these things) I would have told them to not use milk-based as he was probably allergic - came to find out later he was, which made for a tummy ache, but once it was all out of his system he was fine.  It didn't hurt his ability or desire to nurse AT ALL.  This dude was a breastfeeding champ from the starting line.  Woot!

The hospital stay went by in a relatively peaceful and happy blur (thanks to lots of Percocet and just loving my son and real life being put on hold).  The chaos began the day we went home ... and has continued through now.  And I do mean chaos.  Luke is doing well, though it seems like I'm daily adding to the list of foods he's sensitive to that I'm having to cut out of my diet.  But he sleeps relatively well and is generally a contented little guy, very sweet and snuggly, and I swear (despite the naysayers) he has brown in his eyes!  The most challenging part about coming home has been navigating the landmine that is Leila Grace and her emotions.  She is taking this a lot harder than any of us anticipated.  Even with my parents here now, so four adults in all, it's a challenge to handle.  So if you send any prayers our way, please say them for my Leila - my heart is breaking as I see her hurting, and she won't let me near her at the moment.  To know I caused this but I can't fix it, at least not yet, is the most painful part of all.  I know it will get better soon.  But for now, that's the hardest thing.  Despite all that, though, her ire isn't directed at Luke; she's actually quite sweet with him.  She always wants to give him a kiss and pat his head or hold his tiny hands.  So I know there's hope ...

If you've made it this far, thanks for reading!  For those friends of mine who are hoping for VBACs, I just want to encourage you to pursue it within reason, do all you can, and stand up for yourself, but don't beat yourself up if it's not meant to be.  I'm still working on that, too.  Thank you ALL, dear friends, for your encouragoing posts and messages throughout the whole pregnancy and after Luke's arrival!  They have all helped so much.

Here's to a new chapter, the Jessop family of four ...

An End and a Beginning

This was the last post I made on LiveJournal, the first thing I'd had time to write since Leila was born, and the final time I allowed myself the luxury of writing.  It's the closest thing to a birth story I have for her, so I wanted it included here.

* * *

April 19, 2009

Driving the long stretch of highway between Kentucky and Alabama on a warm April day, you can’t help but admire the vibrancy of the whites, greens, pinks and lavenders splotched on the landscape that signal the season for new life. I’ve got a perfect little blue-eyed example of new life sitting next to me, as well, all nestled up in her car seat, sucking on a purple binky, dreaming of … who knows what? (What DO babies dream about, I wonder?) She is now almost 7 weeks old. We’ve come a long way since a hastily penned note to this mysterious creature the night before I met her. It’s been the fullest month and a half of my entire life, leaving me with little time (or energy) to write anything since the night of that note. Actually, in the rare moments that I may have had time, I didn’t really have the words yet. I’m not even sure that I do now. But I thought I should take advantage of this situation (being confined to the car and unable to do my usual thing: hold the baby) and at least try.

I could attempt to chronicle where I left off, picking up with the day of Leila Grace‘s birth, detailing each moment (as well as my drug-addled mind could retain). But what would be the point? There’s really no adequate way to describe a birth experience unless you’re a woman who’s been through it. Equally, there are no sufficient words to describe what it’s like seeing your child for the first time, unless you’re a parent. Everything just kind of falls short. I’ve tried so hard to write in detail the happenings of my life, thoughts, feelings, etc. in this journal about so many important moments – so I could look back and remember moreso than to inform any readers. It’s interesting to me, then, that the most important moment of my life needs very little chronicling; I feel certain that there’s no way I could ever forget each and every minutiae of that day. It frequently runs like a movie trailer through my head, vignettes that are burned on my heart forever: the acute fear walking into the operating room; the relief of Bo’s face close to mine and the warm assurance of my hand in his every second until she started to make her entrance into the world; watching his face as he watched her arrive, both of us sobbing with joy; the most beautiful sound ever to hit our ears – her healthy first screams (!); the nurse holding her over the sheet for me to see; watching, as they cleaned her off and took care of her, in utter awe that that LARGE creature was inside me (no wonder my ribs ached so much!); the first moment I held her in my arms and she looked into my eyes, and with wonderment I said, “THERE you are …”; holding her to my breast and nursing her, amazed that somehow we both instinctively knew what to do; my heart swelling with love for Bo as I watched him care for her while I was confined to my hospital bed, as though he had been caring for her his entire life.

The rest of that day and the days after, before I went home, are a blur of visitors, nurses, and pain meds. The first night at home was terrifying, and so many things about what she wants and how to make her happy remained – and still remain, almost two months later – an unsettling mystery. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get it all right. Especially with the stresses since she’s been home of infections, antibiotics, a trip to the ER, multiple doctors visits, thrush – for her AND for me, all of which have wreaked havoc on any hope of a routine with breastfeeding or anything else. There were days in the beginning that all I could do was cry, and I didn’t think I could get through it – and probably would not have been able to were it not for the grace of God and the help of my amazing mother. But those are memories that I think time will eventually fade; their details will lose their vividness like construction paper left too long in the sun. You can almost tell what color they used to be, but they are no longer useful.

The shimmering brilliance of the moments of that first day, added to by the memories of her first bath, the first time she looks at you and you know she knows you, the first time she turns to hear your voice, the first time my grandmother got to meet her namesake and watching them stare into each other’s eyes, the moment I truly fell completely and irrevocably in love with her, the glory of her first smile, and all the glories in between and those yet to come – THEY are like the bright whites, greens, pinks and lavenders of new life: only growing richer and truer with time, and constantly renewing and transforming themselves. Put away sometimes, but never lost. And always something to look forward to.

That’s the only way I know how to say how it feels to be a mother.

Leila Grace Jessop
Born Monday, March 2, 2009 at 10:25 a.m.
8 lbs. 7 oz.
20 in. long
Light brown hair and bright blue eyes.
10 fingers and 10 toes.
Perfect.
Mine.

Dear Leila Grace ...

On my due date, having had no progess of labor, I went to the doctor and discovered that my Leila Grace had her head in my ribs and was quite content to stay put, despite my wishes.  (Shades of things to come ...)  Sparing you lots of tearful details, we chose to schedule a C-section for a week later.  Despite this being polar opposite of my plan, it was kind of nice to know when and how I would meet my daughter for the first time (especially after the chaos of the previous months, being so worried she would arrive when we were still homeless and jobless).  March 1st, the night before her arrival, there was no way I would be able to sleep, so I curled up on the sofa in the perfect, still night - the calm before the wonderful storm - and wrote these words:

* * *

"For mother's sake the child
Was dear, and dearer was
The mother for the child."
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge


Dear Leila Grace,

Tomorrow morning will hold the biggest and most important moment of my entire life. A moment that can never be duplicated or equalled in its magnitude and importance - never. It will be the first time I get to see your sweet face, to hold you, and to watch your father do the same. Here on this eve of your birth, there is so much I want to say - feel like I should say. But my heart and my head are so full that I can't organize any of the words.

I could map out for you all that led me here, all that your father and I have been through since that night in late June when he opened the box that held the proof of your existence (oh, how he cried with such joy!). I could tell you every detail, every thought, every worry, every prayer that brought me to this night, with all these butterflies in my stomach, unable to sleep. But these are not the most important things. And you may sift through my journals one day and find it all out for yourself. I hope that if you do that you will see it as a testament to the truth that even before I knew you, God knitted and formed you in my womb. HE knew you. He loved you so much that He provided for your every need and protected and nurtured you, as He protected and nurtured your parents, so that we could all meet on this most special of days. I hope that you will know how faithful and good He is; how perfect His timing and plans. These are things I hope you will learn whether or not you read what I've written, as I know that God has His own plan for your life and how He will reveal Himself to you. Yet, as important as all that is, that is still not what I want to tell you tonight.

Tonight, I just want to tell you that I am frightened. That I have no idea what to expect, even though I've researched and planned and prepared for you more than I've ever done for anything before! But I guess life with me will be new to you, too - so maybe we can learn together.

I want to tell you how much I have loved having you inside me. In the beginning, as each week went by, counting the inches you were on my ruler in my office and imagining you floating around in there - graduating in size from a nut to a full-fledged piece if fruit! It felt like such a victory! And then the moment, after so much waiting, that I finally felt the flutter of you. The proof that this hadn't all been an elaborate dream. Ah, and then when your daddy could feel it, too ... that was almost better. And as you grew and grew, so did your kicks and movements, to the point where your dad and I would lay in bed and watch you dance. Though your movements now seem more frustrated - no doubt for your lack of space - they still comfort me to no end, as they tell me that all with you is well and just as it should be. I will miss the sensation of you being such an intimate part of me, no matter how awkward it sometimes felt. But I am sure that when I get to hold you and see you and smell you, I won't miss what used to be so much anymore.

And I want to tell you how honored and blessed I am to be your mother. That you are the greatest gift, aside from the grace of God, that has ever been given to me. That out of everything that I have seen in my life, you are the most beautiful and precious. That out of all that I have done and accomplished, out of all the accolades, YOU are the greatest reward. That I would give my life for you, and gladly. And that there is nothing you can do that would ever change any of that. I know all of this with all of my heart - even though I don't yet know YOU! So imagine how that list will grow when I finally do.

So, my sweet girl, tomorrow we will meet. You will turn my world upside down. And I will never again be any happier than I will be at that moment. Thank you for being mine.

Love always,
Mom

Archiving

In 2007, my husband, Bo, was in the Air Force and we were assigned to a base on a tiny island off the coast of Portugal (part of the Azores).  As a way to keep up with family and friends en masse, I chose to begin a journal to chronicle our experiences.  I used LiveJournal and entitled it, "Once on This Island," a name I borrowed from one of my favorite musicals.  I continued to write the whole time we were there (just shy of two years), and then when we separated from the military and returned to the States to start a brand new life, six months pregnant with our first baby.  

I especially found writing a comfort during the three-month-long stint Bo was madly searching for employment while we took refuge in his mother's basement.  Oh how the words I couldn't say flowed freely from my fingertips!  God finally cleared the fog of fear and franticness and provided us with a job and a home a mere three weeks before our baby girl arrived, our Heavenly Father of the 11th hour.  (And isn't that the most wonderful place to truly see Him working and know His presence and divine plan?)  As any of you reading who are parents know, post-parenthood, the free time/ability to form coherent thoughts (let alone write them) severely ... diminishes.  Consequently, I brought that journal to a close with a post written six weeks after Leila was born; the first I'd written since penning a letter to Leila the night before I had her.  Frankly, I was okay with leaving it like that.  Though I missed writing, I kept telling myself I was too busy living life to write about it.  And that's true.  But one more child later, I've found a little more footing - and also found that there is so much beauty, so much that is poignant and profound, and even just mundane but entertaining (!) that needs - deserves - to be archived, for those who are so inclined to do so.  And I am so inclined.  

I want to make time for this so that I won't forget.  Starting this was the impetus for my finally exporting entries from "Once on This Island."  Reading through those journals, something I hadn't touched in two and a half years, I was so blown away by all I'd forgotten, and even moreso by how the simple act of reading the words vividly took me back to exactly where I was when I'd written them.  How could I not want to give this even more magnificent era of my life the same thought and care?  Not just for me, but for Leila Grace and Luke.  As my brother and I grew up, my mother kept a tiny spiral notebook where she wrote down things we said or did that she wanted to remember.  When we were older, she'd bring it out and lovingly (laughingly) read what she'd written about us.  I always felt so special - so honored - that she cared enough to do that.  I would like to honor my children the same way.  (Not that this blog will be solely about them, but you know what I mean.)

Anyway, I've done a lot of rambling to get to my actual point, which is that since this blog is dedicated to the kiddos, and will probably be about them more often than not, I will repost my last two entries from my previous journal - the letter to Leila and the closing post, both from 2009.  I will also post Luke's birth story that I originally wrote in a note on Facebook.  I'd like to archive them here, in this new "home," to help make our story more complete.  Many of you have probably already read them, so please know I am only posting them for the sake of them being included in this collection (i.e. do not feel compelled to re-read them, unless you want to).

I will no longer call you "readers"; I will call you friends.  Friends, for following along with me thus far, I most sincerely thank you.  :)

Ten Thousand Pearls

Most of you reading this (if anyone is reading this) have blogs of your own and know how much you can over-think what to title it - as though anyone cares about the title as much as you do, but it's just how we are, so whatever.  I thought for weeks what nom de plume to give this little endeavor, and came up with a phrase from a text that I've loved for a few years.  I read it shortly after becoming a mother in 2009, and was reminded of it when The Disney Channel featured it in a poetry segment.  (Yes, sadly, the bulk of my literary exposure these days comes from there.  Moving on.)  The last two lines wedged a place in my heart in the simple yet ineffable way these things sometimes do.  As my maiden post, I give you, "Mother's Song" ...

Mother's Song, a Traditional Lullaby

My heart is like a fountain true

that flows and flows with love to you

as chirps the lark unto the tree

so chirps my pretty babe to me 

There is not a rose wherever I seek

as comely as my baby's cheek

there's not a comb of honey bee

so full of sweets as babe to me

There's not a star that shines on high

is brighter than my baby's eye

There's not a boat upon the sea

can dance as baby does to me

No silk was ever spun so fine

as is the hair of baby mine

My baby smells more sweet to me

than smells in spring the elder tree

A little fish swims in the well

So in my heart does baby dwell
A little flower blows on the tree
My baby is the flower to me

Ten thousand parks where deer do run

Ten thousand roses in the sun

Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea

my babe more precious is to me.

* * *

I dedicate these writings to my more-precious-than-pearls babies, whom I hope will one day read them,  and be able to catch at least a glimpse of the beauty and wonderment they show me every day.