Reflections of a Butterfly

Sorry...

2012-01-18T16:35:00.000-07:00

It's funny how hard it is for some people to say they are sorry. In fact, some people have all kinds of ways to actually avoid saying it at all. There are the roundabout pseudo apologies like "IF I have done anything to hurt or offend you, please forgive me." and "I stand corrected". Both of which simply say..."I am NOT going to SAY I'm sorry...but I hope you will think I have said it so that I can continue doing everything exactly as I've done before.

Then, there are the apologies which come seriously delayed, after every other possible stall tactic has been tried. Once one realizes that, really, the ONLY way they can save face for their own selfish reasons is to finally say "I'm sorry"...they say it. Even if a year has passed. Or years.

Of course, there are those who will never say it at all. For, to admit one has wronged another is a mighty hard thing to do.

My eldest son struggled with this concept throughout his childhood. He would do something he shouldn't have done, or accidentally hurt someone...or hurt someone on purpose....and when the subject of apologizing would come up he would say "BUT...I didn't mean to hurt him!" I would then have to go into the monolog about how even if we don't mean to hurt someone, and especially when we haven't meant to hurt someone, an apology is what we give to the person we have hurt in order to express that we understand that we have hurt someone.

Can you see the concept soaring over my son's head? yeah....it soared. It literally had wings that would fly over him and out the window.

It's funny how some personality traits seem to be heritable. It baffles scientists. How is it possible for a child to inherit a personality? Aren't personality traits learned? Well...yes and no. Some personality traits are learned. And others...are heritable. For example, mental health issues can be passed through family trees. In my own experience...it's also strange things...like the ability to apologize.

The concept of being to blame for another person's heartache is apparently something that some of us have a hard time with. I was raised by a father who believed that any suffering I experienced was my own fault through karma and/or perception. So, if something he said or did or neglected to do caused my heart to ache...it was my fault and not his.

I take issue with this.

If I say or do something that causes my child pain, I apologize. I may also explain why I did what I did, or why I said what I said. I don't negate their feelings. I don't act like I should not have to apologize, because, I know that when you hurt someone, the most important issue at hand is to repair the damage you have helped to create. You say you are sorry. And, you do it in a timely manner.

I see that personality is heritable because, though my eldest son was raised away from my father, he has the same issues with empathy and compassion and accountability that my father has. You can see the effects of my consistent teaching, because he shows glimmers of what he was taught, and is now, at the age of 21, able to accept that to make things right, he must be accountable and apologetic when he has said or done something to hurt another. Even when he didn't mean to. That's the part that was learned.

My father has not yet learned this.

It took him a year to apologize for hurting the feelings of one of my other sons. A year. I know that in that year, he basically came to the conclusion that there was no way he could get out of it if he ever wanted to be allowed to move forward. So, he apologized. It was looooong overdue.

He also owes me a big whopping "I'm sorry" as well. I don't expect to get it....but, maybe he will surprise me. My suspicion is that he's only good for one douse of humility a year, so...maybe next year he'll be able to come to terms with the concept of being sorry for hurting someone that perhaps he didn't mean to hurt. Without an apology, I can only assume he is glad he hurt me. Why else would he resist making amends with his daughter who loves him so deeply?

It reminds me of an obsure Dr. Suess story called Bartholomew Cubbins and the Oobleck. In the story, a silly king asks his magicians to make something new fall from the sky. And...something does fall. It IS new. And...it is awful. The oobleck falls and falls, ruining everything around. The king can not and will not admit that he has made a poor choice...and things get worse and worse. Finally, the little boy, Bartholomew Cubbins, tells the king that he HAS to say he is sorry because he has really caused the whole village to suffer terribly. The king finally wails that he is so very very very sorry...and suddenly, the oobleck stops falling. It simply stops.

Not being able to say you are sorry is a lot like allowing your village to be covered in Oobleck. It will keep on falling until you own what you have done to another person. The next time you suspect you have hurt someone, even when you didn't mean to, talk to them...hold their heart as a precious jewel...say you are so sorry for causing them pain, and explain how you will prevent that from happening again. In that way, they will see that you mean your apology and understand what you did...

In doing that, you have not only apologized, you have opened the door for forgiveness. It takes courage to own your actions...but it the effort that is required of any healthy relationship. It doesn't come natural for us all, but it is a skill that can be learned. It can be learned. The first step in learning it...is to do it.

Darkest before the Dawn

2011-12-21T15:12:00.000-07:00

Once very recently and not so far away, there lived a little girl in the deepest valley of the world. This little girl walked through this deep valley, aware that there must be a place beyond that she had never been told about. She didn't know how she knew this, but she felt sure of it. Every day, she would wander through the trees in the hopes of finding a path that would lead her away from the valley that enclosed her. One day, she came upon a path that she had never seen before. It seemed rocky and narrow and she was afraid that it might not lead her anywhere. Nevertheless, she found her self climbing it slowly. As it grew dark, she looked back from where she'd come and knew that not only could she not find her way back but that she was perfectly sure that there was no way to return to the life she had decided to leave. She walked on. The blackness of night chilled her to the core, and she felt a distinct glimmer of fear well up within her. Tears flowed down her cheeks where the grime collected from her journey turned into muddy tracks.

She walked on.

And on.

Her feet bloody from the rocks, she walked on.

It seemed that the night would never end.

Owls hooted in the trees where the wind whispered encouragement to the little girl.

And as the sun made its way into the sky once more...the little girl saw the new dawn.

The colors swirled purple and golden over the horizon and the birds sang a lullaby to the night owl that lulled him to sleep.

The little girl walked on and as the light brightened the world, she saw herself in a land that existed above and beyond the valley below where the flowers bloomed and rainbows danced in the misty air.

She was finally home.

Doing it differently

2011-12-19T11:42:00.001-07:00

There are people who believe that it is best to forget the past. Perhaps they feel that remembering negates any beauty of the present? Honestly, as a person who feels that one must remember in order to fully appreciate what IS, I can't pretend to understand the desire to forget implicitly in the name of "being healed".

What IS healing, anyway? Is it not remembering? Is it turning the other way when the sharpness of a memory permeates the present moment? Or is it being able to see the contrast, acknowledge the pain and longing, and then...continue living.

Once upon a time, (many times actually...) I was called diarrhea mouth. This "loving" nickname hurt me deeply. It was an effective way to express that what I had to say was so abundant that it was sickening and uncontrollable. Funny that I would go on to become a writer: ie: a person who has much to express. Call it diarrhea mouth...or call it being expressive. My parents chose the former...and as I watch my rainbow baby coo and croon and babble and chat in beloved baby expression, I am choosing the latter. Expressive. Not diarrhea mouth. Beautiful. Not nauseating. Precious. Not dismissible.

There are those who would wish that I wouldn't think of what I was called as I give my daughter the warmth I feel she (and I) deserve. Instead, I say to her "Sweetie! You have SO much to say and I LOVE to listen to you!" or "Oh Ali V. Tell me MORE of that sugar!" or "You go sweet Venus...tell the people what you want!" there are those who feel, to this day, that they wish I didn't express what I feel or call it like I see it. But...there is a discrepancy between the sentiment of wishing a person could find healing while wishing they would shut up about their pain. Diarrhea vs. Constipation?? Better out than in!!!

Oh yes. I hear, in the words of a parent not as enthusiastic as I happen to be, the groan of "there goes diarrhea mouth again...." in the depths of my own childhood memory. Because I love my own beautiful little girl so much, I feel the contrast, and it aches in my gut. That I, a beautiful baby girl...a rainbow baby myself (!!!)...would not have been cherished...that my earliest sentiments would have been viewed in a similar fashion to something as wretched as diarrhea...well, all I can say to that is---wow. I deserved better. I'll give my daughter better. That is my promise to her. That is my promise to me. Healing.

As I love my daughter, I am learning that I deserved just as much love.

That is true healing. See the now. See the past. And do it differently in honor of the love you wanted...in honor of the love deserved by all.

The Past...

2011-12-15T09:54:00.001-07:00

This morning, I am thinking about what has been. I am thinking about what has been in the light of what is now.

It is, surprisingly, not making me feel sad.

When I look at what has been, all by itself, I typically feel a wave of grief. I can look behind at my footprints and see that there are so many tears about so many things. I can find myself falling back into those footprints, wishing I could change them. Or, at the very least, make them more palatable. That isn't the way footprints are though. You can't erase them, or turn them in another direction without messing up the rest of the journey. So, as I look at my footprints, I found myself realizing that it was those very steps that have led me to now.

I found myself feeling...grateful. Yeah. I said it. Grateful.

I started thinking this way because my on and off again boyfriend of middle school years found me on facebook. I had to smile, because this boy was one of my happy memories of the past. I remember... I remember him passing me a note in Mr. Mormon's class in 6th grade. I was new to the school, and had pretty low self esteem after my torture from a particularly mean girl in the school I'd been in previously. He passed me a note. It simply said..."I think you're cute."

Harmless enough, but...being the silly fool I was at the time, I thought he was making fun of me because I knew without a doubt that I was everything BUT cute. I ran out of the classroom in tears because I was horrified that this very cute boy was making fun of me. I wasn't cute. I was ugly. I was fat. I was stupid. I was....worthless. I cried and cried until another girl came out of the classroom onto the field to console me. She assured me that I was cute, and that if this boy, whom she also agreed was as cute as I'd thought, said I was cute, he meant it! I was elated! Have you ever seen Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? The old one...with the fur-mation and the snow monster? The scene when Rudolph leaps into the air, flying better than all the reindeer because the girl reindeer tells him he's cute? Well...that was me. All because of being given a letter (a confirmed one at that!) that said I was cute. He became my boyfriend, and gave me my first kiss. Of course, we were kids, and we broke up, he went with my best friend, they broke up, we got back together, we broke up, we got back together...and then, he met another girl. A girl whom he married. I remember her...she was sweet, pretty, and smart. They were perfect for each other. Everyone agreed about that fact. When he told me he'd married his high school sweetheart, I was elated! It was meant to be. It was perfect.

I saw our footprints of the past join happily, and then move apart to join other footprints. Just as it needed to be to bring me to my husband. Had I stayed with my 6th grade crush, the first boy to tell me I was cute, well...I wouldn't have my husband. I wouldn't have this life.

I saw my footprints join with the wonderful man whom I love with every fiber of my being. I saw tiny foot prints walking beside us. I saw tears in some of the deeper prints and sparkles in others. The most recent footprints are filled with the light of rainbows. Deep, sturdy prints are these. No mistaking that these prints have been taken with determination. With purpose.

I walk more carefully now-a-days. I'm not as flitting and fleeting as I was once upon a time. I feel like I know where I am going, though I can't chart the course on a map of any kind. As I make new footprints, I realize that the past has made the present and the two combined will make the future. We all carry baggage with us on our journeys through life. One of the things I carry in my pocket is a little note with the penciled scrawl of a boy who gave me back my self esteem. The boy who first told me I was cute. And meant it.

If it wasn't for him, I might have never known that.

I might have believed a lie told by a mean girl instead.

To all the people of the past...to all the things that have been...To all the smiles, and all the tears...to all the loss and all the gain...

Thank you. Thank you for being part of my now.

Of panic attacks and wishful thinking...

2011-12-06T08:38:00.002-07:00

There is a sleeping bundle of girlishness on my bed. She's sleeping in the pseudo-starlight of her turtle nightlight.

And I...I am here.

I had a panic attack last week. Two of them actually. It's amazing to me that the nervous system can really get fried badly enough that it misfires even when you're feeling just fine. Because, I really was feeling fine. Or...was I?

Apparently...I wasn't feeling fine enough. I get that there is this underlying anxiety that lives in my chest at all times. I get that I'm hyper vigilant. I get that I'm basically damaged goods. But...I also get the psychology of grief. I get the human psyche. I understand what I've been through and I've been working hard to heal. And...she IS here. Sleeping on my bed. Right next to the co-sleeper that she never sleeps in, because...that is too far away. I can hear her sleepy noises from where I stand right now. She is 10 steps away from me at this very moment. She is here. Alive. A big gorgeous girl with bright blue eyes and a presence that say's "Mama...I am here to stay!"

She's vibrant. Unscathed by life.

And...my grand-babies are within her body right now. All the babies she could ever have....inside her ovaries. And that was what did it. I was holding her. Loving her smell. Cherishing her presence. Knowing all too well how very very very lucky I am. It was that moment when my heart clenched. My breathing shallowed. My eyes swelled with tears...and it began.

I couldn't really protect her. Not forever. Not in every way. Not from loss.

As I held my tiny 2 and a half month old daughter...all 16 pounds of her...I was deeply aware that I was also holding all her babies...her future darlings...and the fear poured over me. I quaked.

I lost it.

She slept through my jerky sobbing and my sudden fear that I might just die from the despair that was racing through my veins. She slept through my wails. Cuddled on my chest...peaceful.

As if to remind me that she wasn't worried.

As a parent...you have to remember not to push your fears on your children. I bite my lip hard when I see a spider...and calmly try to act like I'm not terrified that it will run up my leg. I feign composure when we drive on narrow roads near mountain cliffs. (Of course...I typically lose that battle...My boys are all too aware of my fear of heights, but, I haven't passed it on. They just think it's silly....)
I don't want my daughter to fear bearing a child. I don't want her to fear loss.

But mostly...I don't want her to experience loss.

Ever.

And that isn't something I can force. It isn't something I can protect her from.

I can only watch.

I can only hope it isn't on her path.

And I fear that it isn't enough. Hope isn't enough to protect her from pain and tears and loss.

It isn't enough, but it's all a mama has.

When she wants me, she calls for me. She actually says "Ma mam! Meh Mem!" She only says this when she wants me. She can talk. She's been doing this since birth, and there is no disputing the communication. She trusts me to protect her. She trusts me to know what she needs.
I know that she trusts me to have the answers. She needs to know that I can help her when she's gassy or hungry or lonely or just plain...needy. She turns to me for help.

My panic attack was over knowing that there will be times that I can't help. Won't have the answers. Won't be able to take away the pain.

The thing that eased the second panic attack was remembering that I don't need to know the answers. I found a peace in my being by remembering my readers...my friends...my sisters on this journey that is being a woman who has lost babies. I remembered all you have done and all you have been to me. You've been HERE. You couldn't take away my pain. But you witnessed me in it. You couldn't change the fact that loss was part of my being. You understood and validated my pain. You couldn't promise me that it wouldn't happen again. But you held my hands and gave me hope.

And in that, I suddenly realized that hope is more than enough.

Hope is everything. It's all we have. It's not desperate and it won't change hard events. It gives you a reason to go on. To find your path. To know that doors will and DO open, even if they aren't the doors you thought you'd venture through. Experiencing life isn't a bad thing, though it can be a hard journey. When I look back, I understand that there is hope. I can give that to my little girl when she needs it...even though I hope she won't need it in the way I did.

Hope. It saved my life. It brought me to this moment, where I can hear her breathing. Where she is only 10 steps away. Where she is being watched carefully by a loving furry sheepdog who wants nothing more than to lick her tiny feet, but is resisting the temptation....for now.

Stupity....it has to be that.

2011-11-28T12:46:00.002-07:00

I know I am not the only one in the world who thinks her mother in law is lacking. In wit. In brains. In common sense. In tact. In everything.

Last night I lay awake wondering, once again, how it was possible that my beautiful, loving, intelligent, spiritually competent, sensitive, amazing husband came from her loins. How did such a miracle occur?

She does it every time---she whacks me from some unexpected place that only she possess the key to. I've gotten agile over the years. Seventeen years of practice...and yet, she knocked me over again.

I was on my guard for this visit. I'd been practicing my mental fencing techniques, just to be sure I wouldn't get poked again. I was on my guard. Practiced. Seasoned. Ready. I've gotten pretty adept at fending off abuse over the past few years...since our loss....

When you realize that life is too short to tolerate anything but the best, you have to be prepared to defend your heart. Fragile as it can be, people still can be careless about it...stepping on it as they go their merry way. I've been so lucky to have met amazing people on my journey. People who go above and beyond to love and support me. Wonderful friends. My true family. My sisters and brothers in life. People who understand. I'm married to my best friend. I'm truly blessed.

And broken.

It is the broken parts...the weak parts...the fragile parts---which I defend the most vehemently.

My mother in law...she was here for Thanksgiving. It's been two years since she was last here. It didn't go very well.

I was pretty good about standing up for myself. For my children. For my husband. In general, if I felt she was out of line, I told her. Again. And Again. And Again. I was kind. I was firm. I was honest. She didn't like it, but the thin line of her lips would close stiffly and she would stop in her tracks. She was obviously trying too.

Hour after hour, I would spend in polite conversation...trying to make things run smoothly while my husband was at work. Trying. Trying.

The effort was exhausting...

The last day of her visit, I must have let my guard down or something...because she nailed me hard.

She was talking about some celebrity. She looooves media life. I know very little about anything in that realm. It's not my thing. Never has been. Even as a young teen, I didn't have posters of the hotties of the day on my walls. Never fell in love with a celebrity. Didn't dream of hooking up with someone rich and famous. Didn't want to BE famous either. So....I don't really care about who did what or who went where or who married who or which loaded billionaire had another baby.

My mother in law, on the other hand, cares A LOT about this. So...she was talking. Very animated. About some famous person...maybe you know who it was...I can't even remember the name. Honestly. I'm totally serious. I was simply nodding and acting like I gave a damn just to keep her happy. But suddenly...in the midst of my nodding and smiling, I suddenly found that her words were clear as a summers day...and they were ripping me apart.

She was going on and on and on about someone who has new twins and all about how cute they were. "Oh Sara! They are the sweetest little twins! I just love twins and always hoped I would have them, but I didn't. Don't you think having twins would be fun?!"

Bulls-eye.

I stood frozen. My rainbow baby in a sling sleeping soundly at my breast. Frozen in time. Frozen in memory. Numb.

Do I think having twins would be fun???? Did she REALLY ask me that?

It took me a moment as I looked at her smiling, completely idiotic, sunburned face to really register that she really had said what I thought she said.

My voice sounded dull to my ears. "Yeah. I would have loved to have had my twins. I would have loved that."

She brightened..not really taking in my reply. "I KNOW! It would be SO fun to have twins!"

She babbled on for the rest of the afternoon. She had no idea what she'd done. No idea. When my husband came home from work, he saw my face and knew right away that something had happened. He told his mom that he wanted to go on a walk with me and asked if she'd watch the boys (who, for the record, don't need a baby sitter anymore.) We put Ferdinand on his leash and headed out for the gully. We walked in silence holding hands.

When we came to our rock...the rock that houses our twins ashes...I sat down and held our little rainbow girl tightly against my chest. I sobbed. And sobbed.

Would I have thought it would be fun to have twins?

Yeah.

Would I have liked twins?

Yeah. Yeah I would have liked that.

My tears fell on the rock. My baby girl nestled into my body...warm and alive.

I have much to be thankful for.

Perhaps, the next time my mother in law comes, I should actually don full body armor...just so she doesn't forget who she is talking to next time.

Grace...

2011-11-17T09:41:00.000-07:00

Funny things happen in this seemingly material world. Things that aren't "supposed" to happen, but happen nonetheless.

My doctor can't explain it. But, then again...there are a lot of things that have happened in my life that doctors can't explain.

That hole in my belly is apparently....smaller. Much smaller in fact. So small that they wouldn't even think of operating. So small that they are wondering why they even suggested surgery in the first place.

This is something they said "never" heals on its own.

And yet.... a two inch hole has turned into a two centimeter hole...in a matter of a few weeks.

They tell me the hole will never go away, and I believe them. Of course, I am still talking about the one that is innate in my gut. The one that yearns for twins that should have been. The one that aches.

They can't explain why that hernia is suddenly....pretty much gone.

They are chalking it up to "grace". What else can they do when medical science fails them once again as they glance at my chart and decide I'm...weird.

My Venus girl slept for 5 hours without waking last night. Snoozing in the crook of my arm as I looked at her face in the shadows of the night light that casts purple stars on the ceiling. I thanked Simon and Alexander for healing my heart...for keeping her safe...for reducing the hole within me.
I thanked them for keeping my family together...for bringing us a furry sheepdog who "knows"...for being. Yeah....for just....being.

The fact that they were....that they ARE....
that's grace.

Brick Walls

2011-11-09T15:32:00.001-07:00

Somehow, being told one has a hernia from a pregnancy seems like a microscopic occurrence when one has also been told that one's baby is dead.

Perspective...

I happen to have a hernia at the moment. A tiny little rip in my umbilical region which occurred during my pregnancy with our little Venus girl who is, at the moment, bouncing happily in a little chair as she makes dear little vulture sounds that seem to be the precursor to laughter. This tiny little rip in my abdomen seems like the most insignificant occurrence I have endured in the past three years.

Looking behind me, I see a young man with a smashed in skull...a dead baby...my own blood running out of a hospital room...another dead baby....a sudden head on collision in my marriage which, luckily, took no one hostage...and a tearful pregnancy full of terror and fear that resulted in the longest labor of my life....

But all of that....all of that...brought me here. To the coos of my rainbow girl who squawks and squeaks with joy.

They told me I should get the hernia fixed.

I agreed.

They told me it was a simple operation.

I agreed.

They told me it wouldn't be a big deal to give my baby a few bottles of breast milk.

I sort of agreed.

They told me I'd be under general anesthesia instead of the spinal I requested and that I'd be out for an entire day and wouldn't be able to breast feed for at least 2 days or pick up my 13 plus pound 2 month old for six weeks.

I did not agree.

I insisted upon the spinal.

They protested.
I insisted.
They refused.
I cried.

Yeah. I cried.

After all I've seen. All I've been through. Everything I've worried about....no...I'm not leaving her for the whole day. I'm not doing it.

I'll keep the hole in my gut. In a way, it's symbolic. Of course I would have a hole in my middle...of course there is a gaping spot in my center....of course there is.

It's not just a metaphor. There's a hole inside of me. In time...it may lessen, but, it will never go away. I'll have to treat it with care...paying attention to it, least it should get bigger. That's just the truth of my being. I have a hole inside of me.

Medical science...they might have been able to sew me up---good as new. However, in reality...the hole would still be there. No matter how many sutures they apply, that hole can't be repaired. I'm not about to make that hole bigger with a separation from the little girl who makes my every moment worth living.

I just can't do it. I've hit a brick wall.

I'm keeping the hole. It's part of who I am as a whole.
I know that this hole in my body is a symptom of the hole in my spirit.
I can hear my little one bouncing in her chair, and I know that there are worse things than having a hernia. There could be silence. The sound of nothing. The sound of dead babies. Gone.

This is nothing.

There are much worse situations. I've lived them.
I have the hole to prove it.

A bad mother...

2011-10-27T19:28:00.000-06:00

I felt like a bad mother today.

I sat here...with a beautiful, perfect, softly snoring baby girl in my lap. Tears rolling down my cheeks as my older boys made salmon chowder upstairs.

My heart was aching.

There was nowhere to go. Nothing to do about how I felt. No place to feel differently.

So I cried in silence while living perfection slept.

guilt.
longing.
lonely.

desire. Desire for the ability to turn it off--the thoughts--the memories--the regrets.

I sat here just wishing to feel like the me I once was. Oblivious to the pain.

My first grand-baby was born on Sunday. He was early. His poor mamma has only held him twice due to complications. I've been crying for her pain as well. Her worry is my own.

I feel like a bad mother for not just keeping my focus on my girl....for letting my heart wander from her to what is lost....to the tears of the past...and the tears of others.

A bad mother....for even momentarily...feeling sad after her living presence. Or maybe...I just feel like a bad sister. Bad for having reasons to smile when my sisters in life are still crying. Bad for being lucky. This time.

On manipulation...

2011-10-12T08:19:00.001-06:00

Did you know there are people out there who really believe that loving a baby "too much" can lead to a personality defect called "manipulation"?

Oh yes....according to this lore, if you respond to a baby, particularly a female baby, who exhibits a lower lip pout in her sadness over...uh...anything at all...with affection, love and attention...you are creating a manipulator.

"You'll have to watch THAT if you don't want her to become manipulative."

What???

I'll have to watch "THAT"???

Hummmmmm.....

As I care for this little sweet one month old baby girl, I can only shake my head in massive disappointment in my "elders". Suddenly, all the neglect and abusive techniques I experienced as a girl make sense. It was all in the name of not spoiling me. All in the name of making sure I didn't really think I was worth much...not worth listening to...not worth attending to...not worth caring for. My tears were laughed at. Photos even taken of my sobbing...as proof that I was a little "diva". A drama queen.

Or maybe I was hungry.

Perhaps even exhausted?

Or...maybe I was just....manipulative.

or would have become manipulative had anyone shown a glimmer of tenderness.

Thank GOD they saved me from myself.

Now...excuse me while I barf a little in my hand.

Manipulation.

This isn't what you get when you respond to a baby's distress---even if she happens to have a vagina and is prone to become "a manipulator".

Manipulation.

This isn't an innate quality in a baby who is nurtured, attended to, even adored.

Manipulation.

This isn't something that develops from being treasured. Loved. Honored.

No...I see something very clearly. People who withhold love from a baby in the fear based non reality which sees NEED as a personality flaw are severely mistaken. In fact, this false belief is really based on a desire to perpetrate the insult that was bestowed upon them so that they can continue the tradition of selfish neglect that allows the adult to manipulate the baby's very tender psyche. This, in my opinion, borders on insanity. "Don't let your baby turn into a manipulative little girl or you'll be sorry!" Hmmmmmmmm...... what I hear is "Don't let your baby think you actually care about her or she might grow into a human being who actually knows her worth, and then, she will be harder to control with manipulation." oops.

In the meantime...I am going to keep responding to my daughters very appropriate need, her tender cries for assistance, her emotional honesty, and her baby-ness with prompt sincerity and total abandon! I couldn't love her too much. I couldn't care for her too much. This abundance of love won't spoil her or taint her. She can have free access to my heart.

Anyone who worries that she will become manipulative as a result can go take their outdated dogma to a much much warmer climate and roast them over a pit fire.

So, please excuse me while I go, without any worries, to snuggle with the brightest light in the nighttime sky--My Venus girl--Ali V.

Reminders...

2011-10-09T19:00:00.001-06:00

It is October. My husband and Ali V. and I went for a long walk in the woods yesterday, with shaggy Ferdi in the lead. The boys opted for some uninhibited "gaming" instead of enjoying the fall colors I was so eager for. It was o.k....I wanted time to just..."be".

October is beautiful in Montana. Truly stunning. We have all the color of Vermont maples in abundance...but...it's Montana, so it's all on a much bigger scale, and there are more open places to romp and admire. We chose the woods near the river that "runs through it". Beautiful. Red, orange, yellow, burnt umber...and...purple?

Yes. Purple. Purple and yellow flowers. Everywhere.

I guess we haven't had a frost yet.

Ever since we lost Simon and Alexander, purple and yellow have reached out to us from season to season. This year, as I felt the crunching of leaves underfoot, I was absolutely taken with the presence of flowers. Taken...with memories.

I've walked these woods before. Trying to find myself.

Trying to get a grip. On sanity...on life.

With a sleeping bundle of girlyness in my arms, and a two year old sheepdog leaping up ahead, I felt my husbands hand in mine. He saw the flowers as well...and they mean as much to him as they do to me.

Our little rainbow baby is a loud sleeper...she coos happily in an audible mantra of life. It's a good thing, because I'd be apt to try to wake her if she was too quiet...just to make sure...to make sure.

As she cooed noisily, I felt the tears rimming my eyes. They felt cold in the autumn air that I was breathing.

They would have been toddlers. They would have been chattering to each other in twin-speak. They would have...been.

When Ali V. stirred in her sleep, groping for the ever present nipple which she assumes access to on demand, I didn't hesitate to pull out my breast as we continued to walk in the woods. My husband laughed at my native look. Boob being suckled in the woods near the river as I trekked on without pausing even a step. I smiled...wiping the tears away.

I can do this. Yes. THIS I can do. Being "Ma MAM!" is easy for me.

It's the loss that was hard.

It's the loss that still stings.

Not only my own losses....but the losses that lay in the breasts of other mamas....the losses that continue. It's the loss that stings my heart as I listen to my darling daughters coos of contentment with full belly in the magical woods of Montana. The loss that has been...and will be. I felt a stirring of guilt in my wondrous fortune having become the grateful mother of this precious being who needs me...who actually gropes for me in a sleepy request for sustenance and comfort.

I felt the breeze flutter past...and I could almost hear their laughter. The way it should have been. It echoes in the woods...

Where purple and yellow flowers continue to bloom in the depths of October...

And...I remember.

Regarding Sleep...

2011-10-06T11:17:00.000-06:00

"You look tired."

"Are you getting enough sleep?"

"Is she a fussy baby?"

Questions...these are the questions people ask.

My Ali V. is three weeks old. I do look tired. I am not getting "enough sleep". And no...I wouldn't say she is fussy. Not fussy. Particular. She requires consideration. Attention to how she feels. But fussy? No.

In reference to sleep... I honestly don't care that I'm tired. I don't care that dark circles shadow under my eyes. I was up last night until 2:30...falling asleep while standing up swaying with a small girl in the darkness. "It's o.k. my Ali V....it's o.k...." And....I meant it. It really IS o.k.. It's o.k.. Better than o.k..

For the many of us who know the wakeful hours of tear filled loneliness due to empty arms where a small being should have nestled. . .yeah....it's better than o.k. to be walking the halls in a sing song sway of hip in an effort to soothe someone in need of comfort as they get used to having a human body. It's better than o.k.. to feel tired due to the need a newborn insists upon than the feel tired at a soul level as you try to convince yourself that hearing a baby that isn't there cry loud enough to wake you up, and vividly enough to remind you of all you have lost.

My husband held me close the other day as I walked those midnight hours. His confession of finally understanding the depth of our loss as he watched me care for our tiny daughter was comforting. Yes...it is true...every single moment of every single day for the past two and a half years was spent, for me, in the stark reality that presented empty arms and a broken heart. No babies. No twins. No....anything.

As I look down at this little girls "finally" sleeping face and admire the sweetness of an existence which allows for her to sleep during daylight hours in the comfort of my arms just as easily as it allows for her to protest the night in those same comfortable arms, I am overcome with the love that is profoundly healing.

I find myself feeling a profound thankfulness to my twins for bringing this little girl to us safely. I yearn for them. I tear up as I look at her...and the thankfulness fills my being. I know that our twins know better than any other how deep the scar was that they left behind as I groped for healing the bleeding wound in my heart. I know they were there witnessing the pain of losing them. I know they were protecting this little girl as she made her way into this world, and into our arms.

In the nighttime solitude that I share with my tiny daughter...yes, I am tired.

And...I've been waiting to be this brand of tired for several years. I am tired. I am not getting "enough sleep". And no...my little girl is not fussy. She's alive. And she needs me. And that is exactly how it should be.

There will be time to sleep later. When that time comes, my dreams will be filled with the bliss of remembering those well worn pathways walked with my little girl.

And with the understanding that I will never forget what it feels like to walk them empty handed. She is not "fussy." She is Ali V. She is of stardust and rainbow light. And she is HERE.

she is here!

2011-09-30T02:12:00.000-06:00

Oh my....

That is all I can say as I look at her.
Oh my...

The wonder that is found in her little face. Oh my....

The beauty...
The precious innocence...
The...life.

Oh my....

She is here.

She took forever....forever to get here.

Oh my....

And...it has taken me some time to acclimate. To realize it's over. And, that it has also just begun.

A new page. A new chapter. A new life.

All because rainbows DO occur.

In spite of my fears. doubts. tremors of terror.

She is here.

She is REALLY here.

Eyes of sky blue that open and look at me. Soft downy light brown hair on a warm head. Softer than peach fuzz. Or baby rabbit fur.... A rosebud mouth that smiled this morning. Long slender fingers that really grasp mine. And hold on. Tiny toes that clench as warm water from her bath drips off...

She is here. She made it. She really did.

I didn't believe she would...until she did.

Even at the last push, when I heard our midwife say "There's a little cord here..." and I thought to myself in terror "Oh god...she's not going to make it..." And I pushed harder to get her here faster....and then...

I heard her voice. My baby girl. "MA MAM!" It was all she said.

It was enough.

She was HERE. She made it. She cried out for me. "MA MAM!"

And the tears in the room were visible on every face.

"MA MAM!"

I saw my sons...smiling widely as they discovered that babies don't always die.
I saw my husband. Tears dripping as he said "baby...she's calling for YOU!"
I saw my best friend in the world...who held me two years ago, offering the sweetness of kumquats in the painful reality of loss. Of total and complete loss. Her eyes bright with the tears of healing. Of witnessing that life IS.
I saw our midwife...who never quaked...and yet...the tears were there. For all of us. For our joy.

And She IS here.

Our star baby. Our rainbow girl.

Born after weeks of contractions. Even with a cervix that would NOT budge without help...the terror holding true release back. Born after 9 months of fear. Worry. nightmares. and...unrelenting hope.

She is here. Sweet Alicia Venus. Our Ali V.

Rainbows do happen. They really do.

I take it back.

2011-09-12T18:28:00.000-06:00

My last post talked about how I'm not patient.

I want to retract that.

I am 42 weeks patient. I am 4 days in labor patient. I am 2 and a half years waiting to hold my living baby patient.

I am the most patient woman on the planet.

I am also tired.

I am also afraid.

I am also....lost. Lost as to WHY this is taking so long. Tired from being in labor for a million years, or so it seems. Afraid...because....what if after all this health, life and vibrance....after all the waiting and worrying....after all the support and love from around the world...what if....it ends badly. What if she doesn't make it.

My midwife says there is no reason to worry.

My readers know differently.

I know differently.

There are reasons.

Reasons that happen.

That have happened before.

To me.
To you.

I have to look the other way, because if I glance in that direction for too long, it scalds my heart and the inflammation is more than I can bear.

Waiting for a rainbow. Waiting for the storm to fade.

Waiting.

In patience.

On Patience...

2011-08-30T10:16:00.000-06:00

I am impatient.

Well, maybe that is an overstatement. In general, I'm a pretty chilled out gal. Or at least....I used to be. I used to be.

I remember, 8 years ago, holding a little baby boy in my arms, and nursing for endless hours as bewildered friends openly commented that they could never sit so still for so long. I was...in a word...patient.

I loved the baby pace. The pace of tandem nursing tranquility. The pace....before.

Before trauma.

Before loss.

We were always "poor". That wasn't a big deal. Give me an empty bank account any day over personal loss. I have an empty bank account today for that matter! It rocks. Having nothing, you can only go upward from there. That's how I see it anyway. When you have nothing...you can't lose anything. Well...I have zero dollars.

Actually...I have exactly 6 dollars and 89 cents. hah! Not completely broke. Almost...but not quite.

My due date is today. August 30th. The day I impatiently awaited with fearful breath. The day I worried would only be marked by more tears. And yet...it's here....and my buttercup girl...my rainbow baby...my star child....she's moving about in her limited cocoon of love....she's moving.

She's moving even as I type.

That's wealth to me.

Abundance.

But....as far as feeling patient??? No sir. I want her. NOW.

Not later.

Not after.

Not....maybe.

NOW.

I want my cake and I want to eat it too! I have never felt so impatient in all of my life.

Impatient to know....that she is alright. To know she can see me. To know she can hear me. To know she has her fingers and toes in tact. To know she is healthy. To know she will live....

Patience. I saw it on my eight year old sons face at the water park on Sunday. It was the last day of the swimming season, even though it has only just become summer in Montana. The last day of the soothing waters and waterfalls of this playful park with slides and bubbles and joy. My husband was laughingly taking each boy in a double tube in turn down one of the bigger slides. I floated in all my bikinied glory (for I enjoy a bikini only while pregnant....and the sun felt soooo nice on my golden belly...) around the lazy river...over and over and over in pregnant bliss. I'd come around the corner to spy one of my sons waiting his turn....and when I saw my eight year old waiting, I was amazed. He sat there, a little golden skinned buddah. Full lotus position, with arms carefully poised in a chosen chakra stance. I could see his rosebud lips...still with all baby teeth in tact...carefully parted as he whispered "ooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmm" to himself.

This was how he waited his turn. In patience. In mindfulness. In peace.

It is his way. I taught all of my sons the art of yoga and suggested meditation to them all at one point or another. But my eight year old....he actually practices it. Every day, at some point, he can be found in a quiet location...meditating. It's what he does for inner peace. It's what he's been doing since his eldest brothers head injury at age five. Completely un-coached. He found his peace.

And he uses it.

We can learn a lot from our children. They take what they see around them, and then, they implement it in ways we can only imagine.

Today, as I attempt to find patience in my very unpatient state, I will be taking a page from the book of a small boy we call "Bear"....I will find a quiet place....and I will remember who I used to be. The lotus mother...who could sit...with a smile....

and breathe.

and breathe....

It has made all the difference...

2011-08-15T13:39:00.000-06:00

The first poem I learned by heart, as far as I can remember, was Robert Frost's "Walking by Woods on a Snowy Evening...". I learned it, and loved it with all my heart.

As I walk through this life full of FULLNESS, the words are etched in my brain. "And I...I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference..."

These words speak to me like no others. "I took the road less traveled by..."

It's been an interesting road, with plenty of unknowns up ahead.

On this road, I've discovered that I am walking toward wholeness. Healing. And, if I may be so bold...perhaps even wisdom.

My mother-in-law told my husband the other day "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all". This was in response to him expressing hurt at some things she has done and said. Of course...it was a phrase only meant for him...and not for her. He and I have been working hard at the work of relationship...of healthy relationship. It's been very successful within our own home, and with friends and family who are interested in healthy relationships...but not so much with those who wish to remain stuck...stagnant...sticky...and, unfortunately, hurtful. My aunt told me a few weeks back "When given the opportunity to choose between being right and harmony, choose harmony." Of course, this was only directed at me for expressing that I felt it was dysfunctional to remain in co-dependent abusive relationships. My other aunt wrote me that she felt "between the judgements of right and wrong, there is a field, I will meet you there." And yet....I felt distinctly that somehow, the only way to that field was the path less chosen...the path of saying..."Enough."

Is there a right? A wrong? I suppose one could say there isn't. From where I stand there are many occurrences that feel that they shouldn't have been, but they are anyway. Things you can not change. Things you would not choose. Like losing someone you love deeply. For no reason. Perhaps these are the things that are not right...or wrong. They just are. No matter how devastating. Or beautiful. We can't change them either way.

But, there are other things we have to be discerning about if happiness is to be found. We can choose to end relationships that refuse to grow. We can avoid those who would abuse us as they saw fit. We can opt for communication and the people who understand how to partake in it. We can select friends and family who desire healthy, loving, peaceful relationships that nurture and sustain hope. We can move forward...and away if needed. We can choose the road less traveled by.

We can make choices about some things, and have to just live with others. As that reality remains, I stand firm in my understanding that changing the things I CAN change, while perhaps not a popular idea in dysfunctional circles, is what I am given to do. In that, I may be able to cope better with the things I can not change. The things I can never change.

As I strive for this...change...I find myself walking the road less traveled by. It's funny, but I feel strangely and surely led by the purple and yellow light...and a sparkle of star energy. I feel my twins and my unborn daughter clearing the path in approval. "yes, mommy....this IS the way....go this way mommy....you can do it. We know you can."

And so, I follow their guidance, knowing they are far wiser than I. I follow the road less traveled by. It is making all the difference.

Werewolf Child...

2011-08-12T09:06:00.001-06:00

He's been here for three weeks. My eldest son. My werewolf child.

Yeah, I know...it's not nice to label people. Especially your kids. But, after 21 years of interactions, I think it's pretty safe to say that he is, without doubt...somewhat of a werewolf. It's the bipolar. I never know who he will be. Sensitive and needy. Aggressive and confrontational. Grandiose and manic. Depressed and Sleepy. It's all the same kid. The same...adult.

He has been staying here. Each week gets a little more...uh...tense.

It's the full moon tonight.

I remember, back when he was small...wondering if the moon was somehow connected to the fits of rage. The defiance. The...look.

His looks change.

He doesn't sprout whiskers and claws...his teeth don't show fangs...He doesn't morph into a creature of horrific proportions. But...he looks different. His sea blue eyes start to grey. His sparkle fades. His back stiffens. His walk gets heavier. And...his mood....is scary.

I remember my father looking like that. I remember being afraid.

It's hard to look at the 21 year old that came from my body...and see someone I'm afraid of.

He won't take medication.

And, at 21...I can't make him.

No one can make him.

I'm 37 weeks pregnant. Struggling to maintain some sense of peace within. Fighting the worry that comes from pregnancy after horrific loss. Trying to nest. Trying to smile.

Trying to give my family the sense that everything will be just fine.

Even though I can't know such a thing.

No one can.

Ferdinand has started growling when my eldest comes into the room. He senses that I don't feel safe right now. He doesn't trust the tall, slender young man with the steely grey eyes. He licks my tears away and tries to comfort me.

This isn't how I imagined preparation for my little girl would be.

If anyone wonders why it is that I no longer put up with ANY crap anymore...they need only look at my eldest son. Maybe then they will understand. After 21 years of being obligated to understand beyond reason, after 21 years of bending so far backward I feel as if my spine should have snapped long ago, after 21 years of crying in helpless horror as a mental illness raced through my happy home causing pain, sorrow, and the stuttering of young children....I have NOTHING left to give anyone who exhibits aggressiveness, hostility, poor communication skills, and a lack of empathy. I have NOTHING left in my being for abusive behaviors, carelessness of spirit, or just plain...sloppiness of soul. I've given it all to my son. The son who, though loved deeply, has literally sucked me dry.

He reminds me of my father. Of my mother. Of the mental illness that drips through my family.

He is all I can handle...and even that is too much.

My other children...they've been blessed. Spared. They don't deal with the same thread that runs through my ancestors. My eldest got it all. My younger children...they know what mental illness looks like because of him. And, they want nothing more to do with it.

But, he is my son.

22 years ago, a foolish, sad girl of 15 stopped saying "No"...because she felt there was no longer any point. 22 years ago...she was given a task that others would have crumbled under.
22 years ago...it's been 22 years.

And still. . .I am crying over it.

Crying when I should be breathing. Crying when I should be smiling.

We were so...relieved...that our daughter would be born into a house where he was no longer living.

And then..he came back.

It all seemed fine at first. At first.

I am 37 weeks. My daughter is healthy. We both are. Alive. We both are.

And though I am ever so anxious to know she will be born safely...to know she is HERE to stay...

I am asking her to wait. Just wait 10 more days at least my love...wait until your brother has moved out again. Give us all some time to heal from his presence. Let yourself be born to parents who have had a good nights sleep. A chance to find some laughter. Some light. A chance to make love. A chance to heal from the assault of steel grey eyes with hate behind them.

Please. Be safe. Be patient. Be safe. Be mentally sound...please.

Be safe.

Peripheral Vision...

2011-08-08T13:42:00.000-06:00

I keep seeing it.

Little lights out of the corner of my eye.

I wouldn't think twice about it...but..they are purple and gold.

I saw three crows flying two days ago. They soared and swooped over the trees and billowy grasses of the Montana field I was in, while my sheepy sheepdog romped with butterflies. Three crows...and then, they parted ways and one of the crows flew away into the pink clouds of sunset. The remaining two crows danced together in the remaining light.

A yellow butterfly landed in my garden last night. Sucking the nectar from a purple cluster of flowers.

And the lights....I see them all the time. flickering. I look around, and they disappear.

"Simon? Alexander? Is that you?"

I remember the birds, all three of them flying together. I wonder if our little girl...our buttercup...is with our twins. I wonder if they are staying close by her side, until she makes it into my arms. I like to think so.

I like to imagine that they are with her. That she knows them. That they are telling her it will be alright, that she is coming to a mother who adores her children with all her heart. I wonder if she will remember them...as I remember them.

I see them in the corners of my eyes.

And I welcome the yellow butterfly. The satin backed crow. And...the lights. I will always welcome the lights.

On waiting...

2011-08-03T16:27:00.000-06:00

Thirty six weeks.

That's what the calender says today.

Thirty six weeks.

This is a road I've not traveled before. The thirty six week mark of pregnancy...without confidence.

Oh sure, it flutters here and there...the sense that all will be well.

But doubt follows closely. Fear. Grief.

It's the grief that gets me down. It's the understanding that while "she" seems to be coming..."they" never will.

It's the stark truth that while "she" may make it...."they"...did not.

It is that eye opening fact that makes me wonder if pain will ever leave this heart.

Even when rosebud lips smile in my direction.

Oh yes...I love her already. Treasure her more deeply than one would think possible. She is my rainbow light. My one and only daughter. My star child.

She will, I'm sure, radiate her brilliance throughout my world. And, it pains me to know that as she grows...she will see that unspoken tear in my eyes...and she will know of loss even without touching it herself, which I pray she never will.

I am waiting. Thirty six weeks today. The midwife will do her non stress test, which, while she finds it comforting...I simply find it stressful to be in what seems like a completely healthy and normal pregnancy which is being treated like a time bomb. All the tests. All the....silence...as we wait....for the glimmer of normality. Which...is always there.

Always.

So I wait...

For the end.

Of Baited Breath and Furry Sheepdogs...

2011-07-25T13:43:00.001-06:00

I've logged in several times. Wanting to express myself. Wanting to share.

But being...paralyzed.

Unable to utter the words I want to hear. Unable to wonder in front of everyone else.

Is it really happening?

Is it possible?

I am now in my 35th week of pregnancy. Buttercup is still alive. She moves about in comforting regularity. I don't have heartburn. I'm not nauseous. I don't feel overly tired. I'm still walking daily. I'm still writing. I'm still...being.

I've noticed that I seem to need Ferdinand close by even more than usual. His comforting presence calms the nerves which feel raw and tender. As if he can chase away the worry...the pain of fear.

He watches me constantly. He even wakes me at night...as if he is concerned and wants to make sure I'm o.k..

It might annoy someone else, but honestly, it feels really good to be so nurtured and cared about.

My husband laughs that my beloved furry friend is neurotic.

I prefer to think of him as protective.

Everything is fine. Better than fine. No signs of trouble. No reason to worry.
I've a bounty of friends, sending me encouragement in the form of beads, and girly beauty in all forms. I've never had so much support in my life. Everything points to a positive outcome. I'm trying to be brave.

I'm trying.

As these summer days linger slowly... I am reminded of the necessity of breath. It's not a unique need...to breathe. We all need to do it, though it may be harder for some of us than others.

It appears that my little girl is really coming. It appears that she is safe.

And in the meantime, while I am forced to assume the best possible outcome...I must breathe.
breathe.
breathe.

Forced optimism?

2011-06-27T15:47:00.001-06:00

I woke up this morning feeling that one shouldn't have to "TRY" to feel better. One shouldn't have to make an "EFFORT" to feel joy. One shouldn't have to "CONVINCE" oneself that everything will be o.k.. A person should not have to "FORCE" optimism.

And yet...that's who I am.

I'm not someone who typically used to be a whiner. A complainer. A worry wart.

And yet...when I look in the mirror lately...that is the woman I've become. Someone who tries to blink away tears when a smiling person says "How's it going?" or "How are you today?" I've become someone who knows that each corner may have something lurking. Something I don't want to encounter. I complain. I whine. I worry. And mostly....I panic.

It doesn't take much to rock my boat any more, and that feels strange and somehow...off kilter.

I consider myself a pretty resilient person when I look at my resume of life. I survived abuse, neglect, all around poor parenting, sexual violation, and an icky, sad childhood and I was still a pretty sweet, happy kid. I survived being a teen mom with all the nasties and judgements that go along with that and I was still a really great and attentive mama. I've lived through parenting a child with undiagnosed bi-polar disorder and I can't say that my parenting skills were lacking even without knowing what I was dealing with. My son felt loved and nurtured through it all. He still does. I've had to let my parents, who suffer with untreated mental health issues, go their own ways in order to stop the hurts they inflict, even though letting them go has been like a ripping apart of my heart. I've gone through bumps in my beautiful marriage, and bruises in my personal life. I've risen through places no parent wants to encounter as a child hung near deaths door. I've lived through several miscarriages....I've lived through stillbirths...and my own death. Twice.

And now, I am here.

Standing here. A writer. A mother. A wife. A competent healer and educator. A friend.

And, I feel weak.

Worried.

As if I've never had a child before. As if I have no idea what to do. As if I am in a freeze frame of fear that I can't move away from.

I feel lost.

I look at the items I've collected. Just a few sweet things...for my little girl.
I know I need to gather more. I know I'm totally deficient in the baby supply category.

But...I'm so afraid to ask for more. And really, who would I ask?

Who is going to take care of me?

Of us?

And why? Why is it that after a lifetime of being totally independent...resilient...in control...

that I feel lost. Alone. And...mostly...sad. Why do I even want anyone else to take care of me when I've spent most of the past 37 years taking care of myself and others?

My little girl is coming. She has beautiful older brothers and the best daddy in the world to greet her with smiles. She's on the wings of our twins and I have to believe that she WILL be here.

I see the tears in my husbands eyes. I see the stress on his shoulders. I grab them, and try to rub away the mounting tension that I know is related to the worry that is plaguing him too.

The worry, caused by all the what if's. The worry, caused by the absence of elders who seem to know anything about anything.

I look in the mirror, and I see silver strands, and I realize that there are no elders. Not for me. I am the elder. I look at my husband, who yearns for a father to tell him what to do...how to stay strong...and there is no one...just the image of a sweet balding man with beautiful blue eyes and emotional pain etched in the lines emerging on his forehead. He is the elder. There isn't anyone else to lean on...to learn from...to ask questions of. We are the elders we are seeking...and it is a crushing blow to realize that there is no one else. For either of us.

I'm lost, just like the people who were supposed to love me when I was born and all the way to the now where I stand. I'm lost, just like the adults who were supposed to know the way and point it out to me so that I wouldn't stumble. I'm afraid, just like the grown ups before me were afraid.

But...there is a difference. You see....I'm a fighter. I'm going to keep on trying. I'm not going to give up.

I'm worried. Afraid. Alone. Unguided.

And if my past has anything at all to do with my future....I will make it, and when I do, you can be sure that my children won't feel so alone. I'll be there. I'll be whispering support and showing affection. I'll be pointing the way with a smile. I'll be offering a hand.

The road will be open, because I am currently working my ass off to clear the jungle ahead of us away in the hopes that when I look back over my shoulder, what I will see is the freedom I want for my children that comes with the ability to move forward unencumbered, but supported.

Sweet baby girl...as you swim around in the sea of hormones that your terrified mama can't seem to curb...know that all of that worry is because she loves you more than she could ever express, and please...don't be afraid. I promise to love you forever...and to care for you always.

Storm Clouds

2011-06-15T16:47:00.001-06:00

Spring is still somewhat elusive in the pacific northwest mountain city where I live. Oh yes, there are flowers, and gardens have been carefully, if hesitantly, planted...but, still the sky remains an ever present threat of stormy weather. The river that runs through "it" is nearing peak capacity as the watchful residents who opted to prop their lovely homes on river front property look warily at its continuous rising levels. We had more snow this year than in the past 80 years apparently. More rain too.

The storm clouds drawn in on the 10 day weather forecast indicate lightening storm warnings and the risk of flooding.

I live on a mountain over-looking the valley below. I live on a mountain that was once lake front property of the bowl that was once, very long ago, filled with clear blue water and probably a few prehistoric critters. I live on a mountain in a home not threatened by the rising waters and the fear of flooding.

It's not something I need to worry about.

It's not my problem.

It's not my personal story.

And yet...

These people, who look at the rushing, roaring river, with wide eyes and whispers about what to do in a flood...these people are my neighbors. My brothers and sisters in this world. Their losses are my losses.

I know this because that is what has happened within the baby loss community. Their stories are my stories. Their losses are my losses. Their tears are my tears...and if they are lucky, truly lucky, their rainbows are mine as well. Messages of what might be...what could be--if I'm truly lucky...this time.

I have moved into my 7th month. The third trimester. The final stages. My baby girl's rainbow potential looks brighter and brighter each passing day. Her kicks are stronger. Her vitality clear.

My story alone would indicate that I have little to fear at this point.

But, my story isn't the only story.

Babies die.

I keep telling myself that after the first trimester, most babies are born. Born alive. I keep telling myself that my risk of loss, now past the 2nd trimester, has gone dramatically down. I keep telling myself that I should be careful about what I pray for, for I am told again and again that little girls are harder than boys. I'm told the teen years will be murder. I have trouble believing that...my boys aren't "normal"...so why should my girl be a typical "normal" drama queen? But, I'm told to hold my breath...

But being told stories that indicate that I should fear having a little girl is futile. I'm in love with her. I imagine holding her hand, brushing her hair, teaching her about what it is to be a woman...and that it what breaks me. I want her so much...and I know the stories. I know the stories of losing a baby, a healthy, beautiful baby in the last few weeks. In the last hours of pushing. Even in the first month or two...or three...or the first year of life. I know the stories.

And I am afraid they will become my story as well.

I cannot go back into the world of the unknowing. I cannot be the mother who once, with a bright smile of confidence BELIEVED that her babies would be born safely. I cannot pretend I do not know what has happened to my sisters in this life, or pretend that it hasn't already happened to me before.

When we lost our twins, I was told by many that "it could have been worse."

Yes. It could have been. It still could be.

I watch the bursting river, tip top to the edge of borders that will not hold back much more...and I know it could get worse. That it probably will get worse. I fear for my neighbors down in the basin of this mountain town where a lake once thrived.

And I'm reminded of our vulnerability.

I look at the storm clouds and I beg them to pass. To show us all rainbows and to hold back the storms. Another storm will mount the flood potential. Another loss would destroy my core.

We need rainbows. Rainbows. Of all kinds. In all forms. And especially in the form of a beautiful baby girl who is, at the moment, known as my buttercup.

We, collectively, need the storms to pass.

Butter colored beads...

2011-05-20T10:35:00.000-06:00

Butter colored beads.

But not just any bead. Not really. They are Baltic amber beads. High in succinct acid...or something like that. They apparently reduce inflammation for all kinds of things. Including teething.

I recently bought a strand.

It arrived in the mail yesterday. A tiny little necklace, for a tiny little girl. Each bead carefully knotted in between, to prevent the risk of choking on a stray bead should it break. Each bead, a beautiful butter yellow. High in succinct acid...rich in the color of a buttercup.

I felt my heart breaking as it lay in my hand.

The yearning to know. To really know...that we won't lose her too.

The crushing desire to be sure that I will get to screw the clasp around her beautiful little neck, complete with a small pulse to indicate life.

The debilitating fear that comes with knowing what it feels like to hold a child with no life in it, and to know we are never immune to that cold reality.

The panic that emerges when you realize, fully, just how much you love this little person you have never seen. To know how deeply you need the smell of your newborn, the sound of her breath, the feel of her skin, warm against your own.

Butter colored beads. They look like pretty yellow beads to anyone else.

They are draped over a picture of four of my sons in the yogic "tree pose" that sits on the upright piano in my living room. It's a pose that symbolizes ultimate balance and inner peace, which is something I'm yearning for. I draped "her" necklace over the picture in a prayerful gesture that begged the universe to allow her to join her living brothers in this world...to bring us all peace and balance once more. I whispered her name. The name we've chosen. The name the universe whispered into my husbands ear. The name that has meanings in several languages. Truth. Noble one. Protected by God. Her name. I whispered it to myself.

When my husband declared joyfully that he wanted to shout it out to the world. Her name. I irrationally felt my chest grip with fear as I glanced over at the butter colored amber.

And the tears erupted.

Crushing his joy.

Making him think I was still in doubt about her name.

Which I am not.

Butter colored beads. The healing force that Amber promises strung into a tiny necklace destined for a buttercup princess growing where twins died. Growing. Alive. Moving. Alive. Thriving. Alive.

I can only whisper her name. I can only imagine how lovely she will be.

I want to embrace that boundless joy my husband had..before I crushed it with fear. I want to give it back to him with the promise that I will deliver his lovely daughter alive into his arms.

But I can only whisper her name.

Introspections...

2011-05-16T10:31:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, or if I'm really honest, A lot of the time....life is confusing.

Emotions are confusing.

Happenings IN life...are confusing.

Like losing a child. It doesn't really make sense to my heart.

And yet, it happens. All the time. Every day. Every minute. Every second.

Loss.

But not to everyone. And not to most babies.

Most babies that make it past the first trimester are born.

They really are.

I keep telling myself this as I feel my growing daughter moving inside of me. (finally, I can feel her!)

I tell myself that she will be born. That she will make it.

But I feel a twinge of fear whenever I see another pregnant woman. I hear my thoughts..."Will her baby make it? Oh please...let her baby make it to life." I don't know who I'm begging. I don't know why I keep talking to the air as if it can hear me. I don't know why I have the compulsion to ask for miracles...for it really IS a miracle...life. All of it.

And yet, there it is. Asking. Praying. Begging.

For life to work. To emerge.

My 7 year old asked me who God was the other day. I know lots of people have ideas about this. Whole religions even. But I had to be honest. I told him I didn't think God was a who. I told him that I felt that God was a reality. A wholeness. An everything. I took him outside and we watched the trees in the wind, fruit blossoms with all their wondrous color and honey bees dipping happily into the nectar they possess. I squeezed his hand and said, "Baby bear....this is all God. All of it. God's not a who. God's an everything. God is within and without and intertwined and beyond anything anyone can ever understand. God is reality. God is all of what you see, and even more than you can comprehend."

He smiled and said "I thought so!"

Then, for the first time in this pregnancy, he kissed my belly.

I felt the tears well up in my eyes, because this little boy-child has been looking sideways at my belly ever since we told our sons we would be having another baby. Looking at me with concern. Worry that should never be seen in a small boys eyes. I've been watching him watching me.

But...somehow, with the idea that God was more than an almighty BEING...he felt safe again. Safe to wonder about the world. Safe to love a little growing girl nested in his mothers womb. Safe from a God that mimicked the unfairness of the Greek Zeus.

No, the comfort came from God being everything. Everywhere. In that, he could find enough peace to love his baby sister. In that...he left his fear behind.

God is real.

It's just not an it. Not a he. Not a she. Not an identity.

God is Reality.
And as my sweet husband wrote in his beautiful book, Being Ourself
God...is Ourself.

The road less traveled by...

2011-04-26T14:06:00.000-06:00

We celebrated Easter this weekend.

Something felt like it was missing.

The sky was a brilliant blue, and the warmth of the sun was gratefully received as we trekked through the mountains playing Frisbee golf with four little boys...who aren't so little any more.   The Frisbee's were found in morning Easter Baskets with smiles of joy. Four little baskets...and a fifth one...for our buttercup.

I am the mother of five living sons. I am the mother of twins...who are not. I am the mother of a daughter...who I hope upon hope will be. Four baskets...and a fifth. The fifth contained a little white duck-platypus with a pink bow...a platy-puck. Just like the purple and yellow one we bought two years ago...before. Before. It sat next to a tiny chocolate bunny. The same kind as the white chocolate one we bought two years ago....before. Before.    The basket was small. Feminine. It had a label..."To Princess Buttercup"

I got out my memory box this morning. I've been doing that a lot lately. Tiny little hands and little feet captured in clay....perfect. The same size as my daughter must be right now.   I read the little label from the Easter basket given...before. Before. "To our Sweet Baby Boy" The white chocolate bunny looks exactly the same. Amazing how long candy can last. Preserved.

Four baskets for my sons. My eldest son was not expected. His bi polar mania has stolen him again. He isn't speaking to us. Alienation.

Manic energy and paranoia tells him that we are against him. It tells him he is alone. That we are not to be trusted with his heart. It warns him against the family that has loved him from the beginning and will love him till the end. A missing Easter basket reminded me...that he was gone too. Just like Simon and Alexander. By choice.

We trekked through the mountains, in awe of a bald eagle and an abundance of blue birds, hawks, and robins. We felt the glow of sweat on our brows as we munched the innards of carefully painted eggs that once boasted the artistic endeavors of a family determined to live life to the fullest. Bunnies, flowers, butterflies, dots, spirals, wavy lines...and even a lion. The most beautiful eggs I've ever seen on an Easter day.   The colored shells littered the path behind us...to turn into the earthy soil of the wooded trail. An egg I was holding was purple. A beautiful purple. With three yellow buttercups painted by the attentive hand of a sensitive boy-child...who remembers. I put it back in my pocket. I couldn't break it open.

This morning, I went to look for that egg, to take a picture of it. But it was gone. Someone must have eaten it. I could see the fragments in the garbage. Purple and yellow egg shells in little pieces. Gone. Like my twins. Next to the purple and yellow were also fragments of a bright red egg...bright red...like the heated passion of bi-polar anger. I dug up the fragments...separating them from freshly ground coffee remains and a crust of bread. I carried them outside, and buried them in my garden. Under the leaves of some buttercups that were emerging. I sat there awhile, and while I sat, I felt the tears in my eyes as a butterfly landed on the spot of color those tiny buttercups offered.

This road...the road of walking forward amist different forms of loss....

It is marked by tears and a love as bright as the colors of a rainbow...or an Easter egg.

2 years ago...

2011-04-22T23:50:00.000-06:00

Earth Day.

This was the day. The day you were born. The day I died. For the first time. This was the day.

Your daddy thanked me today for giving you both to him. He asked me to remember what a gift you are to us all.

I cried because I have so much pain about giving him dead babies.

I cried because I wish you were here with all my heart. Two two year olds....two two year olds.

I cried because I love our little buttercup rainbow baby whom I feel you protecting.

And I'm afraid. Afraid I will lose her too.

Two years ago...

You were born. And taken away.

I never wanted to let you go.

I still don't.

Happy birthday my sweet babies.

Mommy misses you.

Oh how I miss you. I miss simply the dream of who you both might have been. I miss you.

Mental Blooper and the Resulting Panic!

2011-04-15T12:36:00.000-06:00

As many of you know, I am a completely anxious wreck. Not only am I doppler crazy and constantly worried that my baby girl is dead, I'm also hyper-vigilant. This morning, I was really tired after a ridiculous night of waking up crying out "HELP!" for no reason what so ever and then going upstairs around 3 A.M. to use the doppler (again) to just check on her heart beat...which I couldn't find for 15 minutes (PANIC) ...and then falling asleep with the doppler ON while listening to her so long that the battery wore out only to wake up to find a thin CRUSTY goo on my belly where the gel had solidified....I went to the bathroom to take a shower, and of course...to pee.

As is my usual paranoid routine, I sleepily glanced at the toilet paper...just to make sure.

And it was bright pink.

I FREAKED out! Totally freeked. Jumped up from the toilet, and gasped at the bright fushia water. Oh god...I LOST it. Totally started sobbing.

And then....I remembered. And I felt like a total idiot.

I made BORSCHT for dinner last night.

For those of you who don't know...borscht is a soup made primarily of BEETS, which will turn your pee and otherwise "refuse material" to all manner of pink and red!

So...nothing wrong. Except that I'm completely batty.

Oh...and my husband and I will be eating Borscht all week, because my kids thought it looked like a blood bath and refused to eat it, once one of them SAID it looked like blood, it was all over for the rest of them. It was amazingly good. For any of you who would like the recipe:

Butterfly Borscht:

3 large beets, chopped coarsely. (by hand or food processor...do not over process...you want small chunks.)
3 large carrots and leftover beet greens, pureed in 1 cup water.
1 large yellow onion, sauteed in olive oil till golden brown and slightly crispy brown on edges. (caramelize)
4-5 cups vegetable broth
sea salt and pepper to taste
4- 6 tablespoon balsamic vinegar (depending on personal preference)
1 small red cabbage, finely sliced into strips. (reserve)

Add beets, pureed greens and carrots, caramelized onions, veggi broth and sea salt/pepper to large pot and bring to a mild boil. Reduce immediately to a simmer. Cook while stirring occasionally for 15 minutes. Use a potato masher to correct any larger beet chunks a food processor might had missed. Don't over mash. Add the reserved shredded cabbage and balsamic vinegar and continue cooking till cabbage is soft, about 15 minutes. Add another cup of broth or water as desired for consistency. Serve with a dollop of organic sour cream and a sprinkle of green onion and a crusty loaf.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm!

Just be forewarned. There will be evidence for DAYS...so don't freak out like I did.

April...

2011-04-11T08:38:00.000-06:00

April.

It's April again. Soon, I'll be confronting the two year anniversary since my world was turned upside down...never to be the same.

My baby girl is nestled within. Hopefully safe. Hopefully alive. I never really know. I can barely feel her on rare and wonderful occasions. Anterior placenta....it shields her movements. A perfectly awful joke to a mom who is already anxious. An Anterior placenta. I can only know she is o.k. with a doppler. A completely paradoxical joke for a mom who has always been hesitant to use ultrasound during pregnancy. I can't know she is o.k. without it. I can't really feel her and I can't hear her without technology.

I really wish that wasn't the case.

I woke up this morning grabbing my belly, and wondered if it was too soft. Wondered if maybe she was dead. I didn't voice my feelings to my husband. But...he was blue anyway. Just randomly blue. We've all had the flu, so, he's still getting over it. We all are. But unlike the rest of us sickies, he still had to trek off to work. He missed 4 days already...4 days of lost pay. Half of one of his paychecks. He had to go.

I reminded him that it was April. I saw the tears well in his eyes for a moment. And he nodded.

It's been two years. People have been greeting our pregnancy with joy. Some, because they know how much we want this baby. Some, because they know they were completely unsupportive LAST time, and they feel like jerks. Some...because we are finally having a girl. Some....because of all three reasons. And some...because they have also lost babies. And they understand. They get it.

The latter group...they also know that it's not so simple as being pregnant. They know it's not so simple as even having a healthy baby. The loss...it ripples into life. It becomes part of the landscape.

I think I foolishly thought that being pregnant again would simply be joyful.

I AM joyful. But...I'm also, unexpectedly, terrified.

I'm terrified of loss. I'm terrified.

When I see my husband's tears, I beg the universe to spare him from more loss.
When I watch my children tentatively glance at my blossoming belly, I remember how joyfully they embraced it the last time..when we were to have twins.....and I pray that they will never know loss again.
When I feel a sudden doubt, or fear...or, lets be honest...a total engulfment of terror...I know that we can't take it again. That I can't take it again.

I need my little girl to be healthy. To be whole. To be....alive.

It is April. The month that began our season of loss. For it wasn't just a day. It was a season. An entire season of death.

I can't wait for the end of summer.

I wish I had a fast forward button.

Some people....sheesh!

2011-03-29T23:01:00.000-06:00

A bowel obstruction.

That's what we are told my mother in law has. She's in ICU...in a haze of foggy morphine induced stupor after a successful surgery for...a bowel obstruction. She's developed an infection, and that's not so good, though the surgery went well. She won't have a colostomy bag....and that is good news. She's recovering...and that's good too.

However...she happens to be in a relationship with a man that is, for lack of more appropriate words, crazy. Oh yes...he's from the same "background", which makes him acceptable to her...but, the guy is certifiable. Literally. He's bi-polar, and has brain damage. He may come from the country club arena she is so committed to, but...he's a homeless ex-hippie guy.   So why does this matter to me at all? In general, it's none of my beezwax. I could care less. I don't have to deal with him, and if she likes her homeless boyfriend who lives off trust funds and friends in between bouts of irritable mania...more power to her. But, it matters to me when he calls my home and starts trashing my husband because he can't just pick up and leave to take care of his mother (who is going to be fine.). This homeless crazy guy seems to think that my husband, who spends his days counseling the poor, the abused, the sexually violated and the mentally ill, and then comes home to nurture and care for four little boys and his pregnant wife, is somehow...negligent in his duties because he doesn't say "screw it all! I have to leave my life and take care of my mom....to hell with the fact that I have a mortgage to pay and children to feed."

Now, in a more comfortable world, my husband would have unlimited paid vacation time...like a homeless guy who has a cozy trust fund...but, he doesn't, and we don't, and it isn't AND, his mother isn't dying. She simply had bowel surgery for an obstruction.

I don't like it when mentally ill a**wipes interfere with my families hard fought for harmony. We struggle every day to maintain peace and joy in a world that seems very unstable. We grope for calm as we endure pregnancy while knowing that it could end any day...that we could lose our little girl, for no reason. We strive for love as we watch the world fight and kill our earthly brothers and sisters. We pray for hope as we deal with an eldest son who ALSO struggles with mental illness and brain injury.

We don't need this. We don't have the energy for it. And yet...it is like a relentless waterfall of drama.

My 12 year old broke his wrist. I spent all afternoon in a clinic to find that out. Tomorrow we get to spend all day getting it in a cast. I spent the morning sobbing in my midwifes office about my anxiety and stress levels and fears. She loaned me a doppler so I can hear my ever elusive baby's heartbeat while she hides sweetly behind an anterior placenta that prevents me from being able to feel her. My husband spent his day caring for his clients and listening to their pain, trying to find ways to help and comfort the broken hearts placed before him. I spent the evening driving kids to Aikido and band practice and then, I made an amazing Thai meal of bison panang.   All this BEFORE the phone call that stole my evening with my husband away with the transformation of chaos into the attempted peace we were striving for in spite of a crazy day.

This man, my mother in law's boyfriend, friend...whatever he is......he had the gall to tell my husband that he is a failure because the book he wrote that was published and released in the same week that our twins DIED...has not done better. He mocked it and spit on the love that carefully tended to each and every word. It didn't do better because we had nothing to give in the way of promotion as we dealt with broken hearts and shattered dreams. The book is wonderful. The timing sucked. I still believe in that book, by the way. It's beautiful. I pray that one day, someone will read it and give it to someone else, who will give it to someone else, who will give it to someone else......etc. It's worth reading.

It broke my husbands heart to be so trashed about something so precious to him. His book. Losing his babies. But to be seen as "a failure" in the eyes of a man who has done little more than pamper his own whims...well that was enraging.

Mental illness. Personality disorders. Brain injury. Abuse. Trauma. Selfishness.

WHY?

My husband took my hand after that phone call and said..."Sara, I know we wanted to spend time together, but I don't want to rage all night...I need to play the drums. I need to go out and hit something I'm allowed to hit. I need to play the drums."

And...I understood...and kissed him goodbye.

My husband doesn't drink his pain away. He ROCKS it away. With rhythm and soul. With passion and heart. Tonight, people will dance to his impromptu beat, and he will come home in the wee hours of morning, exhausted...and cleansed.   I know he knows how to heal...he knows what he needs....and when I go outside later on to throw a ball for my sweet Fur-friend...I will ask the stars to keep him safe in the night. To bring him home to me. Safely. Healed.

I'll also be sending healing thoughts to my mother in law. A woman whose bowel obstruction ironically mimics her interpersonal constipation. I don't say that to be mean...I just notice it. I'll be sending prayers for clarity to her manic boyfriend...may he see the truth and stop abusing people in an effort to control others while trying to evade a need for control in his own life. I'll be sending hope to my eldest son...may he remember how much he is loved and stop pushing away the source of that love. I'll be sending warmth to my sleeping boys, may they always be the best of friends...and to their little sister...in the hopes that she will grace our home with her laughter and joy...and to my twins...who I will love forever. Sending peace to the world....may we all remember we are not separate. May we all remember we are star-dust. Together.

A review for "Time 4 Learning"...Thumbs UP!

2011-03-27T11:23:00.001-06:00

Hello everyone...

With a little less serious topic today, I am pleased to be reviewing an online program for home-school kids as well as kids who may enjoy a little extra tutoring in one subject or another. At www.Time4learning.com, I have discovered a home-schooling mom's best helper ever! As many of you know, I'm someone who does NOT enjoy math. In any form. I'm adept in most other subjects, but, math is my nemesis. However, my kids do not share my wanton disability in the area of numbers. They even LIKE them. Thus, in home-school, I am a bit challenged to not pass on my dislike for a subject that I genuinely want them to like, be able to do...and enjoy. I have found that no matter how much I may not like numbers, they are one of the major hoops life requires one to jump through...and I don't want my kiddos to suffer as I have.

So, I started looking. And looking. We've bought workbooks, paid tutors, and had my husband who is a full time plus therapist, an artist, an author and a musician, teach them the skill he is more adept at. All of that was helpful, and with the love of numbers in the forefront, they have been thriving....

And then, my youngest decided reading wasn't fun. Oh yes, we read, but...not with enthusiasm. This was new to me. We are readers. But, this little guy seemed to think in some part of his mind that reading was something "everyone else" could do better. This is because he sees his teen brothers reading Shakespere, The Most Dangerous Game and Whitman. He sees his other brothers reading Harry Potter, Redwall and a miriad of other fun books...and he has to wait if he wants anyone to read something more complicated to him. And, I think part of him believed that maybe, he would never really be as good as his brothers were...at everything.

With love and concern in my heart, wishing to find something more engaging for my little Bear, I stumbled across an amazing site called "Time4Learning". I was a bit dubious at first. My experience with on line tutorials has not been anything noteworthy. But, Time4Learning was different. Fun graphics, cool games, and ALL of them really informative, helpful and educational in a way that isn't "cheatable". You parents know what I'm talking about when I say "cheatable". You go to the store, you buy a computer "game" that is supposed to teach your kids something...and then, you discover that it is more fun for your kids to outwit the computer than to actually learn, and the game lets them do this, because it really isn't a learning tool...it's a game. In reality, the only thing being outwitted is the parent who spent his or her money on the stupid "tutorial".    With Time4Learning, I found my children working out problems...as it was the only way to really solve them! I found my little Bear really sounding things out, instead of just memorizing. He was engaged and happy. He was LEARNING...and he was having a great time doing it.

That is the most impressive part for me...because my children have a Wii, a Playstation, an I-pod touch and...a life! They have very engaging media enticing them every day...media which I have to deny them as often as a good parent should. But, instead of asking if they could play the Wii, Playstation or I-pod touch...they were asking if they could do MORE homework on the computer with Time4Learning!!!

This mama is pleased.

However, all the glowing aside, there are a few minor things to consider as well. I wouldn't call them down sides, but rather, just considerations any parent will have to look at. There is the cost.
The monthly membership is $19.95 for the first child and $14.95 for each additional child, with nothing else to buy.

The monthly membership is really affordable all in all, but, for a large family like mine, it is a dent in our income that I wouldn't be willing to do unless I felt it was REALLY worth it (and...it is for us!!) Each child has his own account and grade level which he is working with. With an abundance of math, algebra, reading, spelling, science, social studies and MORE, including over 1000 interactive games and a self paced flow, it's a great buy for any parent of a pre-K to 8th grader.

The only thing my children complained about was that they can not seem to save work in the middle of a lesson, so if I (as a freelance writer) NEED the computer right away, they will lose what they are working on...and if it's a harder subject, that is a problem for them to have to start over again. With workbooks, you can stop on any problem or page, and you don't loose your work. We've started having them enter answers on a piece of paper in order to allow them to just enter them at the end, thus avoiding some frustration. And, if I'm thinking straight *not always possible* I will just "switch users" and they can get back to it a little later in the day.

All in all, I highly recommend Time4Learning to any parent wishing for a little help with their kids educational enthusiasm and ability. I can look back on what my kiddos are doing in the handy chart area for parents which gives scores for lessons and tells me which areas they need help in, as well as which ones they are thriving in. I have seen math fluency go up in just one month, spelling has improved, reading has blossomed into something that is enjoyed, and other subjects, such as social studies, language and science are just cake! My kids are still using their workbooks, but I've noticed more enthusiasm for getting them done so they will have MORE time at Time 4 Learning . Silly boys...they sure do love learning...especially when it's FUN!!!!

I think my brain has melted!!!!!!!

2011-03-24T11:50:00.000-06:00

Yes. You heard me right. My brain has melted.

It happened yesterday at my midwife appointment.

I don't know my midwife very well. I switched to her because my home birth midwife was less than....uh...wonderful...when we lost Simon and Alexander. She wanted me to "buck up" after only 2 weeks. That was 3 weeks before we even knew about our twin. You know...the one that was rotting inside me. I suppose I could have been more stoic. Braver. I could have, I suppose, stuffed my feelings deep inside and took on the song "Don't Cry Out Loud" as my mantra for life at that moment.

But...I didn't. I sobbed. I wailed. I could barely move. I was....to be mild about it...devastated. And that was BEFORE I knew I had had twins.

She couldn't handle it. She wanted me to get on with my life...to be grateful for all that I have. And...in addition, when my husband tried to explain grief to her from a therapist's point of view, she looked at him steadily and said "Ty, I'd like to give you some honest feedback. You talk too much."

Wow.

So...the woman that attended 3 of my five living births and the stillbirth of my twins....will not be attending this baby's birth.

However...I'm too chicken to have another home birth. Not because I think it's dangerous. No...it's because of the fact that I live in a small city. The midwives are all friends. There is no way to choose another midwife without hurting my old midwifes feelings deeply. And though I do NOT want her at another birth....I don't want to hurt her either. Even if I could "get over" how off I feel she was after our loss, I couldn't ever step foot in her home for a prenatal appointment. I couldn't ever do that. Not after....no. Not after all that went on.

So, I am planning on a birth center birth. With a Nurse Midwife. I like the center well enough. I am especially keen on the big birthing spa. I've always wanted a water birth. But.....Nurse Midwives are a little more...medical...than I am comfortable with. They do things....by the book.

The question is: Who writes the book?

I expect some differences. I do. But...when she told me that if my baby was "too big" as in over 10 pounds that I'd be having a hospital birth....I wanted to scream. Why? Because I have had babies that were about 10 pounds...and one who was almost 11. And....it took about 2-3 pushes to get them out. No big deal. I have a wide pelvis. The practically FALL out once they are in position.

I told her this. I told her that it seemed to me that it would make sense to worry about a woman who had an unproven ability to deliver a large baby. It did NOT make sense to worry about ME having a large baby. I've done it multiple times. Easily.

My husband, ever the supportive man, went off on a tangent about unrealistic expectations in our culture wherein woman are penalized for being fuller even when there is no risk involved. He loves me. And my body. He loves our big healthy babies. He did not like that she was suggesting a change in my meticulously healthy diet in favor of slowing my weight gain, and creating a smaller baby. He didn't like it one bit. He called it Bariatrisism: his word for discrimination of larger people.

My husband is a very slender, fit, tall, handsome man. He loves his short, fit, plump wife. He feels very protective of me. I felt loved....but also concerned.

I won't have my baby in the hospital unless it is a real EMERGENCY. I have not had positive experiences in hospitals. They are places of death and scary snap second choices. Places where they do things I have asked them NOT to do...like give me morphine, which I am deathly allergic to. I have counseled numerous women to birth where they feel safe. I don't feel safe in hospitals. At all.

My options? Ignore her completely and continue eating healthy foods and hiking every single day, risking that this baby, like my others...will be BIG.   Too big to be allowed in the birth center. OR....cut out fruit and grains and dairy.....and live on meat and veggies to cut back on my carbs and live like a diabetic even though my sugar testing is perfect. I am completely healthy in every way. But...I'm overweight. I am more active than my skinny friends. But...I gain about 60 pounds in pregnancy, no matter what I do. I am completely aware of my dietary intake and it's caloric content. But...I have large healthy babies. Babies that I have no problem pushing OUT when it is time. I have never torn. ever. It's really not a problem. For me.

So that's an issue. It made my husband and I uncomfortable to be handed this information. We felt...monitored. We are already both completely anxious about the possibility of this baby dying too. We don't want our birth "stolen" from us again.

But, none of that is why my brain is melting.

No. My brain is melting for another reason all together.

My brain is melting because....

Our midwife did an ultrasound. And.....(drum roll please!!)

We

are

having

a

......................G   I   R   L !!!!!!!!!!!

Every part of my being is in total SHOCK.

A girl? Are you sure? How? What? OH MY GOD!!!!

I have given birth to 7 boys. 5 of whom are alive.   I have spent my life protecting my sons from the assumptions that our culture has about boys. I have spent my life joyfully nurturing the gentle tenderness that is a little boy. And now.....

A girl.

A girl who has a different set of assumptions already ahead. "Girls are hard" "Girls are manipulative" "Girls are emotional" "Girls are a problem as teens" "Girls are catty" "Girls are more expensive" "Girls are : fill in the blank."

I am having a daughter. Unless life steals her from me. I am having a daughter. A young woman who will grow and blossom with 5 living older brothers to keep her in line.

The myths about boys have not been true for my sons.

I don't believe they will be true for my daughter either. I have a new mission. To protect her from our cultural assumptions of what a girl "is".

But...for now...my brain is melting.
With Joy!

A Sunny Day...A Sunny Feeling.

2011-03-23T14:34:00.001-06:00

It's lovely out. Big blue Montana sky. The color of a robins egg. I can hear my boys on the trampoline...a sure sign that the weather is good and the snow has dissipated enough to let them jump. I can hear the dogs wrestling outside happily. I even hear birds....I can hear ALL of this, because my windows are open!! Spring. I love Spring.

I am particularly chipper this morning. Unusually so.

There is something about feeling my baby move inside that brightens my heart.

It seemed like it would never happen. In all my years of mothering, I have to say I've never had to wait so long before feeling my babies move. But...he or she is in there. And, today, I feel that without doubt. It was about 3 minutes of blissful movement in the wee hours of morning, when I was debating on whether I really wanted to wake up or not. The movement decided. I was awake....but....blissfully still. Just feeling. Life.

I have a midwife appointment today. The first one I've been happy about. I know there is life inside. I know she'll hear a heart beat. I know....because....I felt it. Only hours ago.

I'm greedy for it though. It was this morning...and now it's 2:00. I can't wait to feel that little person again. I literally can't wait.

Today is a happy day. I struggle daily to find positivity. I am not always successful. Let's be honest. I am usually only successful for moments at a time. If I'm lucky.

But...I've been happy all day. Beautiful weather indicates I will soon be able to turn my garden. Or....again, let's be honest....have my sons and husband turn my garden. heh heh. My fuzzi bunz cloth diapers arrived. The woman included a teddy bear that has "my first bear" monogrammed on the tummy, and a lovely blanket of cream and taupe. A blanket to wrap my baby in. MY baby. Who WILL be coming home!!!! (notice the emphatic demand?) And....beautiful movement. From my Happy Jack (or Venus). (notice the assumption that a woman who has had 7 sons, 5 of whom are living beautifully, assumes she will have another son.)

It is a beautiful day...and I will walk down the hill a few miles to my midwifes birth center around 5:00.

It is a beautiful day...and I want to keep it that way.

Beggers can't be choosers....but....my nerves are really enjoying a little break from the pain of fear, loss, and grief.

Hoping you are all having beautiful moments where you are as well. It helps to know these moments can exist after the blackness.

Feeling Rather Blue for Some Reason...

2011-03-20T23:07:00.001-06:00

Well...maybe blue isn't the right color. How about gray?

I know I should be happy. My baby is alive.

I know I should be grateful. My baby is alive.

I know I should be calm. My baby is alive.

I know I shouldn't worry. My baby is alive.

My baby is alive.

Right now.

As far as I know.

If you can't handle the idea that babies sometimes don't make it home...spare yourself...don't read any more. I'm sorry...I just needed to vent my...whatever it is.

I remember a person who believed in birth. A woman who believed in the natural, living, process of birth. A strong woman, who even taught other women, that they could do it. And I BELIEVED it. With all my heart. Yes...I was always cautious in the first trimester. I'd had miscarriages...so I knew that phase was...untrustworthy. I knew not all babies were viable in the first trimester. Viable...isn't that a nice, neat, scientific word???

But then...I lost Simon and Alexander. Stillbirth. So unexpected. So....pointless. Nothing wrong...just loss. Something that was from memoirs of our great grandmothers. Something that happened in third world countries. Not to my sisters. Not to me.

Suddenly, all the "it was meant to be's" of early miscarriage were....wrong.

There was nothing wrong with them. They just died. And left me here on earth without them to find my way through loss without reason.

I'm pregnant. And nothing is wrong. I should be laughing with ecstatic joy!!! Sometimes I do...

But this evening, I have a lump in my throat. And I'm having a hard time meditating that lump away. I'm having a hard time distracting myself from the fact that I never know from one appointment to the next what is going on inside of me...because I still can't FEEL any movement. It's driving me crazy. I can't feel him or her. I look pregnant. MIGHTY pregnant. I look about 6 or 7 months of pregnant though I'm 17 weeks, into the second trimester with a rainbow star baby who is, supposedly, the size of a turnip...but I can't feel anything. I can't even hear anything with my feta-scope. So, I have another official appointment on Wednesday, and I've been in EVERY week this month (for unofficial panic visits) ...just to hear it again. Just to check. Just to make sure....

I won a baby sling today. A beautiful designer sewfunky baby sling. Check out their site...these slings are truly lovely.
And I won.
I want to believe I won because I have a rainbow baby on the way that will NEED it. I want to believe in this baby. I want this baby with all my being. For me. For my husband. For our sons. For the healing he or she will bring. For the love she or he will add to our lives. I've been lovingly told that it's good luck to buy things for your rainbow baby.

I don't want any more loss.

I want to push it out of my mind and be the happy, confident person I used to be. I want a person like I used to be to hold me and tell me that I don't have to worry...because birth works. Most of the time.

MOST of the time. MOST of the time everything is perfectly fine.

I want it to be perfectly fine again and I want to forget that it has ever been otherwise.
I want innocence. Confidence. Hope. Joy. Expectation. The ability to plan and nest and be HAPPY. The ability to feel lucky and truly blessed!!

I just want to be happy. Really, truly happy. The kind of happy I used to be.

This baby deserves a happy mama. My family deserves a happy mama.

I wish I could win an unbroken heart in a contest. Boy...that would be a gift.
A miracle.

Hey...mama's who have been in this place....how did you cope? How did you make it through all the worry and fear and....tears? How did you do this? I wish I knew HOW...but this is really new for me. I don't know the answers. For anyone who knows me, I am not someone who likes not knowing the answers. Please help me. I need some coping skills that I don't seem to possess. How did you do it? How did you believe again?

Testing the Fates...

2011-03-14T14:31:00.001-06:00

I just won on a bid I placed on E-bay. I just won on a bid. I know that doesn't sound like a big deal...but...

It is.

It is a really big deal. For me.

It's a big deal because...well...it was for a brand new lot of 24 all in one, one size fits 0 to 3 years, cream colored Fuzzi Bunz diapers. For $305. Over $100 less than it would cost to buy 24 of this type of diaper...

Now, in my fantasy, I would have gotten to pick a rainbow assortment of diapers. I had budgeted for 18 of this diaper...and that was pushing it a bit. But, when I saw the lot of 24 new ones, I had to admit that it could be a real bargain, even if they were "cream" instead of rainbow. So...I bid.

Honestly...it's not that it's a big deal when you really think of it....but...it IS a big deal to me because...because I know that I might have just wasted my families money. $305 dollars is a lot for us. Especially if there is no baby in the end.

I emailed the seller...because I was curious about why she would be selling so many brand new amazing all in one fuzzi bunz (can you tell I loooove these diapers?) I emailed her because I wondered why she had never used them. I wondered if she had lost her baby too. It turned out that her mother had bought them, but that she preferred the idea of disposables because they did not have a washing machine. The mom had thought 24 would be enough without a washing machine, but the new mom wasn't "into it". I wish I had a mom that wanted to buy me diapers. But...that's another tale.
Anyway...
I drooled over this type of diaper when pregnant with Simon and Alexander...that was when my sweet man was unemployed, and there was no way in hell I would be able to have even one of them. I already had dozens of pre-folds and tons of diaper covers...lovely cottony ones.

And then...they died. I got rid of every other cloth diapering thing I had. I got rid of the co-sleeper. I got rid of ALL the baby items. ALL of them. Except one little outfit. The one I'd intended for my baby before I knew I had twins nestled within me. One little cream and brown striped outfit that had been lovingly picked. I couldn't bear to part with it. But everything else.....everything....my slings, my nursing pads....everything...went. Gone. Given away. I could have sold it all. But....I didn't have the oomph to do it. So I gave it all away. And now...I'm trying to find the courage to replace it all.

It's expensive to replace it all.

And part of me...the scared part...wanted to wait until I had a live beautiful baby in my arms. Part of me...the anxious part...wanted to know everything was perfect to prevent wasting a penny of my families precious resources. Part of me....doesn't believe it will turn out o.k...

In trying to combat that very negative fearful person...I told my husband that I wanted to bid on these diapers. They really seemed like a great deal. I started my bid at $125. A few moments ago...I saw the price climbing...and climbing. It really WAS a great deal....even after watching it climb, I knew how much 24 of this particular diaper cost.

Suddenly...letting the diapers go to someone else almost felt like giving up on this baby.

And...I COULD NOT LET MYSELF!!!

I bid again. And again. Knowing that my limit was $10 below cost. Even though that was silly...because I could have had all the colors I drool over at that price. I bid in the last 32 seconds...and watched it tick away and wondered if someone else would bid higher. 31. 30. 29. I bit my lip so hard it bled. 19. 18. 17. 16. I started to feel my throat close up. 9. 8. 6. I started to cry. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. 0.

"You are the highest bidder at $305."

I sobbed.

I won. I saved over $100 dollars. $140 to be exact. For 24 cream colored, never before used, soft, fuzzy, all in one, one size fits 0-3, snappy set, beautiful fuzzi bunz diapers. All mine. Every single one of them. Mine. For my baby. For my rainbow baby. My star child.

And then, the panic set in. What if.....what if I get them....and it's all for nothing.

And, it wasn't about the money. It was about more loss. And I cried some more. I was so grateful my kids were taking turns on the Wii fit; it helped to give me space to have a panic attack.

I just won 24 perfect diapers. For a perfect baby who I want more than anything.

The diapers will come. They are guaranteed to arrive within a week. I will have those diapers, of that I can be sure. The baby however....the baby is not guaranteed to arrive. And I have to live with that truth. There is nothing I can do about it. Except continue forward as if I am not afraid, because this baby deserves to have a mom who is excited to nest...who has high hopes...who has prepared for his or her arrival with all the joy I had with all my babies. Including Simon and Alexander.

I hope that other mama's will donate clothes, a co-sleeper, a car seat....and everything else I will need. Because I just spent it all on diapers.

And...it was something I had to do no matter how silly it seems. Because...though it feels like testing the fates....It mattered to me. It is empowering to me. I needed to be able to do something like that...for my star baby.

And now....I wait.

Fessing Up...

2011-03-04T11:39:00.000-07:00

So...here it goes. Time to fess up. I've hinted and hemmed and hawed. But...I've not really SAID it here.

I'm pregnant.

I just hit the second trimester this week.

And, I'm very honestly...terrified.

Happy yes.

Terrified...even more.

A wonderful baby loss mama over at Once a Mother just gave birth to twins...beautiful perfect twins. She's been waiting and hoping and worrying for so long...I couldn't be happier for her. She needed them. So very very very much. I saw their pictures and I just thrilled to the core for her. And, of course, I cried too. I am not jealous OF her...but I'm missing Simon and Alexander...the idea of them. What it would have been like to have twins. . . Which...I am not having this time.

This time, there is a little jumping Jack (or Jill) inside of me....he (or she) moves around with such vigor there can be no lingering doubt that maybe...just maybe...there might be two...like before. Not this time. Just one.

Now, I'm HAPPY....but when my midwife said happily "You'll be happy to note there's just one..." I froze inside. Why would that make me happy? She didn't think obviously...and I tried to brush it off. Of course she would think that would make me happy. I have five sons. Living. Who in their right mind would want twins after FIVE living sons?

One more is really more than I could handle...right?

It's o.k...really. I'm really in love with this baby. My baby. Created under the light of Venus in love with the man who holds my hand in good times and bad.

A star baby. MY star baby.

And I tell my husband every day how much I want to hold this baby...alive...in my arms. How very very much I want my rainbow. Sweet Kristin...and her beautiful snowflakes...you have given me a little hope. You MADE it. They are with you. Safe. Sound. Healthy. In your arms. Where they belong. You DID it.

I'm hoping that in August...I'll find that kind of healing too.

So why is there a lump in my throat?

Fear.

Fear about the fact that their are no promises for happy endings.

Fear about the fact that I can not know the future holds a healthy alive baby for me.

Fear that my children will be crushed by another loss.

Fear that my husband will hold that pain in his eyes forever.

Fear that I will never trust life again.

Fear.

I am pregnant. Beautifully so. Happily so.

And I'm going to need a lot of strength to enjoy what that IS. Right now.

This is a new time.

A new pregnancy.

I'm not having twins.

I have no expectations.

I do, however, have wishes.

For my rainbow star baby. My star child.

Please...please come home to us. We need you so.

Priorities

2011-02-22T14:31:00.000-07:00

We all have our priorities...they vary from home to home.

At the moment, I'm trying to focus on what it is my priorities are actually all about. And, to be honest, they are really pretty simple. I want my children to be healthy, happy and well adjusted. I would prefer for my children not be to harmed permanently or killed ever again. I would like my husband to be able to enjoy a life of contentment with work that is fulfilling and compensated well, with friends that nourish and support him. I'd like to know my home is not only safe and cozy but also functional. I'd like more time to brush my sweet Ferdinand. I'd like time to walk and talk each day with my best friend and lover; and I'd like to live a nice long life with him, preferably into our 90's as healthy and mentally in tact elders. I need wholesome food, and the time to create dishes that are economical and tasty. I'd love to be able to pay my bills, and maybe even save a little from time to time... I'd also like to finish my degree.

It's that last one that is bugging me today. Finishing my degree.

What does that entail? Well...I used to think that it simply meant that I would jump from hoop to hoop, easily passing courses, as I usually do, and that effort would one day result in a silly little piece of paper that proclaimed I had successfully jumped through all the collegiate hoops required to be a professional someone.

However...there is one hoop that is tripping me up.

One hoop that may prevent me from achieving my goal.

One hoop that threatens all my educational plans and mocks the amount of loan money I've taken out thinking I would be able to pay it back once I had my degree.

One hoop....called Linear Algebra.

As I write the word...I shudder. Linear Algebra. It sounds like a weird disease you wouldn't want to catch. Linear Algebra.

I have a math disability. This means that while I score in the 98th percentile for all other subjects, (a genius I tell you!) I also happen to score in the 3rd percentile for math ability. Not the 30th. The 3rd. This doesn't mean I can't do simple equations. It doesn't mean I don't understand concepts. It means that I can not compete with normal brains in the realm of upper level math. Even lower level math is hard for me. It's not a matter of practice. I practice and practice. I always have. It doesn't stick. I can't keep it. Not with a hundred problems...not with a million. I've been tested on this. I am an anomaly. It's not just that "math is hard for me". It's that my brain will NOT absorb math in a linear (or any other) way. It will not KEEP math within it's neuronal boundaries. I understand what I read, and can perform instructions. I can not remember formulas, or applications, or....anything really...with numbers.

or letters posing as numbers.

So. As I write, which comes easily to me, I am stewing over the past four hours wherein an exam I took which allowed double time due to my disability was still, even with my most dedicated efforts, not passed. I got a D. Better than an F perhaps. But not better enough.

If I don't pass the class. They will have me take it again. The problem with that is this. I won't remember anything I've learned in this semester, so it will be as if I am doing it all over again having never seen it before. I. do. not. learn. math.

And yet...it is required.

In spite of the fact that I am missing the limb required to perform the function.

It is required.

In spite of the fact that I will never...and I MEAN never...use math for anything other than my calculator buttons.

It is required. Even though it has nothing to do with anything I will ever do.

And so...even though I am an honor student boasting A's and B's in every subject...I may not be able to get my degree.

And so, I am brought to my knees. Questioning priorities.

I am two (math) classes away from my degree. Two (math) classes I may be unable to pass. Two (math) classes away from being able to work for a wage that would carry my family above poverty level. Two (math) classes away from showing my kids you can do anything if you try hard enough.

And...I'm failing.

Priorities.

There really are more important things in life....

Things like smiling children...healthy babies...loving partners...good food....good health....quality of life.

Things like rainbows...flocks of birds...ocean waves...mountain peaks....ice cream.

Things like healing from loss...

Things like protecting the future...

Things like love.

Friends.

Spirit.

Hope.

Sincerity.

In the history of the world, my having a degree is but a spot--less than a spot--in the cosmos. It means nothing.

And yet....

I cried this afternoon when I got my grade back.

Because...it did mean something. To me. It meant that no matter how hard I try...some things will never change. Some things are exactly as they are. math disabilities. dead babies. brain injuries. loss. It's all permanent. It never goes away. I can reroute my life...I can heal from loss, and find a new normal. I can try to have another baby and love the children I have with all my heart...looking away from the pain...trying to find the mom who believed in joy. I could keep trying to remember math equations that will not stick...like a dog trying to chase a stubby tail. I could keep trying. and trying. and trying.

But...there is a thing called learned helplessness. And...in all honesty...when you try and try...and your efforts all fail, you learn that no matter what you do...you can not succeed. Depression lies there.

In any case...I will keep trying. Because I have to. Because I want to pass. Because I need to pass.

I will keep trying. Blind in an obstacle course with no instruction, I expect I will fall a lot. I may never even find the way out.

I suppose I can smile about one thing though....my boys do not appear to suffer with the same disability I have. They are as brilliant in math as they are every other subject. So, when I smile at them and say "Sweetheart...you can be whatever you want to be. You can succeed if you put in the effort." I am not feeding them a falsehood. They really can. Nothing like a silly class will stop them. The hoops will not be covered in spikes and fire. They will be able to decide "hey...I'm interested in this...I think I'll learn it". I've always had to ask..."What will have the least math?" Not because I'm lazy. Or stupid.

But...because I have a certain kind of brain.

Priorities...

It's just math....

Just math.

My priorities are not calculated in an equation or ratio of importance.
They are more real than that. More real...than numbers.

Take a Deep Breath with the Newest Issue of Exhale!

2011-02-18T13:42:00.002-07:00

Hey everyone...it's finally out! Exhale magazine is up and running once more, with a beautiful and inspiring new issue for your enjoyment, introspection and ponderings... you can find it here and...if you like, you can check out my article in particular, Adrenaline Overrated at this spot.

Exhale was created for people who have lost a child to miscarriage, stillbirth or neonatal loss, and is also for those who deal with infertility. A cathartic, literary jaunt into the worlds of amazing artists, photographers and writers who have walked this road, Exhale strives to offer a place of healing with an intelligent look at what is, might be, and has been.

As an editor and writer for Exhale...I hope you will enjoy this beautiful issue as much as I have and encourage you to consider contributing your own pieces for future issues.

Enjoy!
Sara

Sugar and Spice is a Boy thing too...

2011-02-10T17:00:00.001-07:00

What are little boys made of? What are little boys made of? Snips and Snails and Puppy dog tails...that's what little boys are made of.

What are little girls made of? What are little girls made of? Sugar and Spice and All that is Nice...that's what little girls are made of.

I recently read this poem to my 7 year old.

He frowned at me and told me he thought it wasn't fair that girls got to have all the nice stuff.

I agree.

As the mother of sons...I agree.

Boys, in my experience, are tender. They are the most huggable little loves...if you let them be that way.
I've witnessed women and men chastise my boys for wearing pink. Grown ups. Adults. People who should know how to watch their mouths and keeps their bigoted opinions to themselves.
Nervous about displays of male affection...ie: hugging. Disaproving over colors that anyone who hasn't been brainwashed might enjoy. Irritated at the birthday gift of a unicorn or a silk cape in a lovely shade of rose that lit up the eyes of a brown eyed 5 year old.

What IS this?

When we demand that little boys are only allowed to like certain colors, certain toys, and certain ideas, we create exactly what is wrong with our world today. A universe of little boys dressed like big men with big tough exteriors that beg to not be torn down or peeked inside of. Little boys pretending to be the men they were told they HAD to be. And they forgot who they were...they forgot that they were allowed to be gentle.

We create men who don't know what they feel, or why they feel, or why anyone else is allowed to feel.
And it hurts us all.

Why do we do this to our boys? Why do we allow our girls to tell our boys that the toy they are playing with is a "girl toy"? Why do we stop our children from being who they really are simply in the name of a fear...or, in all honesty, a prejudice.

If the fear is "turning your child into a gay person"...it's important to understand something real: You can't make a person what they are not by allowing them to be who they are. Enjoying certain colors, toys, hobbies or jobs does not make someone who they are not. In fact, a recent study I read in a psychology class indicated that most gay men have been shown to have had un-supportive or emotionally unavailable fathers. This is NOT to say that every boy who has an emotionally constipated father WILL be gay; correlation doesn't equate to causation..but there is a correlation that should be looked at...wondered about. And I had to wonder in light of this...why don't we shudder when we see a father being dismissive to his child in the same way that we shudder when a little boy gets to wear the pink sequined chuckys he's been coveting for months? Why don't we think it might screw with a child's sexual image when dad plasters his face to a football game all weekend instead of playing with his child in the same way we might when we find out that an 8 year old loves cooking above sports? Why don't we cringe when we see a little boy get a tonka truck when he REALLY wanted a rainbow unicorn or a baby doll?

I'm just pondering here....because I see a world wherein my sons are being allowed to feel. And I see that they are being raised differently than their male peers. The results? I have a 14 year old who WILL stop in the middle of a soccer game if a kid on the other team gets hurt to make sure he is o.k no matter how much his peers chastise him for being sensitive. I have an 8 year old who wants to hug me for several minutes, without being patted away impatiently: Comfortable with how it feels to nestle up to his mother, without fear of being teased as a mama's boy. I have a 12 year old who nurtures all things soft and fluffy and who isn't afraid to admit that he doesn't care for the gun games his peers play or the sports they covet watching on t.v... I have a 7 year old who adores pink, and green, and blue and anything sparkly and can often be found wearing all three at the same time bejeweled with any glittering thing he can find. All of these boys are quick to select pink frosted cupcakes with hearts over sports themed cupcakes. All of these boys are immediate in their efforts to console one another over heartbreaks and life disappointments.

Sure, they joke and use occasional potty talk and tell jokes about farts too. They play in the mud and adore bows and arrows. They like rock music and are clear about their opinions about girls. As the 14 year old stated yesterday..." I feel sorry for skinny blonds. They look so pale and hungry. I'm more into girls that look like they don't starve themselves...they have more to look at and enjoy."

Smart lad. I guess wearing pink socks hasn't altered his feelings toward the opposite sex. But honestly, even if he wasn't in to girls...it wouldn't have been the freaking SOCKS that determined it. And, I'd love him as fearlessly as ever.

All in all...I guess what I'm saying is that while I have zero experience with little girls, and so can not KNOW if they really are sugar and spice and everything nice...I DO know that my little boys are everything sugar and spice and everything nice. They know how to be sweet. They are sassy and clever. And...there is nothing sweeter than the little boys who look up at you, even into their teens, as you kiss them goodnight and tell you..."Mommy...your the best in the whole world."

If that's not everything nice, I don't know what is.

Homeschooling Considerations

2011-02-10T09:51:00.003-07:00

I've been invited to try Time4Learning for one month in exchange for a candid review. My opinion will be entirely my own, so be sure to come back and read about my experience. Time4Learning is an online educational program that can be used in many ways including as a homeschooling curriculum or afterschool tutorial. Find out how to write your own curriculum review for Time4Learning

Dreaming of the Dream...

2011-01-31T16:25:00.000-07:00

Walking on the first spring-like day of the year, I saw it. A brilliantly arranged flock of birds, dancing in the wind patterns only they could see. The sky was vivid blue, and their inky blackness swooped in perfect harmony.

It made me wonder...

Why aren't human beings in such beautiful communal union with their surroundings...with each other?

Why do we walk down the street, passing the faces of our community with barely a glimmer of recognition?

Why do we eat alone, in our private homes, away from the fires of other hearths. In fact...where are the hearths to begin with?

Where are our sisters and brothers? Our uncles and aunts? Our grandmothers and grandfathers? Our parents?

Where are they?

Often, we, in our nuclear families, are alone. Striving to make things work with less than we have ever had. Yeah, there is more "stuff"...but less substance.

Where are the elders who could pick you up if you fell? Where are the wizened folks who look to teach the ones who are trying to find their way?

I look into the sky, and I see community. I look into the fields and see the grazing deer, and community is there as well. I look into the town, and see the cars rushing past each other...each person with his own agenda and plan for the day, the week, the year...

My children go to Aikido classes, and there, they see other children who they will laugh with as they learn the art of non-violent defense. And then, at the end of the hour, we all bustle back into our cars and drive off to our homes.

Once in our homes....distractions abound. Homework, housework, meal prep, consumption......bedtime.

I look out the window and see the stars twinkling together in the sky...and I wonder where my community is.
I wonder how many tomorrows will be spent in a human created isolation that contrasts with what I believe humans, as social creatures, were meant to have.

In another time...We would have played and worked together. We would have cooked and eaten together. Our children would grow up and learn together. And we would commune with the stars, moon and sun together. We would birth our children together. And mourn our losses together. Our husbands would bond together. And we would nurture together. We would KNOW each other, just as the birds in the sky flying in perfect harmony know each other. And we would be there for each other...because, we would BE each other.

Get PUBLISHED at Exhale!!!

2011-01-18T13:52:00.000-07:00

Attention writers, poets, creators!!!!! EXHALE needs submissions for the early spring issue...ASAP! I know there are huge quantities of talented folks out there & we need you! Please share your ups & downs of your roller-coaster existence with loss, infertility, PAL, grief & healing...etc. The theme for spring is "roller coasters"; be creative...let your muse speak. Send your submissions here, and they will be edited by Kristen Binder of Once a Mother and moi. HURRY HURRY!!! exhalesubmissions@gmail.com

Another time...another place.

2011-01-12T16:58:00.000-07:00

I spoke to my dear friend Amy today. As I relayed to her the reality of fear in my gut, I was comforted by her wise reply. "Sara, the body you have today is completely different from the body you had two years ago. Everything about you is different. Everything about everything is different."

I heard her loud and clear. You can't project the past onto the future, because, even if "you" think "you" are the same person who might get the same thing...."you"....aren't.

What do I mean by that?

Hummmm.....well....let's see. . .In biology, we learned that we are a compilation of ever changing matter. We breathe out our cells, and breath in newness. Every part of every one of us is completely different every single year. This is why we sometimes witness miraculous change in disease factors....why we see things differently from year to year....we are ever changing. We are not stagnant. We are....change.

So, though memory and circumstance plague us, and tell us that something IS....in reality, it ISN'T. Not NOW anyway.

I was a woman who watched her beautiful teen son on the brink of death. His stunning face mangled by harsh pavement. And though I have those vivid and horrible memories....I am not THERE. I am here. The lungs that breathed in the smells of the hospital do not have a trace of that reality in them anymore. I am here.

I was a woman who held a dead baby in her arms, drifting away in a haze of allergic reaction to a poison specific to my body. Opiates. They screw me up....in a very real way....a deadly way. My body, two years later...has no trace of that day. I remember it. It has made me who I am....but my physical body....is not the same. Nor is my understanding of life. Or death.

I was a woman who bled to death...only to discover that the cause was a retained baby that SOMEONE should have known was there. But...no one did. Not until....later.

That woman was filled with masses of blood clots and rotting tissue that, at one time, had been my baby...my twin son. Rotting tissue that filled me with heaviness and poison....rotting tissue that could have killed me from blood poisoning....

Months of regular periods have flushed out that uterus...months of exercise and healthy eating have cleaned this system, leaving me healthier than ever before.

There is memory...oh yes....muscle memory...cell memory...nervous system memory......

But...it's a memory. Not a physical reality.

What has happened doesn't mar the now with anything more than...memory.

Somehow, hearing my friend describe my body as a different body...in a different time....in a different circumstance...

Well, it gave me a smile. It gave me some hope. It gave me a vision of reality that I really needed.

I remember. I remember it all. And, I am willing to make some new memories in honor of the old. I am a new person. A bigger person. A wider person. A more whole, if somewhat broken, person.

I see life in a new way.

I'm open to life in a new way.

I want life...in a new way.

So....2011....BRING IT ON! This girl is NEW. This woman has potential! I will not be defined by the past.

I am here.

Now.

Roller coasters

2011-01-09T16:10:00.001-07:00

Roller coasters.

They are part of life. A very real part of life.

Right now, I'm calling out to you talented people who read here and write elsewhere to submit something to Exhale magazine. I'm co-editing for it right now, and we need all types of submissions, regarding the theme "Roller coasters". Exhale is a mag. devoted to the subjects of miscarriage, stillbirth, neonatal loss, PAL, baby death in general...and infertility. It is generally a very supportive and uplifting, sympathetic place for those of us who know...and those of us who know someone who knows.

It is a hard place to be. "In the know".

So much nicer to be in the dark...where a pregnancy is greeted with hope, and phone calls of laughter and delight for the future you know will be. Where the question is: "What are you having?"

See it there?

"What are you HAVING?" The assumption that you will...after all of the pregnancy discomforts...have SOMETHING.

When you know that it's not always like that....when you know that you may end up with nothing but tears and empty arms....wow....

It's overwhelmingly different.

Unexpectedly different.

At least...I find it so.

Here I am...on a journey I'd given up on. And instead of the joy I expected, I am finding myself wading in terror.

The terror of what if's. What if I die? What if I lose him or her? What if....what if.........what if........

The terror.

It surprised me. Took me off guard.

I expected to feel nothing but elation.

I did not expect the terror.

I did not expect the fear.

I did not know....that it would be waiting for me with sharpened teeth that would present me with nightly dreams of death and loss. Dreams that would impact my days....cause me to seem off balance...weepy.

Roller coasters. I enjoyed them as a young person. I loved the thrill of losing my breath. I adored the pressure pushing me back as I whipped around in a delightful kind of horror. I'd rush back into the line as soon as the thrill was over. MORE!! MORE!!!

Not now.

Now, roller coasters are symbols of being out of control. The last time I went on one was shortly after my eldest son's brain injury. A time wherein the security of life was at best...shaky. I hopped on with my kids, thinking I was in for an exuberant ride of a lifetime. Strapped in, I felt the ride going up...up...UP....and suddenly, we were free falling. My mouth opened in a voiceless scream. I could feel my heart pounding maniacally in my chest. I was shaking in fear so powerful I could NOT scream...and I started laughing in a crazy way....like I'd lost my marbles. When the ride was over I heard my kids laughing and proclaiming it the best ride EVER....I couldn't stop laughing, and I ran toward my husband who had opted to NOT go. I fell into his arms, and the sobs began. Hard, racking sobs that wouldn't stop. My kids were shocked. One minute, I was laughing out of control...and the next? sobbing.....My husband, patting my hair, explained to onlookers that the ride had been a little much for me.

What an understatement.

Anyway, the point of all of this is to explain that right now...I feel like the ride is a little much. I feel out of breath...afraid. . .I don't want to free fall anymore.

I want to take a ride on the merry go round, or something benign like one of those motorized car rides where you stay on a track, even if you opt to not steer.

I used to like the adrenaline rush of a roller coaster. That was before I understood that roller coasters in life sometimes land you in arenas of death. Where all you have in your arms is someone you loved that you have to bury.

It's the understanding that you'd rather NOT tell anyone...because telling someone means you might also have to tell them that it's all over. It's the reality that you don't tell your kids...because you can't bear to hurt them again...can't bear to tell them it's over. Again. So...you don't tell. And, it is the very act of not being able to tell that reminds you there is a REASON not to tell.

Because...there are no guarantees.

But, when you don't tell....when you choose to keep it inside...considering holding back on telling your family until you have a living breathing babe IN ARMS...that you understand that to give life is to walk side by side with the possibility of death. You don't tell...because you can't bear to face the possibility of loss.

I want to step onto a bumper boat ride...where the only threat is a little water in my face. Perhaps even a lot of water...but...nothing scary. Nothing....deadly.

So, on that note...please contact me or Kristen Binder, the amazing mama at http://onceamother.blogspot.com/ "Once a Mother" if you have something you would like to submit to the next Exhale.

With love....and hope....

The brightest star in the night sky...isn't.

2010-12-28T10:52:00.001-07:00

No...it's not a star. It fools us all as we look into the inky blackness of night as it shines in brilliant glory. It looks like a huge star...glistening...shining....

but it isn't.

It's Venus. The planet named after the goddess of love.

I've always loved it so. . .

It draws my attention each evening, and as the night-owl that I am, I worship it's beauty and find inner peace in its steady light. Sometimes, even on a cloudy night, I can still see it peeking through the dense cloud cover.   It speaks to me.

It tells me to remember who I am.

We've been enjoying a brilliant, although cold, winter. Vivid stars, brilliant moons, and always, always, there is Venus. I've seen her there next to Mars...her lover. I've watched her flirt with Orion in his diamond encrusted belt. I've witnessed the conversations between the big and little dipper, and Cassiopeia. And...I've watched her embrace all the gazillions of other stars who are no less important, but whose names I have not yet learned.

I discovered that while I was raised by people who discussed stars and planets and prominent constellations and families of star children, that the night sky is not always common knowledge. My sweet husband was raised by morning lovers. As such, he wasn't familiar with the night sky in the same way I was. I took the knowledge for granted that I was friends with the stars and planets. My surprise at his blind gaze was one of wonderment, for no one appreciates the beauty of the night sky like my husband.   His appreciation did not gather, like a map, the patterns of the stars...the locations and changing patterns of the seasons. What he saw was patternless...or at least....un-named.

We walk for miles every night after tucking our kiddos in bed, safely supervised by a competent and wizened elder brother. Cells phones tucked away in pockets in case of emergency, we romp like people of a younger age...a younger time.   The miles melt away under introspection, contemplation, and...listening. Listening to each other, to the earth, and to the sky. Listening to the signs and feelings and subtle understandings which manifest our reality.

We walk alone under the stars, seeing the blue flickering lights in the valley below of our "fellow Americans" who, instead of witnessing the beauty of nature in it's midnight glory, are watching the news, Jay Lenno, and the snarky tales of "reality television".   We walk alone. The deer and elk, munching peacefully, acknowledge us without fright; even as our big lumbering sheepdog romps nearby. He doesn't chase them or bark...he is witnessing as well.

Did you know...that there is a magic in the night? Did you know that the planets and stars can speak to you?

If you care to listen....

Did you know...that in the heat of love, the snow under your feet fails to freeze your body?

Did you know...that creation amidst creation turns into a swirl of color and sound that overwhelms the universe with passion and hope?

Did you know...that under the watch of Venus's brilliant light....one can discover what it means to be truly human?

An incubation has begun.   A mixture of shooting stars, planetary light, and midnight flame.

The stars, in patterns of constellational beauty. The moon, in devotion to the yin and yang of light and dark cycles. The planets in their union with the sun's gravitational pull.

When we admire the creations all around us...it doesn't matter who or what or how it was made...it just IS...and we are witnessing it all.

In creation.

We are calling 2011 the year of emerging light. As the shadows fade, we hope illumination will shine on our paths just as the lunar eclipse of winter solstice brought a brilliance to the moon after it lay in amber shadow...2011 has much to offer.

I await gratefully. Thank you Venus.

It's almost time...

2010-12-23T16:06:00.000-07:00

To wrap the gifts that is....

I've somehow magically saved every single item for the last moment. Nothing has been wrapped. Nothing.

I think the kids are convinced that the tree will go present-less...and I wouldn't blame them. It's never taken me this long to get organized...

There are many factors involved, and none of them has anything to do with procrastination.

so, tonight is the night. For as much as I would love to engage upon a night of walking under the stars with snow crunching under my feet...I must wrap. As much as I would prefer to cuddle up with "A Christmas Story"...I must wrap. As much as I need to write so that my bank account will not delve past a negative balance....I must wrap.

In all honesty, there isn't much to wrap in spite of five children's worth of presents. We opted for simplicity this year. We opted for hope.

Something is brimming on the horizon which seems born of a year and a half of pleading with the universe for guidance, for support, for......hope.

I dare not utter much about it...though I will say for eager readers that I am...at least as far as I know...not pregnant. Not even after concentrated effort. It's something else....somewhere else.

In any case....I feel a bit like Frodo in his journey through the Fellowship of the Ring...and if things go the way I wish, I will actually walk in the land of "Middle Earth" by the end of the year. And...I will make a new home...a new future...a new tomorrow........and, maybe...if I'm very very lucky....a new little kiwi.

Wishing you all...ALL...a wonderful...hopeful....peaceful...and bountiful...Christmas.

With love.

The happiest time of the year???

2010-12-16T09:08:00.001-07:00

I'm not so sure about that.

In many ways, I feel the effort of trying to stay on top of everything is really just....not happenin'

On many days I look in the mirror and I really don't like who I see. And, most importantly, this has nothing to do with the actual image. I'm not looking and hating my fat, sags, or wrinkles. I'm not loathing my physical body. No....it's that I look in the mirror and see a person who has tried sooooo hard for soooo long...a life time really. . .and the damage of LIFE just seems---to have made me a bit "ugly".

Sometimes I say things without thinking. Hurtful things.

Sometimes I think I'm trying to be helpful. But I'm being hurtful.

Sometimes, I try to forgive...forget....move on.....and I promise I WILL....

but...then I don't. At least...not all the way. Which, is like lying.

I look in the mirror and I see a person who really needs a lot of support, but who is so frazzled that the demand for MY support crushes me.

Not all the time....just....enough.

I want to be more supportive. Unconditionally.

I want to be more easy going. Unbendingly.

I want to be happier. Frequently.

I want to be more trusting. Undyingly.

I want to be more honest. Lovingly.

I want to be a better me. Devotedly.

But...

I am not.

Not right now anyway.

So many people say this is the happiest time of the year.

I am not finding it so.

The northern climate of Montana insists upon cheating me out of much needed sunlight. The cold chills my bones. The lack of connection to community leaves me feeling....alone in my "un-aloneness".

Demands from life to be better, faster, kinder, more on the ball and in the game....oh brother...how they crush me.

Demands from culture to make Christmas "the best one EVER!" (every single year), deflates me.

What will it mean to make Christmas the best ever? Not more PRESENTS, surely??? Maybe more crafts? More outings? More More More More.......

And yet...all I want, or SAY I want...is nothing. I told my husband I wanted nothing for Christmas.

But...it was really a lie.

I want a lot.

I want joy. Serenity. Peace. Gratitude. Hope. Laughter. Trust.

I want parents that think I'm indispensable. Irreplaceable. Unconditionally wonderful. Parents that would do anything for me without guilt, anger, or manipulative tactics.

I want relationships that are built on bedrock. Where trust and love and laughter are ever-present.

I want my core to not feel ravaged and threatened every-time something looks......iffy. Potentially scary. As if I might have a bomb land in my lap at any time.

I want to trust life again.

I want to TRUST life again.

Can anyone wrap up a box and fill it with trust that I could ingest and be made to feel whole?

No. There is no "OZ" who can provide me with trust. Just as there was no "OZ" bursting with wizardly power to provide courage, a heart, or a brain or a home sweet home.

We have to find it on our journey. Trust.

Somehow, it seems rather difficult when the journey seems to be all about yanking the ground from under me.

Trust.

I want it in my stocking on Christmas morning. But, it won't be there amongst the chocolate, trinkets and baubles. It can't be bought. Or bargained for.

And, while I am sure there are other gifts I'll have in my life....I'm afraid that this little girl will have to find the way to trust again on her own.

As I look ahead at that task, I feel wary. (see, there is that lack of trust again.) I'm not sure I will ever find it again. I can pretend....and even get fooled by that sometimes....but it pops up. The lack of trust. It pops up late at night when I should be sleeping...when the world looks more bleak. And the inkling of trust leaves me...alone.

I suppose I could blame myself...life...anything or anyone. But really...it just IS the way it is.

And I am who I am.

I wonder if that could be enough for anyone else? To just let me be who I am...and think I'm great...wonderful...independently fantastic? I guess I'd like to feel perfect "enough".

So...this year, I'm going to re-nig on my request for "no gifts"...and I'll ask my readers. Do you have a gift for me? Can you share a tale of self love that might brighten my day? Can you offer a tidbit of wisdom I can put in my pocket? What do YOU do to feel "whole"? "trusting"? "hopeful"? "positive"? "kind"?

You don't have to wrap it....just...blow it my way.

Blood in the Snow...

2010-11-26T12:18:00.000-07:00

I know...it's a gross title.

But, there is a point to it all. I promise.

On Thanksgiving morning, Ty and I went out with Ferdinand for a hike. We have, here in Montana, about 3 feet of snow in our local mountains...and in front of my house. We bundled up in our winter gear for the expedition because, in addition to the fluffy snow, it was below zero.

We try to walk every day...or every night. I'm not talking about little walks...I'm talking about miles of journeying. This Thanksgiving, Ferdinand was now fluffy; grown out from his summer hair cut. He looks amazing leaping through the snow, and Ty and I laugh and talk and talk and laugh for hours while we trek through whatever mother nature wishes to dish out. The boys, content to ride sleds down the block at the school contact us via cell phone for simple requests like "can we make hot chocolate?" (yes, of course!) or "Will you bring home burger king? (no...you can make grilled cheese though.) and "How much money do you get when you pass Go in Monopoly?" (we lost the rules ages ago...). With competent big brothers abounding, we don't worry when we take off on these walks that the boys do NOT want to come on...due to the expansive lengths of time we enjoy in the wilderness. So, they stayed warm and toasty...happy with their sleds in between bouts of hot cocoa and grilled cheese while smelling the roasting turkey that weighed in at 28.7 pounds.

Sooo...as I was saying, Ty and I took off that morning for a nice long hike while the turkey self basted itself in homemade herbal butter. We decided to trek around through the trees, enjoying the winter wonderland before us. A natural high permeated the woods and we joked about getting lost in a Narnia-like atmosphere.

Deer walked through the woods with us. They seemed completely unafraid of our presence. It was as if we simply belonged there, just like them. We watched them quietly, enjoying the full rack of horns on a prominent buck. Even Ferdinand was quiet. Watching.

We continued walking and came upon a femur. Yeah. A femur. It was large. Not from a deer. It was slightly bloody and it stained the snow. My educated guess was that it had once belonged to a cow. Recently belonged. Ferdinand claimed it, and I let him keep it. He looked so funny carrying a MAMMOTH bone in his teeth, trotting merrily along as if he was leaking pride from every crevice in his being. I wondered what kind of animal had brought that bone to that wooded area. Too big seeming for a fox.

Maybe a mountain lion???

I shivered a bit. Ty could feel that I was a little wary; my anxiety levels climb quickly now-a-days. I've been trying to self monitor these feelings of anxiety, so I suddenly flung myself onto the ground to make a snow angel. I find that acting foolishly and child-like often helps to offset my anxious feelings. Flap, flap, flap! I was determined to make a KICK-ASS snow angel. Ferdi cocked his head at me, his blood stained bone in his mouth. Ty laughed joyfully at my antics and blew rings of misty air into the sky as hot breath met frozen air.

I brushed myself off and looked at the snow angel.

It was bleeding.

Well...not really. IT wasn't bleeding, but, apparently I was.

My period had arrived. And I, stupidly, was not prepared and had soaked through my winter apparel. Soaked into the figure of my snow angel. Where my blood stained the snow like crimson.

I suppose I should have been prepared. I know my cycles. I think I just....wanted to be pregnant.

But, I'm not.

Ty and I held hands as we walked away from the bloody angel.

We want a baby.

That's really all we used to need to know.

In the past, wanting a baby simply meant we would have one.

Time changes these things.

If we had never had children, most people would feel sympathetic with our seeming infertility; but...that really isn't the case for us. We have beautiful sons. Five of them. We had, at one time...two years ago...thought we were complete...done...finished.

Simon and Alexander changed how we felt. Losing them created a vast emptiness, and we realized that we wanted to fill that void. We couldn't have them...but surely we'd be able to have...someone else????

But...a year and a half later of very half-assed efforts at prevention, and in the past 7 months, active trying to conceive...I'm starting to get that I may be...done.

Not because I want to be done. Not because my husband wants to be done.

Simply because I am 36 years old. And very possibly, I am at that 11th hour wherein pregnancy is no longer "easy" to achieve.

It's humorous really. In a sad kind of way. I get to have a monthly period. A HEAVY monthly period, which deep seated cramping and a flow that no one would envy. But...I don't seem to be able to get pregnant. My eggs aren't meeting with sperm and creating a baby. Even though there is ample sperm around.

Even so....I feel really grateful.

As I walked out of the woods with my husband holding my hand, I understood deeply that this man...this dear wonderful man who I love with every cell in my being...is my life partner. Babies grow up...they create their own families. They do not belong to us. We are entrusted to care for them...to open doors for the future. I understood as I walked that even after my babies...now boys...almost young men....are grown and have lives of their own, that I will be holding the hand of this man for as long as life allows us to live. This is my life.

And...it's a good one.

There is much to feel thankful for...including the blood in the snow.

Thanksgiving Approaches

2010-11-17T14:32:00.000-07:00

In one week, I will be serving my family of 7 a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Stuffed under the skin of a beautiful Hutterite (sort of like Amish...) turkey will be a walnut cranberry dressing with all kinds of secret ingredients I will only pass on to my daughter in laws of the future so their husbands won't be wistfully wishing mom was still the only cook in their life. We'll have pomegranate salad, stuffed eggs, artichoke spread, butternut squash and candied yams, ginger pumpkin cheesecake, red smashed herbed potatoes, maple pecan pie, Brussels sprouts and caramelized garlic and a variety of other last minute ideas I am sure to come up with.

We don't live near family...so I'll be doing it all on my own. I'm used to it...in fact...I even like it! There is something about providing a feast like that all on my own. Listening to the moans of delight and knowing I caused them! My sons and husband always tell me I am the best cook in the world, and I appreciate their praise greatly. Yeah...I know how to cook (as is evidenced by the size of my thighs...groan!). I always think about the people who will come to love my sons and want to spend their lives with them. I don't envy them trying to make the things my kids like to eat...so I always knew that I'd be happy to share the secrets with them while encouraging them to find their own culinary signature...Who knows...it's possible they will be better cooks! I'd like to think so....

But, all of this talk brings me to a certain point. I don't know what Simon and Alexanders favorite's would have been. And that fact....hurts.

I can't assume anything about it because the core truth of why I concoct so many dishes each year is that each one of my boys has a different favorite Thanksgiving dish. I make each favorite just to see their eyes light up at the mouthwatering display that contains the food they crave the most. I will never see my twin's eyes light up over a favorite food...or a favorite anything.

My sons have been actively making their Christmas wish lists. So many treasures and desires. So many options for delight. I love looking at the long scrolling lists of heart felt wishes. I remind them each gently that it's impossible to get them everything they wish for. They always smile and express that in truth, they are just EXCITED period.

One of my boys put "A baby" on his list.

He said that was the one he wanted most.

He is currently carrying around a little egg with a painted face....to see if he would be a good father. He says that if he lets the egg break, his baby will die because he wasn't careful.

I responded to this by making him a cotton filled container to reduce the risk of breaking. I never want it to break. But....I do know that at some point, that egg will get rotton...and I will have to do SOMETHING....I don't know what that will be yet. All I know is that the egg needs to stay in tact for my son. It has to.

And yet...eggs are pretty delicate.

And, as he so wisely proclaims, so are babies.

As I scan these holiday wishes, I am forced to be grateful for all the abundance in my life. We have so much.
We have each other. The trauma's of life have brought my family so close. We depend on each other for support, guidance, love and laughter. We count on each other to come through with the tasks we have at hand so that no one else is over-burdened. That can be hard when grief is being dealt with, but I've found that even in grief, this family bedrock has held firm.

Thanksgiving is coming, and Christmas is on it's tail.

The outcomes of both holidays promise to be joyful, with the essence of two little boys that should have been, in the rafters of our hearts. Watching. Protecting. Reminding.

It's time to be thankful for each other. In life. And in death.

It's all the same really.

A Baby with No Name...

2010-11-08T09:22:00.001-07:00

This weekend my husband got a call from a friend who used to be the bass player in his band, The Voodoo Horseshoes. Though they no longer play in the band together, they still appreciate each other musically and spend regular time jamming together. My husband is musically gifted and can play just about anything he wishes to play. . .drums being his hallmark instrument. In any case, the call was about a local bonfire party. When Ty asked me if I'd like to go, I said yes, and so....we went.

It has been an unusually warm fall, which is nice because we have been spending a lot of time walking and talking and talking and walking....in the day, in the night...just...whenever we can! So, in the theme of a beautiful fall, the night was glittering with an abundance of starlight. We pulled up in our car and walked around with Ferdinand for a bit before entering the scene. It's become sort of a tradition really...talking and walking...assessing feelings before entering any social environment...touching base with where we are in the moment as a couple...as people.

Once the ground felt firm under our feet, we walked over to the warmth of the fire. Free-spirited people were smiling and drumming in a circle. Women and some children swayed near the fire. An older woman held a rainbow colored pipe in her mouth, blowing smoke rings into the fire. Ty brought out his guitar and seamlessly entered the melody bringing the mellow groove into an energy that follows my guy everywhere. It was powerful. So, even though I do not carry a musical bone in my body, I pulled out his mini drum and tried to keep some semblance of a beat. My efforts were in vain, but, it didn't matter. I wasn't on stage; I was just one of the many enjoying the music. Participating in the rhythm...even if I have none.

Sparks were flying in the air, and a curly haired woman offered me a huckleberry seltzer. It had whole huckleberries floating in it. It was fresh and inviting and I chastised myself for missing out on the gathering of huckleberries this year. I had wanted to....but, I just couldn't DO it. I know we will miss those berries this winter. Maybe next year I will be ME enough to get out there and gather berries. As I drummed lightly, and sipped my drink I noticed that right beside me was a lovely young mother holding a tiny baby. TINY. He smelled like the newness of life.

I gathered the courage to speak to her. I knew I might cry...but I couldn't stand to pretend that I wasn't dying to touch his tiny nose with my own.

The young mother told me he was nine days old...and when I asked his name, she smiled softly and said "He hasn't shared his name with us yet....He doesn't have a name." My heart swelled as I looked at the little nameless baby. His mother and I talked about baby's, breastfeeding, birth....and I told her I had five living sons. I told her about our loss. We talked about stillbirth and about my journey through it all as the music pulsed around us.

The hours went by and then, she turned to me and smiled.."Would you mind holding him while I go pee and get something to eat?" I looked at her smiling...and nodded.

He felt warm and toasty from the firelight and his mama. His little eyes fluttered open and he SMILED at me...or whatever it is baby's smile at when they are so very new. Then, he nestled in my arms up against my breast and cooed into a sweet slumber. We sat like that for about 20 minutes. I gazed at him intently feeling the energy of this little man with no name. He could be anyone. He could have been any baby. No name to define his inner being. Still free.

For a moment, I thought about the fact that I am not pregnant in spite of a very exuberant and constant attempt to change that. Who else do I know...or does ANYONE know who has sex at least 14 times a week? Or more? I used to be so fertile that it wasn't as much as issue of how, but instead was always just when. As I am now in the 6th month of being "open"....I still have a vacancy sign in the window of my heart...with no takers.

I am the teenage girl who finds herself pregnant after only one encounter; her first and only encounter at that.

I am the mother of five living sons and the woman that had 3 miscarriages in between. I am the .1% of women who will become pregnant with an IUD...with twins. And the mother who lost those twins.

The point is...I used to get pregnant easily. Yes...I've had as many losses as gains, but pregnancy was never an issue.

Until now.

So, as I held that little nameless baby I was surprised that I didn't need to cry. I am not pregnant. I may never be pregnant again. And worse...I may become pregnant at some point only to lose that pregnancy.

I may be too old.

It may be too late.

But I held that little boy....and gently rocked to the music of the drum circle where my husband was now jamming on the drums like there was no tomorrow to the delight of the bonfire companions we were enjoying.

Holding a baby with no name allowed me to feel the energy of baby-ness. It gave me permission to ask the universe who he was. The answer kept coming "He is Peace...Peace....Peace."

His mother came back and smiled at me. I gave her baby back to the warmth of her arms and went back to my lame attempts at drumming. Awed that there was no urge to sob in having to give that precious being to another woman. His mother.

I closed my eyes and felt the pulse of my husbands rhythm in the air all around me melding with the rhythm and song and dance of a group of new sisters and brothers in love with the stars and fire in the clean air of a perfect autumn night. A baby with no name nestled in my heart. Peace flowed through my veins. I found my heart beat and began to feel it in my fingers. Suddenly....I was softly drumming. And it was on the beat. For the first time in my life, I had a rhythm that wasn't painful to the ears or soul. I was really....drumming. To the beat of life. My life. When I opened my eyes, I saw Ty smiling with surprise and joy in his eyes...I was DRUMMING!

My womb may remain empty. The baby in my heart may never have a name. My sexy, virile husband and I may make love more than anyone in the world without sperm and egg creating someone new ever again. But even if all of that is true for the rest of my life, I feel that something was born in spite of it all. It's name is peace---- And it lives in me.

Making Love Amongst Butterflies

2010-10-20T18:21:00.001-06:00

October 15th was International Baby Loss Awareness Day.

It was also my 16th anniversary.

First let me send heart felt, though belated, warmth to all parents who know the pain of losing a baby. or two. or three.....or......well...you get the picture. There are a lot of tears. Let me thank you for walking with me as my tears have fallen...and continue to fall. That is what tears do after all. They fall.

My husband and I went away for the weekend. After 16 years, it was the first...the VERY first....time we had ever left our children alone so that we could enjoy each other, uninterrupted, for more than a few hours.

At first, I was worried. How could they survive without me for so long? I know for certain that every breath I take is because of my love for my children and my husband. I don't say that in a dependent needy way....it's simple truth. They are as much a part of me as my skin...as my heart. Without them...I can not breathe.

O.k....so, that IS an exaggeration. However, it FEELS true. I do know that if the worse came and I lost my family...my entire sweet family...I would continue to breathe, my heart would continue to relentlessly beat, and no matter how many tears I would cry....they would, one day, fall less. and less. Until there would be days wherein I would remember that I forgot to cry.

I know this because there was a time when I believed my heart was broken...physically broken...and yet, all the fancy equipment at the doctors office indicated that not only was my heart NOT broken...it was as healthy as they come. My grief did not kill me then...which tells me that grief can't kill me. It hurts like hell. But...live on? Yeah....that's a given.

But, I digress....I worried about my kiddos. They, however, were anything BUT worried.   They were thrilled to think that they could play video games to their hearts content. (which made me worry more...) I knew they would be o.k.. I made sure their care givers were competent. More than competent. I even drilled the poor women about homeopathic medicine, and which ones to administer if ANYTHING should happen...which, it didn't. None the less....I wanted to leave feeling that they would be safe, happy...and...mostly...safe.

There is nothing like losing a child to point out the fragility of life...and so, before I left, I also wrote a will just in case I never saw my children again. Images of freak car accidents, drowning in the lake, or just...chance lead me to consider that, because my husband and I were both going a whole hour and a half away from our home without our kids, I should make sure they would be in the best of care should we not make it home.

Morbid, I know....but....I did it none the less. I knew I wanted my boys to stay together. I didn't want them doled out to separate relatives.   All I could think about was how they always stick together in hard times, and I knew that if they were going to lose their parents...they would need each other more than ever.

So, I named my brother and sister in law as guardians in my meager will. I wrote to my children about how much I love them. I apologized for my shortcomings. I asked them to always support one another and to keep Ferdi close to them.   I didn't tell anyone I wrote it...I just hid it in my jewelry box--just in case.

And then....I hugged them goodbye, smothered them with kisses, admired their laughter over my emotionality...got into the car with my man...and drove away. As we drove....my worry melted as I relaxed into the reality that the only thing I needed to think about was the warmth of my husbands hand holding mine.

In the three days that we were gone, I discovered perfection.

Not that life could be perfect without my children....but.....it was damn close.

Our cabin was beautiful. Romantic and charming in every way.

The food at the lodge was....delectable. There are no words to describe the delight my taste buds encountered. Every bite was eye popping!

The weather was pristine. Blue Montana skies, a crisp autumn chill under a golden sun and starlight nights.

The lake....oh my god....canoeing across that lake every day was magical. No worries about tipping as there were no children...or even doggies...to upset the boat as Ty and I worked in perfect unison to explore it's diamond brilliance for hours on end.

The hike up to the waterfall.....(may I insert a moan of pleasure here?) and then two beautiful Amber butterflies that seemed to follow us for days. Now, I am sure it wasn't the SAME two butterflies...but....it felt like it. It felt like Simon and Alexander were there. With us.

We enjoyed woods full of incredible mushrooms, golden leaves, and mossy areas where the luscious scarlet blanket borrowed from the lodge would lay perfectly while we ate our lunch.

I never tired of our laughter. I never tired of our conversations.

I marveled that we still had so much to tell each other about our insights, dreams, pondering's and reflections after 16 full years of love and endurance.

I was awed by the fact that we are more in love now than we have ever been.

I was amazed that not one single thing went wrong.

I was delighted that we got to make love any time we wanted to and that we wanted to do so 19 times in three days. Holy cow. Admittedly, some of those times, in fact, several of those times, were not indoors.

It was as if we were newly weds...without the shyness...without the worries or doubts...without the inexperience.

I looked at my balding, grizzled man and saw the youthful twinkle in his eyes and the joy in his smile and I fell in love exponentially in each passing moment. This was my life partner. I suddenly believed that things were looking up...that I would not die and leave my children with more grief. I suddenly understood that when my children are grown and on their own I will still get to hold the hand of this marvelous man who has the libido of a 16 year old boy and the heart of a sage.

I felt incredibly and undeniably lucky.

Life doles out pain. Tears can be abundant. Babies can die.

And yet....

I will never forget the beauty of the scarlet blanket nested among aspen and birch, surrounded by the magic of mushrooms of all sizes, and the sound of birds...and the beauty of the amber butterflies that landed on my husband as we made love in the sunshine.

Delayed Reactions

2010-10-01T14:47:00.000-06:00

My husbands been grieving a lot about our loss in the past few weeks. It seems as though the struggles he was having before and during our loss were more painful at the time than our loss, which he felt was filled with miracles and beauty....and....it's true...our loss was truly full of beauty, though I couldn't quite feel good about any of it at the time. Beauty and miracles meant little to the pain of empty arms and longing for what I would never get back.   So...I mourned....screamed....sobbed....felt the numb crazed feeling that it MUST have all been a horrible dream...that it COULD NOT have been real.

A year and a half later....I have been watching my husband cry...mourn...sobb. The release of his more core pain is allowing him to finally really feel the depth of what...of who....we lost. Our little twins. The boys that should have been running around causing us double trouble...double joy...aren't.

My sweet husband looked at me yesterday with tears in his eyes....."Sara...our twins....oh god....."

I feel his pain. I'm in awe over the delayed reaction. I'm stunned by the reality of core issues needing resolution if one is to be in touch with their feelings. ALL their feelings. Now that I see him, and he sees that I see him....he is free to really feel. But how I wish I could free him from feeling this pain.

Men are curious to me. I have sons...so I happen to be of the mindset that the men, yes...even the white men, of our world are treated pretty poorly overall. Yes, they are dominant...they are "in charge"....our patriarchal society tends to elevate them much more quickly than women or people of color. Yet, I see it everyday in every nook and cranny. Men are dismantled. Taught to be a certain way, to like certain things...and god help you if you happen to fall outside the norms of society. God help you if you are sensitive, intuitive, balanced, or artsy. We put our boys into hard knocks expecting them to come out cool, tough, strong, and pragmatic. Especially...more than anything....cool.

So, what does "cool" look like? Well, to me...it looks like a little boy that was told he couldn't play with a bake set....can't wear pink....shouldn't melt at the sight of a newborn...should be turned on by big boobs and long female legs...oh...yeah...and he mostly shouldn't really cry...and if the truth must be hidden to avoid the tears...all the better.

That's not my guy. It's not how I'm raising my boys. But, I can see that I'm against society. I see it every day with the little boy baby's wearing camo, or onesies with tough guy statements.   I see it in commercials where little boys are told that to be a BIG boy they need a friggin TONKA truck. oh. yeah. I get it.....be a beefhead. Fix cars. Like tools. Chop wood. Carry Water. "Me big man like steak and sexy women. Me have big penis and little brain."

WHAT????

What ever happened to the shamen of the world?    What happened to drum circles where the men played and danced alongside the women? What happened to our elders? What happened to honoring the spiritual...not just the religious?

I've walked through almost 16 years of life with the dearest man I've met, and even he has had to hide...struggle...delay his emotions over tragedy. Even he has had to question where he fits in this testosterone filled world where men scream at women, drink too much, and itch their balls while they watch sports they can't even play.

My husband is having a delayed reaction to loss. It is hurting him deeply.

But I am relieved.

I am relieved because it tells me that a sticky layer of "SUCK IT UP" has been removed. Now he can cry. Now he can feel.

Now...he can be himself.

Boys are tender. Keep them that way. We don't need to dismantle their souls to make them men. In truth, the only way men will become whole is for the whole paradigm of "normal" to get flushed away. We are spirits first. Honor the spirit...and the men...and women...will thrive.

Healing will be found.

Till Death...

2010-09-26T14:24:00.000-06:00

There are miracles afoot.

What does that mean exactly?

Well...it simply means that when something beautiful comes out of something that seems pretty...devastating...it looks like a miracle to me. Right now...there are miracles afoot.

I've always had what anyone would consider to be a very honest and extremely loving marriage. For just about 16 years, in spite of all the hardship, I would have been willing to bet that I knew just about everything about the man I was sharing my life with. He's a very forthcoming man. An open book.

I just hadn't gotten to all the chapters yet.

It makes sense to me that there were things going unmentioned. I've been teetering in an apocalyptic place for years now. Life and Death. Death and Life. Writing in pain. Agony. Unable to see....or hear.

But, in a marriage like ours, the truth will out. It's too painful to keep parts of the self away from your best friend. Much too painful. Destructive.

For the past several years, I've been having a recurrent dream. I am in a very large house, and I know my family is there somewhere. I keep looking, but I can't find them anywhere. I start running from room to room, faster and faster. I can't find them anywhere. I usually wake to that dream covered in sweat. I used to tell my husband about that dream, and we would chalk it off to liking our small house.

But my dream was telling me something, and my husband knew it.

There were rooms in my home I didn't know about. Hidden from my view to protect me. Hidden from my view in the hopes of avoiding more pain directed to me. Because of a deep commitment to our love.

How strange it is to find oneself caught in a lie. In all honesty, a lie that should never have been told. A lie that didn't need to be told. Oh what a tangled web one weaves....

I look back at the past several years in which that lie lived all alone....hiding from me.

I look back at the lie...and forward into the truth, and all I can do is take that lie in my arms...comfort it...hug it....tell it that it o.k. to be in the light...that I can love the truth...and in loving that truth, nurturing it and showing it that it doesn't need to become a lie to exist in the world. . .

In being able to take the hand of the husband I love and look him in the eyes...and know I see truth there...I have found a treasure trove of beauty that has been waiting to emerge.

The truth will set you free.

There isn't anything I can really come up with that can't be forgiven when holding the hand of the man I love.

I can see that lies were told. In fear. In desperation. In hopes of protection....and....in the ridiculous transference of an inner child telling oneself that "mommy" will never understand. Well....maybe MOMMY won't, but....I'm not mommy. I'm his wife. And I understand. I have enough room for this in my pile of issues to integrate. I have enough space in my heart to accept that no one is perfect...no one.

True, I thought my guy was "perfect". He was afraid he had failed me.

What he is finding instead is that I still find him to be perfect. Perfect for me. The perfect husband, lover, friend, partner....the perfect balanced man. Whole. For the first time.

I can see all the rooms in my house now. There is a sign over the door that reads "Open your heart and leave your worries behind. Honesty lives here."

We've always told our children that telling the truth would never be punishable.

My husband has told me the truth and in that truth, I have found a garden within my marriage that is bursting forth in full bloom. And all the flowers are for us.

I always knew my husband was my best friend....and now, he knows I'm his too. He knows I'm strong enough to hear him. Willing to love him in spite of...because of....everything.

The truth can be painful because we think we know what "should" be...and when the truth differs from the frame of reference...it sends some into chaos mode. Working through the pain and tears has been worth it. Finding balance and re-building trust is our tryst.

We are worth it.

More than worth it.

Tomorrow...

2010-09-18T15:36:00.000-06:00

As a little girl I used to belt out the words to "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow..."

I wasn't just singing it, I really believed it would....or...hoped it would.

My childhood was nothing like the childhood my children have. It was dark. Lonely. So, when I sang that song, it was a little like singing the blues.

As life went on...I kept finding myself singing that song from time to time. Always during hard times.

I think tomorrow has come.

They say it always gets darkest before the dawn. The sun is rising....and it feels good on my skin.

On that note....the fact that tomorrow is today doesn't mean rain won't ever fall again....

but today....

It IS tomorrow.

Finding a Way...

2010-09-16T19:46:00.000-06:00

Sorry for worrying you...

Sometimes life twists in unexpected ways, knocking you flat on your face...gasping for breath.

As a mom who has lost babies...had her eldest childs life altered painfully...I get loss. I get it.

But, even while "getting it"...I didn't expect to lose my understandings of who I was...where I was standing...and how life could be so utterly...NOT...what you thought it might be.

All in all....things are weaving themselves into possibly better patterns...open...trusting...patterns.

All in all...maybe things have to be what they are, so that they can become what they will be.

I honestly feel that I can't speak.

I can't really even begin to tell the tale.

Let's just say that it's knocked my socks off...

blew me into an upside down world...

and taught me how to see something in a new light.

A more honest light.

And...maybe, even a more beautiful, whole light.

But...it hurt while it was happening.

More painful than...anything...ANYTHING....I've been through.

Anything.

But...not as lengthy. More of an acute pain, rather than the chronic one of loss and loss and loss and loss......

Pain.

It shocks us into action.

It forces us to pay attention.

It clears the way....

for holding hands again.

I'm o.k.

More importantly...."we" are o.k. once more.

more than o.k.

Upside down

2010-09-15T10:27:00.000-06:00

Sometimes you think you know something...

and then it all turns out to be lie.

Sometimes you think you understand something...

and then you are shown that you understand nothing.

Sometimes...you trust.

and then...you find out you are a fool.

A complete fool.

Lost

Alone

With no options

With no chance to heal

sometimes...

there are no answers. For anything in your life.

Impacts

2010-09-11T18:48:00.001-06:00

Yesterday was my little "Bear's" 7th birthday...

I spent the morning rushing around to get all the odds and ends to make his day super special. I kept thinking about "just one more thing", because I wanted to make sure it was a real par-TAY! He's my baby...my seven year old baby. The big brother who never got to be a big brother. My baby.

I kept rushing around trying not to think about all he has gone through in the past 3 years. But...it's there. Always there.

Three years ago my little Bear turned five. Such a big boy...we had a huge pirate party, complete with treasure hunt, pirate flags, treasure chest and an authentic looking map that I had designed with canvass, tea, coffee, and meticulous burn marks that mapped our entire domain. I had labeled my eldest son's room as "The dwelling of the Kracken..." In my defense...he was going through a difficult...uh....life. I can't say it was a phase, because he was always the way he was. That goes along with being bi-polar. We were just starting to realize the fact that he was dealing with more than "normal boy behavior." Or rather...his therapists were finally starting to realize it. sigh. In any case, it was not a surprise that I would have labeled his room as a dwelling of an unpredictable monster...it was just...the way it was. I have always tried to be humorous about that which was difficult. A defense mechanism. Trying to make light out of darkness. That was before I knew how much could be taken from me. From all of us.

We went through the motions of the party, laughter, fun....me in a black sun-dress...which was odd because, at the time, I never...ever...wore black. ever. My friends noticed it. I remember looking at the clock wondering why my eldest wasn't home. Thinking it was typical selfish behavior. He knew it was his brothers birthday...and yet....he wasn't home. I figured he had blown it off after work. It never crossed my mind that maybe there was another reason he was missing.

The party ended. It had been perfect...even perfect in the moments where my friends had gathered in a circle in my living room talking about Sanderson...and his absence. His gymnastics coach commented on how irradic his behavior had been lately. We talked about the likelyhood of bi-polar disorder...I remember him sighing and saying "What's it going to take to wake him up?" We all nodded...

It wasn't that he was "bad". He wasn't doing anything "bad". He was just....selfish...off kilter...mean. And...honestly, it really sucked to be around him 80% of the time. Hard for a mom to admit, but really true. I would ask to have it all back....if only....if only.....

We went on a walk after the party ended. When we returned I noticed my son's bike was still not home. I heard the phone ringing inside...

What followed was the blurry feeling of understanding that something is terribly terribly wrong. The nauseous sensation of realizing that your child is near death. That you may never talk to him again.

He lay there in the hospital with half his face scraped from the cruel pavement. No helmet. No helmet. No protection from hard pavement. No way to understand anything. Gaping wounds all over his face...all over his skull....where his brain lay bleeding within. The words "stabilized" mean little to someone who understands the critical nature of serious brain damage. They mean even less when a catatonic boy lays on a bed breathing only because a machine makes it possible.

He lay for days between life and death. Death. I looked at the brain scans over and over. Something I used to enjoy for fun...analyzing brain scans...of other people. Now...it was my son. MY son. And, his brain....didn't look the way it should have looked. Damaged. Badly.

They say I have PTSD from that event. Nightmares, hyper-vigilance...random crying.

It's been three years.

I looked up as I set up the party and wondered WHY I had thought to choose a pirate balloon as the main centerpiece. It hadn't been conscious. It was just as random as the fact that the balloon clerk had given me a purple and yellow star balloon as well to bob around in the balloon bouquet I ordered for Bears birthday.

Just...random.

I decorated around those balloons, suddenly noticing that there was a strong sense of de'ja vu happening. I unraveled the streamers...rainbow streamers....and I thought about the little golden haired boy that used to tell us his favorite color was "rainbow". My eldest son....so difficult...so beautiful....so....very much...HIM.

The Pirate balloon....and three years ago. We didn't have a theme this year....but there it was, just the same.

Purple and Golden Stars....WHY had she chosen those colors out of all the colors she had to choose from. But it was perfect that they were there. Sweet Simon and Alexander. You should have been here this year.

Last year, Bear's birthday was marked with tears of loss. Loss for the babies that we wanted so much...for the path that we wanted to be on instead of the one we were on. Loss of his excitement to be a big brother after being the "little bear" for so long. A silent birthday...with forced smiles. A lost birthday celebration. One in which he still didn't learn to ride a bike...he didn't even WANT to ride a bike due to the fear instilled by his oldest brothers accident. One in which, I wore the same black dress...because I could only wear black...without them. without my babies that should have been. Black.....

So, you can see why I wanted THIS year to be different...and yet...there were all these memories...such sad memories.

I made the cake, shaped like a ferret....as requested. Chocolate filled with caramel and cream frosting. perfect. Delightful....and promising to be one of the most delectable I've ever made. Bears eyes shone with joy. His cake...was perfect. Mommy was BACK.

Framed with rainbow streamers, balloons...as aforementioned...and piles of presents. Too many presents. Trying to make up for trauma. Trying to tell the little boy with the newly broken arm from a recently silly fall that life was going to be better....much much better. Happier. Safer. That not every year would have trauma. Loss. Pain. Tears.

I could hear kids on the trampoline...my Bear laughing from the outskirts. He wasn't allowed on the tramp due to his broken humerus. But, he was having fun watching the antics of the other kids. Too many kids. I knew it was too many kids....but...I didn't get out there fast enough. A little boy broke through where the springs were supposed to hold him....and was brought inside by his sister. Blood streaming everywhere. From nose...head...the corner of his eye. Head wounds bleed. a lot. They often look worse than they are...but they are also sometimes worse than they look.

A blue homeopathic kit. A red first aid kit. Flashing hands. Blood. Homeopathic Arnica and Aconite. Compresses. Gauze Pads. LOTS of gauze pads. Tea tree ointment. More homeopathics. I looked at his wide eyed mom..."Honey..do you have insurance? He needs to go to the ER. Now." I showed her the deep gaping wound on his head. She paled. More Aconite...for her. More Arnica....for him. I didn't suspect a concussion...but the wound was too big and too deep to ignore. The little boys was calming down. The homeopathy was working. More Aconite. More Arnica.

I was shaking.

Too much blood. Too similar to my own beautiful sons face...gaping wounds on pale skin. A forever scar.

The party continued. I listened as people took turns hugging me and telling me I should have been a doctor.

yeah. In another lifetime...I would have been. But now....

The children continued to play...but not on the trampoline. It's coming down. It's banned. If it's springs are aging...it's no longer safe. Even with a safety net 10 feet tall. Not safe. Our children. They are never safe. Not really.

I hugged my eldest goodbye. All grown up. I rarely see him. His scars, so small and insignificant...the reminder of the damage within...the only visable remnant of that nightmarish time three years ago. The moods are still there...but at least we know what they are now. Now that it's too late. As he waved goodbye I looked up at the rainbow streamers and thought of the little boy who loved rainbow more than any other color; I wondered where life was taking him.

Bear and I settled on the couch to look at his loot. Too many presents. Will every other birthday seem skimpy after this assortment? He seemed most happy with a green noise maker that emits various cartoon sounds upon pressing a button. He especially enjoyed the sound of something falling with a pronounced "splat" sound giggling each time it was pressed.

I asked him if he'd had a good birthday. "Yeah...but it seems like my birthdays are kinda dramatic lately."

Oh baby....they really have been. It seems like life in general has been pretty dramatic lately.
If only I could change that. Put in an order for less drama....that's what I want. less drama. less trauma. less...blood.

In all honesty...I'd like a bit of boredom. I'm just fine with the idea of abundance, joy, and laughter being what my life is made of...I don't feel guilty for wanting the remainder of my existence to be happy...but I know that life just isn't like that. At least...I don't think it is.
Somehow, I doubt boredom is in the cards for us. It seems like something is always stirring the pot. Making us stronger? weaker? stronger? weaker?

Whatever it is doing, one thing is certain. We live in interesting times. This is a day many say they will never forget. Sept. 11th. A day to remember as if other losses on other days are less significant. For me...it is a lifetime to remember for a multitude of reasons. I put on that black dress today. One of many that I wear often. Black soothes me...reminds me that it's o.k. to mourn loss in life. So many losses. So many tears.
I will never forget.

"What the Hell are you Guys Thinking???"

2010-09-04T21:30:00.003-06:00

The doors open...

But it doesn't seem like anyone is coming to visit. Yet.

Instead, I'm walking by myself in this body next to a flowing river of reminders and contradictions.

This was a hectic week. The kind of week that would make any sane person wonder why we have opened that door again. "What the HELL are you guys thinking???" My lovely 14 year old began school after a lifetime of being home schooled. Chinese, Drama, Choir, Biology, English, P.E. and Math now house 8 hours of his day...and then, if this week is any indication of the future, 6 more hours of homework each night. He's doing beautifully...thumbs up to the power of homeschooling with free-styled enthusiasm. He hasn't missed a beat.

But I sure miss him...

I miss his constant musical presence, his funny jokes, his help...his BE-ingness.

Our younger kiddos miss him too. But, they are finding a new rhythm with each other without their older brother paving the way. And, it's all good...I'm pleased with what I see. I'm pleased with who they are.

I'm taking two classes at the University. I take Ferdinand with me...and I admit that I am awfully glad I do. He just sleeps the whole time...but I can reach down and snuggle with his fur as needed. (often) My profs are so enchanted with his loveliness that they never even questioned his giant presence in the room--because I do so need him. "What the HELL are you guys thinking???"   I have a great sociology major coming to the house while I am gone to teach the boys Italian and Piano...she also cleans the house. It's wonderful really. She's awesome...so much energy...

The boys are also learning bass, keyboards, drums and guitar in band format with a music recorder...he's a little odd...but he's doing a wonderful job. And, of course, Ham still plays bagpipes with the Celtic Dragons.
They are continuing Aikido as well. And Ty still does his band...and works more than full time as a wondrous therapist for so many down trodden heartbroken life-broken people.

My computer broke last week...not just glitching but...DIED. I had to buy a new one. Not "wanted" to buy...but HAD to buy. Several deadlines for writing work demanded it. It's funny...I never dreamed I would be so dependent on a computer for anything important, but as a freelance writer...it's my job. And we depend on my ability to work, hence I depend...deeply...on my computer.   So...I got a new one. Just in time to realize that now that my 14 year old is in high school, he ALSO needs a computer. He spent 6 hours on this one for his homework on Thursday. Needless to say I didn't get much work done as a result. Yeah...the kids need their own computer. Computers are expensive. "What the HELL are you guys thinking???"

Our busy week also enlightened me to the fact that this family of almost 16 years that has happily existed with ONE car suddenly needs...TWO. Not wants....NEEDS.   "What the HELL are you guys thinking???"

The time frame of vehicle need demands it. The time frame of action needs prohibit the bus. or bike. or...feet.
Oh...and I got pulled over on the way home today from a Chinese restaurant because I didn't fully stop at a completely abandoned intersection. And my wallet was at home. shiiiiiiiiiiiiitttt. Luckily...the police officer was a nice young man and didn't ticket me. He could see my husband with a full latte' and four kids in the back looking ever so sweet with our darling sheepie. But...oh...by the way...in addition to me driving without my license...I had not put the insurance card in our new car. Because...I forgot. shiiiiiiiiitttttt.

This busy life....
"What the HELL are you guys thinking???"
It's halted my ability to get to hot yoga.
"What the HELL are you guys thinking???"
And for anyone who has been reading here....you know that is bad news.

Real bad news.

We are talking....BAD.

I keep thinking if I just work a little harder, move a little faster, reach a little further...that I'll find a way.
"What the HELL are you guys thinking???"
But I wrote everything on the calender.

And with one family car.

It can't happen. It won't happen. And...cars are expensive. "What the HELL are you guys thinking???"

So...whether it was my jolting hormones, the disappointment of seeing my period arrive after being so hopeful in spite of my best efforts to "play it calm and carefree", or the high pressured week...I lost my cool. Again.

I could see that no matter how I juggled life around...as long as we have one car...it is impossible to take care of ME.   "What the HELL are you guys thinking???" Now, I've been a mom for a loooong time. 20 and a half years. I used to tell my friends that I didn't need "me time".

But times have changed.

I have changed.

It isn't that I want to get away from my children or my husband or my work. It isn't that I don't enjoy my classes or my home.

It's just that I'm like a pressure cooker now. My eldest son suffering a life altering brain injury followed by losing Simon and Alexander in such a grizzly way....oh god...a three year period of emotional trauma...and I can feel my nervous system sizzling in the aftermath.   "What the HELL are you guys thinking???"   It begins when I skip a day of hot yoga. The little groan within. It gets stifled with the promise of "tomorrow". But...when tomorrow becomes another tomorrow and another tomorrow....and another....and another.......and then, becomes the realization that it might be...next week. next month. and then....becomes...."I don't know when", well...that's when the temperature gets turned up.

I can literally feel my neurons screaming.

And that little voice that never used to be part of who I was screams "WHAT ABOUT ME???"

Oh the shame. To "need" anything just for pleasure. A complete luxury really. To "want".

But, to be really honest...the only fair comparison is this: If you had spent a year in utter misery...feeling a dark cloud around the core of your being...wishing you could fling yourself out of a glass window, chop off your hair, or tattoo the word "PAIN" on your forehead just so people would GET it....and then, you found a magic pill that lightened the pain...calmed the hurt....gave you back your breath....well...if someone told you two months later, after you had re-discovered laughter and hope, that you couldn't have that pill for a few months....or maybe ever again...   "What the HELL are you guys thinking???"

well....that's what not having hot yoga is for me. It's that magic pill that offered me my life again. It calmed the storm...gave me back my hope.

But...I haven't taken that magic pill for a few weeks. First due to a lovely vacation...then...to illness....then....to....life.

I know I have to DEMAND it back. I know that.

Honestly, I am a mom. I've been a mom since I was 15. I'm used to waiting for "my time". I'm used to putting everything else first. Everyone else...first.

Ty understands that. Sometimes he says that it can take a temper tantrum to really express the importance of something. So that the people around you understand how very important something IS. We always saw that if our kids had a rare tantrum...and we see in now...in me.

I got a fortune cookie tonight at a Chinese restaurant...It said: "Make sure the pace of life doesn't interrupt the ability to care for yourself."
"What the HELL are you guys thinking???"

Little purple and yellow shoes sit over looking footprints of tiny feet...the promise that the door is open. That someone is welcome to walk through and claim those little shoes.

A loving man...living the same pace of life alongside me. . . He knows we have to find a way to make hot yoga a regular part of our lives. The nervous breakdowns insist upon that. Sometimes a tantrum is the best way to express the dire needs we have in life. Sometimes a fortune cookie makes it all clear.

And to those of you who read these words...thank you. Thank you for witnessing my journey...for not making me walk alone in the night. For understanding and sharing your own reflections on life.

Thank you. Thank you for not asking me... "What the hell are you guys thinking?!" I'm already asking myself that question...and the only answer I can come up with is that not being open to life...simply feels like death.

Wary of Hope

2010-08-27T10:01:00.002-06:00

Optimism. It comes...and goes. Boy does it ever GO.

I was looking back over my posts, noting the ups..and downs...and downs....and dooooowns.

Those downs make the ups seem like wishful thinking. A bleep of gold in the big picture of gray. Like a struggling heartbeat pulse that tries to keep you alive in spite of the flat line in between.

I know people are reading here...lots of people. 325 people read this blog in the past two weeks. 2 comments appeared. Not that I write FOR comments...but, if 325 people are going to read my thoughts, I wonder why only 2 felt to comment. It makes me feel....flat....and curious. However, I know that I don't always comment on the blogs I love to read. Like so many others, I am busy...too busy to do more than read poignant understandings and wipe empathetic tears away in response.

Speaking of tears...

We went on vacation last week...a beautiful, refreshing, healing vacation. It was so wonderful to be with my family without any other agenda. We got addicted to it. The pain of having vacation end was acute for all of us. The idea that we wouldn't be spending every day, all day long together....hurt.

We bought a tiny pair of baby shoes at the zoo. Made of hand felted purple wool sewn together with yellow thread. When we went to the check out, my husband squeezed my hand hopefully. Perhaps we would have a happy ending after all. Of course...we still don't know anything about that aspect of life. Too soon to know. Too soon to even hope really.

And yet...we do. Hope.

He asked me this morning if I should take another test. He wants to KNOW something...wants to know if spirit was on our side this month...or if we get to keep trying....wants to know if I was vomiting because of illness or pregnancy...wants to know if I'm tired because of depression or pregnancy....

He just wants to KNOW.   Something.

I shook my head.

We will know soon enough.

My gut says that hoping is for silly folk that want to get hurt again.

My heart wants to hope and trust that if it's not to be NOW...it will be soon.

But...I've seen it happen again and again.

The hope. The joy. The loss. Repeated loss.

It happens.

a lot.

I've also seen rainbows appear. Beautiful vibrant rainbows with baby laughter and tiny toes perfect for the little shoes that are sitting up on our memory shelf.

I suddenly realized that even when...even if.......
I will never be the woman that is blissfully anticipating it all to work out exactly as it should. Because I know that it doesn't always happen like that.

I am thinking about the woman who shrugged off worry, who believed that pregnancy was inevitable, and that a baby in arms is expected if you take care of yourself. Oh how I always took care....so much care.

I realize that I'm afraid of taking another pregnancy test.

I'm afraid of only seeing a single line.
I'm afraid that I might never see two lines again in my lifetime.
What if I'm broken?
I'm afraid of seeing two lines.
I'm afraid of nine months of worry...
and then...a lifetime more of worry.

Because, they are never really safe. Not really.

I wonder if my nervous system can take it. Either senerio might be too much. Again.

I never used to wonder about my nervous system. I never used to panic if I thought I couldn't squeeze hot yoga in. I never used to panic about pregnancy. Or child rearing. Or money. Or space. Or...anything.

Yesterday, my 9 year old cut himself with a knife when he reached into the sink to grab something. There was a lot of blood. As I applied pressure and got out the first aid kit, I found myself trying to breathe...my heart was pounding. I wanted to scream. So much blood. I couldn't believe that I was so panicked. Did I ever think I wanted to be a doctor? How much blood had I dealt with in my lifetime? Why was this bothering me SO much??? I looked at my little boys face and tried to remember how old he was before I said "Wow sweetie...you are being so brave for an eight year old." He looked at me strangely..."Mom...I'm nine...remember?"

No...I didn't remember. I was in a dense fog when he turned eight last year...and just coming out of it when he apparently turned nine. I felt the lump in my throat rise and I worked hard to swallow it. I keep thinking he is eight...or seven. I looked up at the other boys, who were staring at the blood....they were all older than I wanted to realize. 14?? 11?? 9?? 6...only to turn seven in two weeks??? What the HELL!!!! I lost a year of my children's lives. They lost a year of having a "real" mom. Do I really want to risk any more lost time?   Is it only selfish to hope for a happy ending? What if it ISN'T happy? What if I bring more pain and loss into my home? Is that really fair for any of us?

It's amazing how much blood can emerge from a tiny slice. It's gruesome really. It was everywhere. One would have thought an artery had burst open from the scene I cleaned up. But, really...it was simply that a tiny little slice can produce a huge amount of evidence. Imagine what a big slice would do.

It was then that I understood that my heart has not only been sliced a bit...it has been turned into chopped liver. It's gushing and bleeding is profuse...and it's hard to apply enough pressure to ease the bleeding. There is a massacre inside of my being...hot yoga soothes the pulse...but I'm still bleeding.

I still stand by what I said before...I am open to "YES"...but, I'm afraid too. That open door sure does hurt when it gets slammed on your fingers. Especially if they have been broken before.   I'm standing in that open door looking at the memories of blood and tears that have stained the walls around me. It's hard to be optimistic. It's a silly lie to say I'm ready for it to slam on me again. It's also a silly lie to say I trust that all will be well. And yet another lie to say I don't believe in miracles.

I suppose all I can do is stand...breathe....hope...and know that 325+ people are witnessing my struggle while silently watching...waiting....wondering.......

An open door...

2010-08-24T15:40:00.000-06:00

I often think about how "funny" it is to make a decision about life. In all honesty, I tend to believe that we don't really have a lot of choice in how things might or...might not...go. It's not that I think we have NO choice, but rather...that we have limited choice.

For example...I would have chosen that my firstborn son would go through his tumultuous teen years unscathed and able to look back and scoff at all the worry he caused us. I would have chosen that ultimately, he would emerge whole...safe...sound.

It wasn't to be. Yes...he IS alive. He's still beautiful and funny. At times. In many ways, one would look at him and see a normal young man--but it's within that the damage has been done. Deep within the brain. Where memory fails. Where names, dates, times...and logic...are largely absent.   The damage of three years ago rears it's relentless face and laughs "He will never be the same...ever."

Of course, we always hope for improvement, and the brain DOES heal----slowly. But, I know too much about brains. I know too much about the particular damage of HIS brain. I know the limitations. I know the reality.

I would have protected him. I wasn't given the choice. And, neither was my son. Now when people ask him what he wants to "be"...I cringe a little when I hear him say he wants to study micro-biology. Not because I don't think it's a great thing to study, but because I know he has some serious deficits that don't meld well with the flied of micro-biology. I want him to succeed...and I'm not sure he can in that area. Maybe life will surprise us all. Maybe.

My pregnancy with Simon and Alexander...wow...it was a surprise. I accepted that the choice of that pregnancy wasn't mine alone. I embraced the gift. But it was stolen before I could unwrap it's beautiful contents. No choice in the matter...it wasn't about what I wanted; not in the beginning...nor in the end.

Today, I stand here in front of a little strip of paper. It only has one red line on it. I knew it was too early to test of course. WAY too early. But I know that on the first night of Ramadan, a beautiful spiritual holiday for many around the world, I had a dream of a beautiful baby in my arms...I could hear audible laughter in my ears, and woke up with it's tinkling sound resonating around me. My husband came to me after a similar, simultaneous dream and an agreement was found in our love. We were ready to make a choice. We chose Yes.

Ever since that night, there have been an unusual amount of obstacles preventing further encounters...very strange for a couple that rarely misses a chance to love each other. But, we would just shrug, laugh, and know that it simply seemed....beyond our control.

But, I was ovulating two days after that night.   It could have happened.

So, I stand here...with that little paper in front of me. Only one line.

Why did I test too early? I knew it wouldn't show me two lines, even IF that beautiful magic of baby creation did in fact take after only one sweet, beautiful, deeply spiritual encounter. I'm not Muslim...I don't celebrate Ramadan, but, I AM aware of it and I honor it's profound place in the spiritual community of life. If I had the choice, I would say that I'd like for it to be true that our next child had been conceived under such a beautiful phase of the universe.   I would like to believe that the laughter I heard so clearly was the tinkling of bells I will hear again soon.

I had another dream 2 days ago...I was on a beach walking.   I found a perfect rippled shell and I opened it to find a beautiful silver necklace. It had a single name on it. I woke up smiling..."Oh....I DO like that name...."

And so...I will test again...later. Late enough to understand that if I see another single line that I didn't really get to choose, but that I can always try again...and again....and again.... Late enough to know that if I see two lines...I still don't get to choose the outcome of life. My eldest son has shown me that even when you think all will be well...it can all change in one life altering moment. Simon and Alexander have shown me that pregnancy doesn't always end with a beautiful baby to cuddle. My other children have shown me that being open to life is...truly a gift.

But, it will be o.k....one line or two lines. It will be o.k., because one thing that the universe cannot control is my attitude. And right now, the attitude my husband and I are sharing is one of being open to "Yes."   It's about opening the door. Maybe no one will come through it. But, at least it is open....and he...or she...is welcome.

Remembering Something Beautiful About Loss

2010-08-08T09:04:00.002-06:00

There they are...

Both of them.   In a golden sunset to rival all others. Just as I remember them.

Last night while brushing my teeth I noticed something on the wall. Something...icky. When you have multiple sons it's not too unusual to encounter things of questionable sanitary status, so I wasn't shocked or anything. But still...it was...gross. I thought about how many times I've suggested that boogers needed to NOT be wiped on a wall. Especially not the bathroom wall when only inches away sat a roll of perfectly nice toilet paper.    Apparently one of my lads likes to absently dig for treasure whilst on the toilet...and tends to wipe the remains on the closest wall.   Whomever he is...he keeps forgetting to use the available toilet paper.

According to my sons, they do not do this. None of them believes that they are "the one." So...we must have a booger picking ghost...or something.

Anyway, when I saw the smear I got out my tea-tree spray to clean it up and I felt myself tearing up. Simon and Alexander won't ever wipe booger smears on the wall. They won't ever look up at me in complete innocence declaring that they would never wipe a booger on the wall. It was then that I noticed it. . .When you've lost someone...they become...perfect. They have no vices...no flaws....nothing.   Only the beauty of love surrounds them. Golden...warm...always wanted....treasured. For all time. You never sigh over the chore of cleaning up your dead child's booger. NO! In fact, all you want in the world is to be able to wipe those damned boogers that SHOULD have been there away, and then hug the little rascal for feigning innocence.

Carly Marie Dudley from "To write their names in the sand" sent me these photos yesterday...and Jill Alderman added Simon and Alexander to her "Vermont Angels" only days before....

When I look at these expressions of beauty and remembrance, it touches me to think that all I'll ever have to remember of Simon and Alexander are images of poignant beauty. They will never "accidentally" do anything annoying. They will never stay up past their bedtime trying to catch glimpses of the movie mom and dad are watching with the snippets of raw humor inappropriate for young viewers. They will never whine about having to get in the back seat of our car. They will never draw silly pictures in the columns of their homeschool books when they should be studying. They will never have a food that they pretend is poison to avoid eating it. They won't act jealous over how much more ice cream their brother seems to have gotten. They won't complain. They won't argue. They won't....do anything. Anything at all.

They will only stay perfect...beautiful...and yearned for.

Remembered in the sky, with flowers, near water of all kinds in all places, riding on the wings of exquisite butterflies....and in golden perfect sunsets. Sunsets wherein I wish with all my heart that the photo contained the footprints of my babies next to my own where we might have walked hand in hand...if only.

Wiping boogers from the wall no longer seems so irritating. It's a symbol of the aliveness of the boy that did it. And even if I never know the culprit, I know there will be a day when the boogers cease. And I will remember that being a parent was, if nothing else, an adventure. A big, beautiful, and unexpected adventure. Wiping boogers from the walls...cleaning up vomit...breaking up squabbles of minimal importance...wiping away tears...offering hugs...telling stories....and...even having to say goodbye before you wanted to. That is being a parent. We collect memories. In the end, whether it is cleaning away a booger, chasing away a nightmare, giving a last kiss, or walking in spirit within a golden heavenly field...what else do we have?

Walking a Tight-rope

2010-08-06T17:05:00.002-06:00

It comes.

And goes.

And comes again.

And all the while I know inside that which ever way it is, is completely transient...impermanent...fleeting...

Just like the reason for all of it in the first place. Transient. Impermanent. Fleeting.

On one level, it might be comforting to know that whatever it is we go through is actually only a moment. A speck. A flash of reality...or dream. Something that won't last. Not forever anyway.

On another level...the fact that nothing is lasting...nothing permanent...nothing even SOLID...well...it bothers me sometimes.

There's the person...the "me"...that wants something I can rely on. Even if it were to be devastation in my feelings for all time.

Then, there is the person that is grateful that things move forward...onward...ever changing...so that we can heal. As if...as if we can ever really heal....as if we could ever forget.

As if we want to forget.

My birthday is coming. I say that with a flat affect. My birthday is coming. A reminder of my age. Or rather...a reminder of the age of my eggs. The age of my waning fertility.

My birthday is coming. I'm not old...but my eggs are getting older. Older than I wanted them to be if I was still wondering if my family was really complete.

I need time to wonder. Time to assess. Time to figure it all out.

Even if it's only time to accept that it's over. That it all ended with a quadruple stint with death. Simon's, mine, Alexander's, mine....death...four times...in two months. Last year at this time I was just coming to terms with the fact that I had had twins, that I was the mother of the twins I'd always wanted. Always. And...that I'd never have them again.

So, as I wonder about the yes's and the no's regarding my fertility and the outcome of my family I know we might have another sweet little boy...or a little girl (go ahead...laugh...it could happen....couldn't it??) but most likely...even less likely than having a little girl...we wouldn't have twins. And even if we COULD...it wouldn't be "them". So that's really what I have to come to terms with. If I'd never become pregnant with Simon and Alexander...if my idea that we "were done" had actually played out...would I be thinking I wanted to try once more? Most likely...no. And yet, things change. People change. Situations change. Lives change. Had this all happened 100 years ago I wouldn't have to think about any of it, because having more children would just BE what was...but as my husband reminds me...I'd also be dead, so, you win some, you lose some--right?

Now things aren't so clear. Now things aren't so solid. Now...nothing is permanent. And...in truth...nothing has ever been permanent.

And because of that impermanence...that fluidity...that big question mark in my gut....

I am questioning. Everything.

I am wondering.

I am crying.

I want someone to tell me what to do. And I want it to be the right answer. The one I know I want, but can't seem to find a way to so that I can figure out what it is I really want. The answer I will feel good about when I'm 98 years old. The right one. The solid one.

The one...that makes sense. On every level. Materially, Mentally, Spiritually and Emotionally.

The funny..or not so funny thing is this. There are two sides. The material and mental...and the spiritual and emotional. They don't concur. And so I am divided. Divided in a world that is fluid, transient, ever changing, and impermanent.

In the end, what I do or do not do matters very very little in the big schema of our tiny speck of a planet. My personal choice won't make or break anyone.

Except...maybe me.

Come and See!!!

2010-07-31T16:46:00.000-06:00

Can you believe what a Beeeeaauuuuutiful job my sweet friend Jay Jay did on my blog??? I had some ideas, and she just flew with them! Thank you sweet lady-bird...I'm enchanted with your ability to weave such beauty. If anyone wants a blog makeover...this is the woman to do it! Don't be shy!...go for it! It's worth it on every level. Love you Jay!

Double Scoop Please...

2010-07-29T14:35:00.001-06:00

The hot yoga is helping. My sweet shaggy Ferdinand is helping. My boys and darling husband are helping. Writing is helping.

But it isn't enough.

It doesn't make it stop hurting.

I keep making the movements. I keep working hard to smile. But isn't it such a strange thing to say that I'm working "hard" to smile? I have to think it first--- "Smile Sara!" and I do....because I want "them" to know or at least, think, that I'm doing better; That my daily yoga, miles of walking and reams of typing...are helping. And they really ARE. But...when I note the presence of relief in the fact that I'm "doing better", it's a co-occurring unspoken statement that I'm not allowed to fall back into my tears. Not allowed. Not allowed....to feel the pain.

Yet, it isn't about being ABLE to NOT feel that pain. I'm just trying to live in SPITE of the pain.

And...it's working.

But some days are easier than others...much, much easier.

I kissed the boys goodbye yesterday as I went to hot yoga. They screamed the scream they always scream when I go--- "BYE MOM! YOUR THE BEST MOM IN THE WORLD!!!"--- and ran off to play the Wii while I was absent. With the age range of children I have, I can leave Mr. 14-year-old-going-on-30 in charge without any inner qualms while I go to hot yoga for a few hours. I admit it...it's nice to have a kid you can trust to be so mature and loving to the younger kids...who, in fact, get older every day. I hopped on the bus and settled into my seat. We cruised down the mountain....and as I watched out the front mirror...a precious baby dear with little soft white spots darted in front of the bus. I screamed internally as his mother rushed to him and he squirmed in agony on the side of the road....dieing....in pain....the bus driver didn't even slow for a second. He had a schedule to keep...nothing a baby deer would alter. In my mind...he had just hit a child...it was a hit and run. To the unflinching bus driver....it was just a stupid deer. In his way.

Then, a woman got on the bus. She had a neck brace and bruising on her face. She looked at me for a minute and then started to tell me about the man that had beaten her to a bloody pulp only 6 weeks ago putting her in ICU. He got five months in jail...for almost killing her because she broke up with him. Five months. Only five. She has (very possibly permanent) brain damage from being beaten repeatedly with a lead pipe. He got five months of jail time. I reached over to her and took her hand. We sat there holding hands while I tried to convey some places that might be able to help her. And then, she got off the bus. I had never seen her before and she told me that because of her memory problems, even if she saw me again, she wouldn't know me, even though she wanted to remember...I wished I had thought to give her my phone number, but I didn't. She walked off the bus in a daze and looked like she wondered where she was going. And the guy that did that to that 23 year old girl...got five months in jail.

I got off the bus downtown and walked to the Hot Yoga House that is my sanctuary. My wrist has been hurting so I couldn't wait for the soothing infrared heat to help heal it. Yoga....was good. It was healing...I could breathe...I tried to empty my mind of the image of the dieing deer and the battered woman...not because I didn't care, but because I cared SO much that it hurt.

I knew my husband would be a little late picking me up, so I took a stroll to "The Big Dipper". I walked over the famous river that runs through "it"...and enjoyed the cool breeze on my face that was wafting up from the river. As I walked off the bridge, I saw a homeless man. He asked if I had any change with a smile. He wasn't drunk or scary...just homeless. I would have helped him if I'd had anything more than my debit card in my bag, but I replied "I'm so sorry sir...I don't have any cash on me." I felt badly that I couldn't help, and that even if I had change in my pocket, it wouldn't have been enough "change" to give him a home. He smiled again and tipped his hat at me. "It's o.k. miss...it's a pleasure to be in the presence of an Angel...you KNOW your an Angel don't you?" I shook my head and laughed uncomfortably a little and waved goodbye. I could hear him calling after me..."I'm not kidding miss...your an Angel...didn't anyone ever tell you WHO you were before?" I felt a lump in my throat...and I didn't understand why. I keep encountering strangers that tell me I'm an angel. It's happened again and again. I always feel like crying when they say it. Now that my twins are gone...I wonder if what they are seeing now is that I am the mother of angels. I wonder... even though it doesn't explain years of being told randomly that I'm an angel. That's just....odd; and it makes me choke back tears.

As I walked into the ice cream stores lot, I saw a couple with their ice cream faced 2 year old that I had seen only a week or so before our loss. They had no idea that we'd lost that pregnancy. No idea. The woman came up to me with a smile and said "GAWD Sara! You look beautiful...but weird without babies! Aren't you supposed to have a baby or something?? Where's your little one?....Are you O.k.? you look sad...."

I froze inside. "Our twins died....last year...stillbirth..."

A horror struck look appeared on her face, joined by a deep sadness on her husbands. They know us as the care free family with tons of happy kids. When they were expecting, I remember the calls for advice and emotional support. Parenting had always been....my gift. It's something I love. It's something I've been doing for 20 years, and doing it beautifully in all honesty. I was a birth goddess.... a parenting diva.... whole... beautiful... and wonderfully patient... wonderfully confident.

There it was. She was right... I'm the mama that ALWAYS has a little one... or at least, I used to. All my boys were independent at home with a fun-loving big brother watching them. No babies... no one wanting to be with mama more than a video game. No one needing me every moment of every day.

She tried to brush it away by complaining about how her son kept wanting to run mindlessly into traffic... and the truth is that all I wanted in the world was to be like her again, chasing a little silly walker around to prevent him from running into traffic. Maybe it sounds crazy, but I preferred the stress of parenting a toddler to pleasurably walking down the road without any responsibility to ANYONE else with a yoga mat in tow. All I wanted in the world was to eat an ice cream cone with nursing twins in tandem while on lookers gasped in shock or admired my ability to "Just DO it!"

The husband hugged me goodbye, insisting that he owed Ty and I a favor and that he wanted us to call him on it. What was the favor? Ty was there to listen to him when he needed a shoulder to lean on in the earlier days of parenting...and I'd been kind enough to get his son a gift when he was born. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary for us, and we didn't feel that we'd done anything exceptional. He clearly wanted to give us something....anything...to ease the pain. So, he said "he owed us". They waved good bye and I waved back, longing to scoop that little huckleberry creamed face 2 year old into my arms to just smell his hair......but instead...I had a double scooper....for "them."

For them.

Because I should have had them with me....and instead...I only had ice cream, and the clear understanding that I don't look like ME without THEM. I chose a scoop of eggnog and a scoop of Mexican chocolate. I went over and sat on the side walk licking my homemade ice-cream cone thoughtfully. It was yummy....but it wasn't the only reason I chose a double. I needed double....I needed yin and yang....I needed my twins. The ice cream soothed the lump in my throat...the memory of hot yoga only a half hour before reminded me to breathe...and I AM doing better. But...I'm not me. Not the me I wish I was anyway. Not the me my hopeful friends wish I will be. Not the me I show everyone I am trying to be. Not really.

And...I think I understand that I never will be. Not without them.

I brought two hand packed containers home with me. Huckleberry and Eggnog. Purple and Yellow.

My 8 year old noticed..."You got purple and yellow for Simon and Alexander mom...that's really cool!"

I was suddenly surrounded by my boys hugging me.

Because they understand that I never will be the same.

Even with them.

Loss.

It's part of the whole of being alive.

You can't erase it's mark.

Even with ice cream.
Even with hot yoga.
Even with a kick ass Old English Sheepdog that rocks the world.
Even with a beautiful family of amazing kids and a loving, even phenomenal, husband.

And...especially....not even with time.

Finding Breath

2010-07-13T21:07:00.003-06:00

Walking into the room dimly lit with candle light and little white Christmas lights strung on the beams over head, I keep my eyes focused at the floor. The yoga mat I bought a year and a half ago during the training that was to make me a certified yoga teacher is rolled out in a swift crack of my wrist and a soft towel is carefully placed and dampened with peppermint and lavender scented water to prevent slipping in the sweat that is already starting to glow under the infrared heat lamps oppressive heat.

I lay on my back, inhaling the soft smell of incense and candle wax. Indian music softly fills the background as I hear feet with invisible faces enter the room around me. I listen for my breath. Somehow I can find it here even when its presence is elusive everywhere else. Somehow....I can hear my heart beating without choking under the reality that while it beats, "theirs" never will again. ever.

I look for my breath again...squelching the thoughts that are always trying to pound into my brain. Endless thoughts. breathe. breathe. breathe.

Her voice, like a butterfly's wings enters my mind. She reminds me to breathe, to find my core...to remember why I'm here. To remember why we are all here. Each one of us, here, at the butt-crack of dawn (or so my young teen would say...) for a reason known only to each of us....and to her.

Standing in mountain. The postures begin. The heat demanding solid breath. Not the little shallow breaths that one can get away with on any normal day. The heat DEMANDS solid breath. Breathe...or die. It laughs at the streams of water gliding down my forehead as I try to find stillness in the pose. Stillness. As my heart pounds and my breath....IS.

And then, there is a thought...I lose my focus, my breath. and my balance. Her voice gently reminds me to pull my breath in, to find my core balance....yes....there it is.....yes.....her hands guide me deeper, reminding me of what I used to be able to do. A lifetime ago. In the before time. She knows....because, she knew me then. She knows it all. She knows how I came to be the me I am today....

Her touch reminds me that there is love. friendship. hope. A reason for BE-ing....right now. The lump in my throat begs to release in sobs....and then, the breath soothes it again. There it is. The breath.

The breath they will never have. I am breathing for them. For all time.

Stillness. Corpse pose. Wet with the tears released by my body due to melting heat and deepening yoga postures. Always deepening. Always finding more depth. More breath. Was I ever really GOOD at yoga? Did I actually think I'd be able to teach this ability to balance? I watch myself teeter in the mirror...finding stillness. And breath.

The heat feels like God. Like golden fields and sunbeams. Penetrating blocked pores and....thoughts.

They really WERE here.....once. They really DID exist....once. They were my babies......always.

Her warm hands reach under my head, cradling it as skilled fingers massage and nurture...ever reminding me to forgive myself....to love myself.

I lay there until I feel ready. Till the silence is all I hear. Till the "others" have left.

I roll up my sopping wet towel and mat....drink all 7 cups of water that my bottle contains....and walk toward the door. Her voice reaches me..."Have a beautiful day Sara..." I look up and a smile finds my face. "Thank you" I say...and then I whisper..."for helping me to find myself." She doesn't know that I believe she may be an angel. She doesn't know I think of this place as my holy place. Or...maybe she does. Maybe she sees it in my face...or in the fact that I arrive every day without fail. Every day. To find my breath again. To find stillness of thought.

She nods with warmth in her eyes and begins to mop the floor of her studio. And I leave my new found healing place to begin another day with smiling children, furry pups, devoted husband, memories of golden fields where my twins wait for me to live until I die....and I find the words waiting for me to write them down....and I try to find the breath until I can go back into the heat. Looking for the breath.

Always...breath.

Sister from Another Mother...

2010-07-06T14:44:00.001-06:00

I am standing here with tears of joy streaming down my face. Something wonderful has happened on this earth. If you peek here you will understand. This is the celebration of a beautiful woman whose only child was stolen away by a rare form of cancer....she has finally been given something to smile about.

I'm smiling with her.

Somehow, knowing that good things can happen after terrible things makes me feel like absorbing that sunshine radiating from the joy she is being blessed with. It makes me feel like waking up in the morning. It makes me feel like hope is, maybe, a good thing.

I've been doing hot yoga every day. Walking my beautiful dog every day. Writing every day. Loving my children and husband every day...and still...missing Simon and Alexander....every day.

Some people have asked me if I'm clinging to the pain. Silly people. Some people have asked me why it isn't enough to have ALL that I have. Silly people. Some people.....some people have accused me of being greedy. They are right.

I am greedy. Greedy for what was lost, and can never be returned.

Nevertheless...in spite of my yearning for twins that should have been cozy in my arms, in spite of having wanted twins since I was a little girl, only to come....so very close. I am beyond joyful for my friend...and I pray that her two little snowflakes are delivered to her safe, sound, healthy and vibrantly alive.

There is light in the world.

It's warmth is real.

I am grateful it exists for anyone....anywhere.

Especially for those who have been in such terrible pain.

To the Universe....I say "Thank you....Thank you...."

Catharsis

2010-06-25T16:24:00.000-06:00

What does it take to override the pain and aching of a broken heart? How does one soften the sting...soothe the soul?

It seems different for everyone...and no remedy seems to be a permanent fix. I think that, in part, it is the thinking that your on your way out of it that makes it hurt so much when you fall back in. However...that being said, I think I've found something that might help.

Hot Yoga.

I've been having a very hard time feeling completely broken. Every set back seems to plunge me back into darkness so thick that I can't imagine I will ever find my way out again. When I found myself on Monday kicking and screaming behind a locked bathroom door, and then leaving home to walk "away", not knowing if I'd ever come back...well...I knew that something had to change. SOMETHING had to change.

I had a dream that told me to do hot yoga. My initial response was "yeah...right." It's not that I don't like yoga...I loved it once upon a time. I even got my teacher certification the month that we conceived Simon and Alexander. But since we lost our little ones....I haven't been able to breathe steady enough to do anything even remotely yogic. The yogini in me....died.

I mentioned the idea to a friend of mine, who lit up and told me about the hot yoga studio she goes to. I happened to know the instructor. She has twins.

I thought about how I wouldn't be able to bring Ferdinand with me. I worried that I might have a panic attack in the yoga studio. But I thought about the dream....

could it be?

I went to the studio a little early, knowing that the instructor would be sure to recognize me from the past in spite of the ample amount of weight I've gained and the dark circles under my eyes. Sure enough, she greeted me with a smile. I tried to smile back, but wasn't very successful. She asked me how I'd been. I told her. Actually....I cried it out. She hugged me and then looked me squarely in the eyes. "Sara...I'm glad your here. This is a place to heal. Let your body heal and walk forward letting the past BE the past....see your future as you wish it to be." She had me light a candle for my beautiful lost twins, and a candle for the future filled with hope and joy.

I lay down under the infrared heat lamps, letting their healing energy work into my body. I heard people entering the room but I kept my eyes closed to keep my focus inward. The heat was scorchingly hot....104 degrees in fact. I was sweating without moving at all.

The practice began. As she moved around the room instructing, adjusting our postures I felt that she was talking only to me. "Let your anxiety evaporate into the heat. Breathe your sadness out. Let your body cry for you...let your sweat clean out your pain." She went around gently rubbing out stress...pain...grief while rubbing in the healing effects of a delightful yoga balm called "China rub" 90 minutes went by with sweat dripping in buckets off of my body. My towel was soaked.

But...I was present. I was in the NOW. I was with my heart, and my breath, and my sweat.

As I lay in the final corpse pose I felt the instructor gentle lift my feet. She rubbed them with lavander oil, pulling my toes and squeezing them gently. I lay still with the heat penetrating my body.

Free.

After laying there for 15 minutes, I opened my eyes. The class was empty...candles flickered under the heat lamps. I rolled up my mat and found my instructor in the lounge area. She smiled at me. "How was it?"
I smiled back at her..."I think I can find myself here."

The next day, I took my husband...I wanted to share the treasure I'd discovered with him. 60 minutes into the 90 minute class, I looked over and saw that he had melted into his mat which was oozing a puddle of sweat onto the bamboo flooring. At the end of the class he said "Sara...if you like that, you must be in need of a serious cathartic experience...I'm so sorry your in so much pain....I love you...and I don't think I want to go back. It was like being in hell." We laughed together. I don't need him to like it in the same way I do. All I need is for him to understand why I need to go everyday.

Some people need to take medication every day. Some people need weekly therapy. I need to do hot yoga. My husband is right. The intensity of the experience is a catharsis so deep that it has the ability to bring me into the moment without the pain of our losses. It has the healing balm of warming the body that has been in shock, shivering with the aftermath of losing my twins. It helps my nervous system to have a break for 90 minutes from the tears and internal screaming, while my entire body weeps from every pore with such abundance that it would take a lifetime of crying to equal it's mass.

Today, stepping into the heat of the room, I knew I'd found a place to rediscover who I am. I understand that it isn't the end....but, it is a beginning I am grateful for. And, in this moment...I am hopeful.

In Ruins

2010-06-21T10:18:00.000-06:00

Hope.

I feel like that word has somehow bi-passed my family.

Where am I supposed to see it?

A few days ago, I ran into a lovely woman from my past life as a functioning human being. I noticed her right away because she was dressed in a vibrant shade of purple from head to toe, accented with lovely gold earrings and a fine golden chain. Simon and Alexander's colors. She greeted me with her typical glowing smile and proclaimed that I give her "some news!". I knew she had no idea of the events of our life in the past three years...she had no idea that our eldest son, who used to play with her own son, was slowly recovering from a brain injury that has changed his future forever. She had no idea that our twins had died...or that they had ever been in the first place.

So, when she asked me to tell her "some news!". My heart stopped in my throat. I just shook my head...and the tears started to fall.

Being a lovely nurturing mother...the kind of mother I wish I'd been given...She grabbed me close and stroked my hair in the parking lot of the grocery store, ignoring the cars that tried to weave around my sobbing frame with uncomfortable glances in our direction. Ferdinand leaned up against me in an effort to comfort me. Again.

I told her about my life in a matter of about 10 minutes. Who knew that the traumas of the past 3 and 1/2 years could be condensed and edited into only 10 minutes? She looked at me with sparkling eyes and said "But sweetie...don't you see all the blessings?"

I shook my head. I felt the shaking and quaking that are the danger signal for a panic attack. I tried to breath, but felt like my head had been enclosed in a plastic bag. Kneeling down to bury my head in Ferdinand's fur and clutched at him; just trying to find my breath.   She continued to coo in my ear that she didn't mean to dismiss my pain, but that she just noticed so much beauty and wonder in my story...that my near death experiences were beautiful, that the colors I saw in that spirit world were telling me something...that my writing career was a gift sought after by many...that there were gifts all around me that I seems to have failed to notice in my pain....

I looked at her and said "I see the gifts. I see the blessings. But none of them....not one of them...makes up for the loss of my babies. Not one of them makes it o.k. that my brilliant son has a damaged brain. These gifts feel like consolation prizes.   My spirit has been broken. My nervous system is so shot that I can't go into public without my DOG for assistance. My children tell me they wish they had super powers so that they could save their baby brothers from stillbirth and erase their oldest brothers brain injury. My husband cries in the bathtub. We both cry at night when we think the other is asleep. How is any of that a gift? How do any of the gifts make what we've been through o.k.?"

Her reply? "You feel broken. But...one can't ride a wild stallion till he's been broken. You have something to give others now. You have a voice. That's why you have been chosen as a writer. It's not what you planned...but it was THE plan."

I love this woman. I always have. She is a picture of calm, reasonable, love.

It isn't that she has not suffered, for I KNOW she has. Deeply.

But somehow...she has found her way.

Maybe I'll look back at that meeting in a few years and nod my head in understanding....but all I could do at that moment was to shake my head and say..."It's not enough. I want more. I want the pain to stop. For my entire family. I want the tears to end."

She hugged me again. "Oh sweetie....they will. They will. Just hang in there. You can do it."

I believe that bad things happen to good people. The laws of Karma and the Golden Rule are laws that the Universe keeps forgetting---or ignoring. I see unfair situations all around me, and within me. I see beautiful people being broken down into a state of dysfunction and hopelessness. When a horse trainer tames a wild animal...they don't beat it into the ground until it can't stand anymore. Life is a cruel trainer....who overdoes the process until some of us are writhing in it's wake. People point to the story of Job when they see others suffering, as if a story about a man who was literally methodically tortured by a petty bet between a boasting God and a maniacal Devil should bring hope and understanding. How is that story a comfort???? How is it comforting to see that in the end, Job is given a bunch of blessings to make up for the losses of his entire family, children, wife, home....EVERYTHING? Does the new fortune, wife, and kids make up for the losses?

My friend says she can see my blessings like shining rays of light.

But, she's standing on the outside. She can't feel the razor sharpness of this pain. She doesn't have to hear her children wish they could bring back what has been lost. She doesn't have to hear her wonderful husband's muffled sobs. She doesn't have to feel the inner quaking that signals loss of control from a FRIED nervous system that would destroy a rector scale.

Hope.

Can I find it at the end of a rainbow? Is there meaning to ANY of this loss? Can we make it through without bitterness?

Will we ever really be alright again?

ouch.

2010-06-06T01:28:00.000-06:00

Days pass...minutes...hours....weeks....months....

years.

years.

Standing here. Listening. Listening for answers...clues to the universe. Wanting it to make sense.

But, it doesn't. Not really.
And, because of that lack of sense...all I can do is walk forward knowing--none of this pain makes sense except for the fact that it is pain.

I still do all the things one does when trying to move forward. I even smile and laugh. I make jokes.
I razz my family. We giggle....and while I'm smiling, I tend to look up, and I wonder if Simon and Alexander are smiling with us. And then, when I'm crying...I wonder if they are crying with me too. I wonder if they long for my arms the way I long for them to fill them. I wonder if they miss me like I miss them...I wonder if they wish they could cross that spiritual divide--the way I wish I could cross it.

I keep hearing McJaggars swanky voice "You can't always get what you want..." and I want to put my hand over his mouth and tell him to sing something else. I want to make him sing about a different kind of world, as if the music could change the truth if only it had a different message. Frankly, I'm pretty tired of knowing how often people don't get what they want....or need. I'm tired of understanding that pain continues all around us, and I can't do anything to stop it.

It makes me feel so angry....sad....

because I want to stop that pain. Not just for me and mine...but for everyone. I want to stop babies from dyeing from cancer and all manner of disease and tradgedy. I want to stop loved ones from being taken too soon. I want to end the pain of loss.

but...it's not going to happen. Loss is something everyone gets to have.

We all walk hand in hand in loss. Nothing is permanent except that loss is always there.

That permanence of loss keeps me standing like a deer caught in the blaze of headlights. Unable to move away...terror in my heart. The question resonating in my gut...."What will I loose next?" "WHO will I loose next??"

The silence is deafening.
There is no answer.
I can only wait and try to ignore the anxiety that leaks out of my body in the form of tears. I can laugh like a wild woman in defiance of the universe that so haphazardly steals loved ones away....I laugh and laugh in the hopes that living life fully will protect me in some way.

I don't know why I do it--it never helped before. There was no protection.

And yet...still I laugh. still I pray...knowing my prayers blow in the wind.

"Please protect my family...protect ALL the families....please." As if someone will grant that plea. As if it's that simple.

But I've always prayed for protection. And that's really what stings. My prayers...my wishes....

blowing in the wind.

Who will be next?? Who??

I stand in defiance in the wind with my laughter. "WHO will you steal next??"

Or....have I had my quota yet? Have I suffered enough in this life? Have you taken enough?

Standing in a mockery of defiance...crumbling into sobs because I know that as long as there are people that I love...there will be loss.

What a world.

I can say that with a smile....and with tears in my eyes. And it's the same either way.

What a world.

Bleeding to death...

2010-05-28T15:09:00.004-06:00

Bleeding to death isn't something most people get to experience in the United States nowadays. But...it still happens from time to time. And, as dying goes, it seems like a pretty dramatic way to depart. Hemorrhaging. I think of that word in a two part dissection... Heme is the root word for blood... raging is a flush of energy... Hemorrhaging... the action of blood raging forth in sudden energy.

Last year, on this very day, I bled to death. As I said, it's a dramatic way to go, so perhaps my father was right to have determined as a child that I was his little "drama queen." Frankly, at this point, I feel that drama is waaaaaay over-rated, and now when I pray, I pray for boredom- peace- mellow- even...predictable- to come my way. Lesson learned... No more drama for THIS lass thank you very much!!

Last year, at this time, I had no idea that I was a mother of twins. I knew that I'd lost a beautiful baby boy 5 weeks before, and my grief was heavy...concentrated. I knew that I'd walked every single day with my husband while we talked, cried, talked and cried. I knew that I'd told God he could "Fuck off" if this was the kind of thing he had planned for me; and I meant it. However...the very action of telling God to "Fuck off" is a statement that you do, in fact, believe in God...no matter how much of an asshole you believed God to be; which to be honest...I very much felt that God was acting like an asshole. A complete, and total...asshole...

So, I couldn't really become an Atheist or an Agnostic because in spite of how angry I was...I was still quite sure God was real. I was also sure that if anyone could take being told to "Fuck off"...it was God. I was also pretty sure that if God knew anything, it was that to be told to "Fuck off" was entirely deserved under the circumstances. I offer my apologies to anyone who might be offended by the idea of telling the Almighty that he can go take a flying fuck after stealing my baby from my womb..... but.... that's just my honesty talking. I'm willing to admit the power of my rage... That's how I felt it...and God, being Almighty, being EVERYTHING, is sure to be able to take that kind of powerful rage. Trust me on that.

Yes....the anger I felt was raging.

My baby had been taken away, and I was left with a heavy feeling inside of myself that wouldn't go away.

I felt....lost.

So, one year ago on this very day...my husband and I took a walk. Again. We talked about that heaviness. We talked about how assaulted by life I felt. We talked about our baby that I yearned for every day...and how deeply sad I was.

One year ago, I discovered that ritual is within everyone's grasp. I'm not talking about the rituals found in church...not the stale rituals that people practice without even thinking or feeling. I'm talking about authentic ritual. The ritual's that life brings forth into consciousness to deal with a personal situation. A ritual designed by spirit...just for you.

As we were walking...talking...crying....a ritual appeared to us. And because we are who we are, we went with it. Fully. And as Rudyard Kipling would say..."A magic was made". Something inside of me lifted...released....and I felt it in every corner of my being. I smiled for the first time in 5 weeks.

We went home in a tight embrace...feeling closer than ever before.

And then...

I began to bleed. Hard. Fast. With fervor. Raging.

When you are hemorrhaging like that, you know that you can't lose that much blood without consequences. That kind of bleeding makes a person aware that if they have any chance of survival at all, it will be at a hospital...so that is where we went. Quickly.

Just as I could see the blood that flowed from my hospital gurney onto the floor in a river that ran out of the door while rushing nurses tried not to slip in it, my life also began to drain from me. I could feel it leaving my body.

Suddenly, I was there. I had been there five weeks before and I recognized it right away. Admittedly, when I'd found myself in that golden field the first time, I half doubted it because I was having an allergic reaction to morphine (if you want to do me in, offer me opiates...ha ha!)

But, this time, there were no opiates involved, and I knew it was really real. A beautiful child ran up to me with arms outstretched and said "MAMA!" with such joy in his voice...as if he'd been waiting for me. I held my little one in my arms....and then....

I was back. I looked up at Ty and saw IV blood dripping into my veins..."I saw our baby Ty...I saw him again...but...he looked different this time. Why did he look different???"

The next day, after waking up from an emergency D&C...the lightness was there again. I felt so blissed out to know that the spirit world was indeed real. After all, I'd BEEN there. Twice.

Of course....it all made sense really...because I'd been carrying a twin that no one knew was there. waiting. It all made sense. Everything had come in two's for this experience. Even my midwife had wondered about twins due to my measurements...twins that couldn't be seen in the ultrasounds. We didn't know....until we knew. It took bleeding to death to find out the truth. I am the mother of twin sons. There really IS a spirit world that is open to everyone when we die; for I've not been "saved", confirmed, baptized, or otherwise engaged in dogmatic rituals required by any religion....and yet...it was there for ME too. I know that will be hard for some people to accept....but, I've been there, and I know. This isn't a secret club with a special code or handshake required to get it. It's just there. For all of us. period.

It's just there. It's beautiful. It's real. And...Simon and Alexander will be there to greet me when it's my time.

One year ago today, I bled to death.....and in that....everlasting life was revealed to me.

It doesn't take my sadness away...my grieving lingers on....I miss my twins....

but...it does help to know that they aren't really...gone. Just waiting. In that beautiful place of gold and purple light and brilliance.

Just waiting.

Finding the words...

2010-05-26T16:47:00.001-06:00

It's not always easy to find the words. At least...it wasn't always. Nowadays I realize that the words are flowing forth in an ever present bombardment of productivity. Last night in fact, I was telling my husband that the only real problem with being a freelance writer was that I simply don't have enough time to do all the writing I'm being given. Not if I want to write my book. Not if I want to actually get it done... and I DO.

See, I write for money...and I write for me. I write for money because it allows me to take care of my children without having to send them off to school (we home school) or daycare. I can arrange my days to play, cook, and educate...and clean from time to time...I can allow myself the protection of the hermit life that is allowing my healing from the theft of my babies lives, and the trauma that ensued. I can allow myself to cry as needed... I can walk here at my treadmill desk as Ferdinand and Felix hang out in a strange yin yang formation on my bed nearby. I enjoy earning enough to help make ends meet, to lift the burden from my husbands shoulders a little bit.

But...I also write for me. I write about my experience, and it's connection with society...a commentary on grief from a personal and psychological perspective. Now, some people would say that I'm still writing for money...because this is a book that I am going to sell when it's complete. But, I'm not writing for the money, I'm writing for Simon and Alexander who have given me the words. Given me the voice. I'm writing for the women whose breaths are taken away and hearts are broken only to find themselves in a world that doesn't understand. In a way, they aren't even my words....they are being given to me in a fervor of understanding and piecing together what was into what is. Yeah....this is writing in it's most beautiful form. . .because it's authentic and done for the process rather than the product alone.

Many of my dear babyloss friends are also talented writers...and I implore them at this moment to write....write...and write more! It is YOUR words that will change this loneliness into a place of understanding so that one day, when a woman loses a child, she will meet with faces that UNDERSTAND her pain, so that she will not find herself in a room with familiar faces that hold strangers behind their eyes. I recently read a book of a babyloss mama who started the ezine I write for, "Exhale"... Monica Murphey Lemoine has written Knocked up, Knocked Down and her story is compelling, surprisingly humorous and delightfully tear-jerking. I wanted to share it with everyone...because words matter.

So...on that note, keep writing. Even if your words never see a publishers desk, they have inherent value, because they are YOUR story...and that matters.

They really are a gift.

YAY! He's BACK!

2010-05-24T10:52:00.001-06:00

He's back!

One year ago, a beautiful book that had been carefully nurtured into existence for almost 10 years was born and delivered into our hands...right as we were mourning the loss of our twin sons Simon and Alexander. The book that my husband was so pleased to share with the world...met it's birth with an insistence of required dormancy. It was as if everything that was, wasn't. All attempts to reach out, stopped. All communications, halted. And that beautiful book waited for our hearts to heal enough to BE ourselves once more.

And now, after a year of mourning...healing, and holding our family together...trying to walk forward...I saw that sparkle emerge from my husbands eyes as a manifesto of strength born out of our tragedy sprang forth. He's back...He's talking...He's reaching out; and...it's beautiful! I took a copy of Being Ourself from the shelf down and re-read it last night. Wonder fills my heart as I look at the man standing by my side that wrote these inspired words and understandings; These are words to live by. Please take a moment to check out his revived blog and join the conversation and the re-emergence of Being Ourself. Thanks everyone...for your embrace on this journey.

Superstition or Communication?

2010-05-16T17:52:00.010-06:00

Some people believe that seeing an animal is natures way of sending you a message. It's an ancient idea really...and of course isn't limited to animals alone. It's about finding meaning in life and communicating with the undercurrent that presents itself to you.

I suppose that is where superstition might come in; don't let a black cat cross your path, ravens are a sign of doom...you know, Friday the 13th folklore.

But, taken from a more earthy, native perspective, it's not seen like that. It's communication. A message given from the minerals, plants, animals, earth, and sky. It's about listening. With your inner being. Listening...to the whispers.

I live on a cul-de-sac in the mountains of Montana. It's a neighborhood full of families, some I know fairly well, some of whom I know only by face...and others who I don't know at all. American modern life dictates that we often do not know our neighbors. We're all too independent to weave our lives together in community. (Or is it something else???) In any case...there are kids, cats, dogs, cars, lawns, gardens...normal semi suburbia living. But, if I walk half a block, I can dissipate into a mini wilderness that is recovering from the harsh pruning that happened earlier in the year, and I can pretend that I live in isolation from the world, which is something I've often wished for in the past year. In that isolation from people, lawnmowers, engines, music, and whatever other hullabaloo is common on a cul-de-sac, I encounter deer of all ages, foxes, hummingbirds, butterflies....and an abundance of flowers.

Sometimes I'll get the treat of seeing a bald eagle, red tail hawk, or even great blue heron soaring overhead. In those moments, I wish I could fly with them...

Today though, in my yard that is surrounded by the protective barrier of 6 foot tall bamboo poles, I was walking around the fruit trees inspecting the blossoms. In all honesty, I admit that I was whispering to these trees; last year, in the wake of losing Simon and Alexander, our entire yard went on a fruit strike. Not a single tree gave us fruit last year. Not only were the fruit trees on sabbatical, but the Raspberries were fruitless, the grapes didn't grape...and the strawberries....weren't. Not only was my womb barren, but my entire yard was barren as well. It was....abnormal. So, this year, when I saw all the blossoms, I went out to talk to my trees; to encourage them.

On one hand, I know that it's a little silly to think that my trees needed a pep-talk. But, because I know I've talked to these trees on a regular basis ever since I planted them 6 years ago, I am ALSO aware that last year...drowning in grief and devastation...I did NOT spend time talking to them, and they did NOT give me fruit. Maybe they were in mourning too. Maybe the entire vibe at my home was one of pulling in, and away. Maybe my fruit trees knew it wasn't time to put forth a bunch of fruit that I wouldn't have the focus to eat, or freeze for later. Maybe...they knew.

Maybe it was simply that it was a non-fruiting year for ALL of the trees in my yard alone. (my neighbors had fruit.)

In any case...I'm rambling...but, the point is, that I was communing with the energy of my trees, feeling very peaceful, quiet, and focused. Suddenly, as I stepped toward the plum tree that we planted last summer for Simon and Alexander, I saw that it had survived. Little green leaves were opening up. I caught my breath, and smiled. A warm feeling spread all over me and love poured forth onto that little tree. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, I noticed the grass was fluttering near my feet. A slender striped snaked was gliding near me. I didn't move. I didn't feel afraid. It slid right past my feet so close I could have bent over and picked it up.

I watched it.

It was beautiful.

I've NEVER seen a snake in my yard. ever.

I thought about messages being given by creation in it's many forms.

I pondered over the message of snakes... Snakes symbolize renewal, rebirth, and expanded development because they shed their skin during each growth cycle. Snakes are also cold-blooded which means they depend on their environment for their body temperature. This is seen as a symbolic message that we must be adaptive, flexible and adjust as best we can to our circumstances.

So...I confess that this is a message I need reminding of whether it's superstition or not. I have cycled through a year of grieving. A year of pain must be shed, for I am now, most certainly, a new person. I have been through too much to be able to fit in my old "skin". Admittedly, it is simply that my old skin no longer fits that often causes the tears to erupt. I LIKED my skin...I LIKED me. I didn't WANT to be forced into a new "skin".

And yet....here I am. Changed. In need of acceptance...renewal. My environment must be altered to fit my new persona. Thus, the 6 foot tall privacy fence...the freelance writing from home...a slower pace. A "me" pace.

It seems as likely as anything else that spirit would send me this message in the form of a graceful little garden snake that was hanging out near my babies memorial plum tree. It seems as probable as any other story...any other myth....any other version of truth.

So...I think I'll listen.

unpredictable patterns...

2010-05-12T09:36:00.003-06:00

First...let me apologize for my last rant; not because I think it was wrong to do it, but rather, because that level of anxiety blind-sighted me away from all the beauty happening around me. However, that being said...I am really grateful to have a place to put all that frustration and pain, and am hopeful that when others read it they might feel less ashamed and alone when they suddenly buckle over as well.

In the journey of healing from loss, it seems clear to me that though there is the popularized notion of "five stages of grief", there is much much more to bereavement than can be fit into five neat little stages that get completed in nice neat little steps. "Oh yay...I've passed the bargaining stage, now it's on to anger!...I can't wait till I get to the level of acceptance and can get on with my life!"

No...it's not that easy to categorize grief, and the linear attempts to do so only serve to alienate a person who finds themselves on something that looks MUCH more like a roller coaster than a stair case. What happens to the person who gets to a place where the pain doesn't wrench through their being every moment, and is given a sense that flowers do bloom again, and birds will sing...and that their melody even seems sweet once more, only to plummet back down into a spiral of agony over the smallest stressor they could encounter? It makes them feel like their earlier contact with joy was only a facade...a ruse. But, in truth...this is just NORMAL.

The grief of losing a baby isn't fit into a nice little upward facing staircase, complete with handrail and tread support to ensure you don't slip back down to an earlier step. It is a cyclical up and down that is sometimes surprisingly up...and then even more devastatingly down. There are no stages to greif. There ARE cycles of grief, and those cycles are unique to each griever. There ARE patterns to grief, but those patterns are as different in manifestation as the patterns on a crazy-quilt. Yes...it's a quilt...yes, it is made with fabric; but the shapes, colors and sizes of the fabric are all pieced together in a crazy pattern that only in the end reveals that it IS in fact...a quilt.

This is grief. This is loss.

This....is life.

I recently read a study that showed a significant amount of evidence that pointed toward the conclusion that grief after the loss of a child was not substantially helped by any type of therapy. In fact, the only thing that made a marked difference in grief of this kind...was time. YEARS worth of time. This study pointed out that the intense reactions and volatile emotionality was to be viewed as completely normal, and that really, the only place that therapy could be on true benefit to a grieving family was to offer that their pain was normal, that they were not going crazy, and that the only thing they could do to feel better was to keep on keeping on...time would ease the pain. LOTS of time. In other words...helping them to see that all these painful cycles are completely normal, and there's nothing anyone can do to make it easier. Not really.

This isn't to say that there are NOT things that we can do to help the process along! It's just that even the experts are saying that bereavement in and of itself isn't a reason to do therapy with the exception of helping a person to see that this pain is normal. That aside, there are things we can do. We can take walks. We can find the core of our breath. We can brush and cuddle a pet. We can take time to discover the depth of life that is so much more broad than simple fairy tales with happy endings. We can write...and write...and write. We can give space to the child we lost in our homes so that we give space for our grief in the manifestation of gardens, colors, pictures that symbolize who they were to us....we can create art. We can allow ourselves to cry as needed, and to laugh when the opportunity bubbles up. We can remember that if we could have a moment...even just a moment...with our little ones, that they would most likely hold us tight and ask us to look for and find our potential for inner strength, peace, and happiness--for them, and for ourselves. And mostly, we can reach out to others in pain; we all know that it's our sisters and brothers in loss that understand us more than anyone else can. In holding hands...we find a healing place.

So, in the unpredictable patterns of grief...we find a new normal. Changed forever by life lost, by tiny feet that would never walk, by unimaginable heartbreak...we will emerge to find ourselves able to offer comfort to others as bigger, warmer beings than we ever would have been without the earthquake of loss. I'm sure it would be agreed that each of us would have preferred to NOT know this brand of pain. No one WANTS to know what this is like; NO ONE wants to be part of this club. But...even so, because there seems to be a profound lack of wisdom in this world, a huge gap where wise women and men once lived, it occurs to me that those who have lost have the chance to offer something substantial to the world. If we take this opportunity to really find healing as we honestly journey on this roller coaster, we will one day look back and see that this IS the path....this broken-open devastation IS the way to a more complete wholeness.

Thanks for holding my hand....thank you for letting me hold yours.

Buried... Again.

2010-05-07T11:08:00.004-06:00

Yesterday, I noticed that Felix, who is currently on antibiotics for an ear infection and had been getting noticeably better was scratching at his ear. I lifted up the furry black flap and groaned to see that the underside was red and hot. Again. I took him to the vet to show them that now, instead of improving, it was getting worse. I explained to the vet that he wouldn't allow me to put ANYTHING near his ear except for a loving pat. The vet agreed that it was very going to be hard, but not impossible, if I got a muzzle. (This vet, by the way, was UNABLE to even look in Felix's ear even with the help of a VERY strong and VERY tall woman. She looked like a wrestler to be honest...and she COULDN'T hold Felix still long enough for the vet to peek for a moment in his ear.) He gave me medicine to put in the ear, and I reluctantly took it under his stern words that it was "the only way".

I bought the muzzle, and with a little coercion, was able to get my happy sheepie in it with a handful of treats. He was perfectly fine in it, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it wouldn't be too hard after all. I gentle lifted his ear with lots of praise and treats....and tried to fill his ear with the medicine.

He LOST it.

I tried to lay on top of him, growling and struggling at me...if he had not been muzzled I would wear the gashes of his fear and rage at this moment. He was terrified. And I failed at my quest. I couldn't do it even with the cooperative help from all six of the inhabitants of my house. We could NOT hold him still enough.

I sat there...feeling the panic of adrenaline flushing through me. I took off the muzzle to reveal a once again sweet happy shaggy puppy who apologetically licked the tears off my face as if to make up for his wild behavior that he couldn't control.

Then, with rage in my veins, I called the vet's office and demanded to speak to a vet. ANY vet. I sobbed into the phone as a female vet listened to what was going on. I explained that I COULD NOT administer the medicine into the ear. I explained that I had TOLD the other vet that it was something Felix would not allow, and that he had admonished me as if I were a child even though HE couldn't even PEEK inside for a moment. She listened patiently, and sighed..."Of course you can't get it in his ear if he's in so much pain or if he's afraid. It's possible that the cold of the medicine hurts terribly. Please come in tomorrow and I will give you a longer and stronger course of oral medicine as well as some pain killers for your pup. Tonight...please, go take a bath...and know it will be o.k. . ."

I thanked her. I hung up the phone and stared at my husband for a moment as I crumbled into to a heap of bawling miserableness.

My thoughts were racing in a mad rush to dis-empower me in any way my brain could see fit. "You aren't as good with animals as you think." "You were weak to allow that other vet to overpower your commonsense." "You brought additional stress into a home already maxed out with the addition of a second puppy just because the idea that it would be like having twins was such a pretty thought." "You keep getting hurt, and are an anxious wreck...just like your crazy borderline mother." "You just terrified your poor little puppy even though you KNEW that vet was WRONG...What kind of person does that??" "Poor Ferdinand is totally freaked out too just from HEARING what was going on with Felix!" "You can't take care of two dogs, and you couldn't have taken care of two babies EITHER!" "You fail at everything you try." "Your only friends are words on a computer." "You couldn't keep your babies alive long enough for them to have a chance to SEE it with their own eyes." "Your a mental crackup." "Your babies are dead...and your children have to live with a basket case they call mom." "Your husband is exhausted from your never ending tears." "Your obese." "Your shit."

So, I stand here the next morning...processing my own thoughts. I recall falling asleep in jarring sobs while my husband spooned me, holding me close for fear that I'd run away to find a cliff or a lake to jump in.

I'm standing here in wonder of the stress damaged brain struggling with the ability to recover from a small stress like dealing with a terrified puppy for 5 minutes.

People used to tell me I was such a relaxed person with envy as I lovingly sat with my tandem nursing babes in arms...and I would explain about breathing, and feeling content with what you have. Money was no object...I didn't mind being poor if it made it possible for us to have peace.

Now?

Little things--a scraped knee...my husband being 20 minutes later than I thought he would be...a protest from a child about having to take out the garbage or do the dishes....a deadline...a dog scuffle; any one of them can start the internal shaking and anxiety driven sobbing and heart skipping that is my new normal.

Now?

Instead of smiling when I see the beautiful rosy cheeks of a baby, ANYONE'S baby...I cry. Instead of greeting the news of a new pregnancy of a friend with joy...I cry.
Instead of taking the stress of my full life in stride as others look on in wonder at how I manage it all...I have anxiety attacks. Now....I hate worrying about money.
I hate finding myself saying "No" when I used to say "Yes." Instead of always finding the time to "read another story"...I hear my almost 14 year old reading to his brothers in my place--something he started doing when I lost myself last year in death, loss, and overwhelming grief that continues to linger...and linger....

And mostly....Now, instead of knowing that my husband feels that I could take on the world and still have dinner ready by 6:30...I know he worries about leaving me alone every day. I know he worries that I might believe the racing thoughts TOO much. That I might listen to them, blind to every sensibility that could counter each and every one of them.

I feel really sad today. Really angry. Angry that loss can rip apart your wholeness in such a way that you never REALLY find the you that knew the joy of consistent smiles...once upon a time.

Unconsious understandings...

2010-05-02T17:33:00.002-06:00

International Baby-loss Mother's Day...

I didn't know until this evening that today was "the" day. At least, I didn't know with my mind. Somehow, there are days that just feel more intense, and today was one of those days.

I kept finding myself distracted with an intense need to cry.

I kept feeling a wistful longing in my arms.

I felt empty.

empty.

Of course, I feel this way often. Daily. But today, it just kept sweeping over me and at one point I just looked at my husband with tears in my eyes and said "WHAT THE FUCK!"

sorry for the profanity...but it felt well suited at the time. I've been rather foul mouthed in the past year....it's a side effect of my grief...like tourettes.

But...it turns out that today is a day of concentrated memory of loss...our losses. ALL of our losses. It's a day of remembering the mothers days we don't get to share with the babies we don't get to have. A special day...a precious day...of remembering...loss.

It didn't surprise me. This kind of loss connects you to sisters and brothers around the world. We feel each others pain.

It helped to understand why today seemed so flooded with tears for me.

I didn't know...

but I knew.

On that note...to all my sisters and brothers....

You are in my heart.

Always.
Unconsciously.
Consciously.

With love...

From the bottom of my heart...

2010-04-26T13:17:00.004-06:00

I keep asking, wondering, pleading to understand. I keep screaming, sobbing, searching for answers. Amongst it all...gifts surround me and embrace me. This morning, a honey yellow card arrived from a friend I've never seen...Thank you Steph, for remembering my babies in so many ways...Thank you for holding my hand. Recently, a card with an image of a Sea Turtle graced my world...from a soul sister in Maine. Thank you sweet Liz. I have a beautiful collection of pictures, reminders, figurines, stuffed animals...and reminders of love from all over the country. Thank you...each and every one of you....for remembering. This afternoon, a box arrived from Florida...from another sister in loss. It contained two perfect little wooden carvings....

of Simon and Alexander remembered from the other side of the United States....tangible figurines of love, and sweetness. My heart is overcome....Thank you dear Marlo.

Thank you....all of you. For all the mementos of love that you share with me. Thank you for remembering my little ones with me. Thank you for reminding me that I am not alone. I am forever grateful to you all...my sisters and brothers in life.

hijacked without ransom

2010-04-26T10:31:00.003-06:00

Sometimes, when I tell our story of losing Simon and Alexander to someone, they sit there with their mouth hanging open in horror and wonder and then limply say "Sara...things like that don't just happen to everybody..." They are, of course, not referring to the fact that babies die. Because...that seems to happen a lot more than anyone wants to admit. No, they are referring the the constant connections, interwoven understandings and miracles that persist all around our experience of Simon and Alexander. They are referring to the fact that they think that most people have pretty normal experiences overall. Even in loss, which feels anything but normal.

So I sit here quaking inside feeling this build up of questions such as "what good are miracles if your babies are still dead at the end of them?" "What is the point of seeing connection if it doesn't bring them back?" "Does knowing that my babies are waiting for me in a field of golden flowers make this life without them any easier?" and most repetitive...."WHY did it have to be like this?"

I know it isn't common in our culture to be able to see between the cracks of this world into understandings of spirit. I know that my studies of psychology would suggest delusion, hallucination....and if I was the only one experiencing this in my home, I'd wonder about it myself. But, with my husband and children by my side walking through it all with me with the same wide eyed wonder, I know it's more than that.

I don't know what to think of it all.

I don't know where to put it.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it.

Because, in the end, my babies will not laugh in this world. They will never dance around my feet in anticipation of chocolate covered spoons from birthday cake. They will never fall asleep in my arms. They will never be alive in this world.

It should be comforting to me that I know that though their bodies are gone, that they live on. But I'm greedy.

In all my parenting adventures, I've always been greedy with my babies...holding them close to me....never leaving them....rarely sharing them with even grandparents.
Greedy for their smell, their softness...never wanting to miss a sleepy smile or a new moment of discovery. Being unable to share life with my twin babies is unacceptable to me. I can't seem to be happy with fleeting moments of connection to them only in spirit. I can't seem to be satisfied with momentary miracles, no matter how special or unusual.

Maybe I'm being taught to share...maybe I'm being shown how to deal with impermanence....maybe I'm to accept that life is not just what we see here on earth, and is instead everlasting. My babies talk to me in beautiful ways on a regular basis, but I still stop my feet in agony because I can't hold them in my arms. I feel angry, greedy for their lives, lost.

But...mostly, it simply feels like I've been robbed.

Strange happenings...

2010-04-22T13:08:00.003-06:00

What is the chance of strange occurrences happening multiple times?

Is it still CHANCE when the odds are defied?

I'm struggling with a mild concussion from stupidly hitting my head HARD against my new computer desk corner. really really hard. But, it isn't the concussion that caused what happened this afternoon. I'm not crazy. Yet.

Made lunch for my 4 sons....hungry boys....was frying turkey sausage, toasting toast, making juice...(yes...it sounds like breakfast...but it was a lunch offered in apology for having served them lumpy cream of rice this morning. (Bleck!) Began the cracking of eggs to fry in the pan. A double yolk appeared. I smiled softly thinking of Simon and Alexander....because as mentioned in my previous post...today was the beginning of it all. All the loss...all of the horror...all of the miracles, sad...but still present. I cracked a second egg.

It was a double yolk too. I stopped for a moment. a lump in my throat.

Cracked another...just to be sure I wasn't seeing things, even though they were sizzleing there in front of me.

A double.

I flipped them out of the pan and started cracking more. Another double.

And another! AND ANOTHER!

Eight double yolked eggs.

EIGHT.

It was too weird to ignore.

My husband called to tell me that his first three clients of the day were women that had lost babies.

And I told him about the eggs.

And I'm looking into the heavens to ask my babies....are you just telling me your still with me? What are you telling me sweethearts? I need you. Not just in eggs! I just NEED you!!!

Oh god...I'm so broken.

Just like the eggs.

my heart is breaking all over again.

2010-04-22T09:39:00.003-06:00

I remember this day, one year ago.

I remember waking up, knowing you were gone, and that today I would have to push you into the world against all of my will for it to not be true.

I remember walking into the hospital with my husband in a state of disbelief...praying that I would wake up, and end this horrible nightmare. My prayer wasn't answered.

I remember the beauty of a bowl of bright orange kumquats and brilliant Gerbra Daisys and the sad eyes and attempted bravery in the smile of my sweet friend.

I remember the hospital room. The nurses. The little sign on the door that warned all who would enter that this was not a happy place of birth, smiles, and expectation.

I remember the tears.

I remember the pain in my heart, so terrible I hoped I would die too.

I remember my husband singing our song into my ear...giving me the strength to push him into the world that he would never see.

I remember the groggy feeling of morphine in my veins...morphine I couldn't process. Morphine that put me into shock...morphine...that almost killed me.

I remember the brilliance of the golden field that I held you in. I remember your love...your words. I remember the beauty of your purple aural halo....I remember the pain of being torn between a world of spirit, and my earthly home.

I remember you. I remember how beautiful you were. So tiny...so perfect. You looked like your sweet daddy. So beautiful. I held you for 15 hours......only 15 hours....it wasn't long enough.

I didn't know you had a twin who would rest within me for a month....waiting...waiting...rotting.

I didn't understand why I had to loose you leaving me holding a little blue blanket with the sweet smell of you... swaddled around the silly "platypuck" we had bought you for Easter....I didn't know that the plush purple and yellow duck we had bought with such joy was really a gift from you...to me.

I remember that day, a year ago...with painful clarity.

My sweet little men...how I love you.

I feel so betrayed by creation.

I feel so desperate.

I hear your brothers in playful battle outside, fully equip with foam swords and laughter...and I wish you were here to clap your little hands over their silliness, alongside your twin brother that we would never see. I wish you had seen the world you were so wanted in. I wish you were here nursing at my breast...with your brother...alive.

Instead, I'm left with only tears and longing. My brave front completely crumbling in the memories of who you might have been. Wishing I had a real sword to waive in the air in screaming fury, chopping apart the wind that stole you away....

Didn't you know how much I wanted you both? Didn't you want to stay with me? With your daddy? With the brothers that wanted you so much...?
Why did you leave? Why did you come to us at all if you weren't going to stay with us? Why did you leave?? It seems so unfair from every angle. I miss you both.. baby boys.

Alexander...Simon....I don't understand.

I have to trust that you both knew what had to be.

I have to trust that there is some answer that I can't see.

I have to...because there is nothing else.

Today, I'll go to the gully...I'll place my hands on the place where your ashes have seeped into the dirt...and I'll water the tiny yellow flowers nearby with my tears.

I'll keep moving forward...toward you. Always toward you.

This day...one year ago....was the saddest day of my life. Days have melted into a year. Gray has littered my hair. The corners of my eyes are raw and cracked from tears. The woman I was....is gone. You took her with you. Now I'm just a shell that tries to pretend I'm still me.

Your older brothers...they need me....but I'm so broken. I try....but I need your help. I'm so lost without you. You chose to leave...you made me stay....but I'm not REALLY here....not really.

Help me find the way back to myself.

Help me understand how to love you without losing myself.

Help me grasp a plan to go forward in joy.

Help me to trust this plan which seems WRONG on every level.

Help me to find the way back....

I'm lost.

And I miss both of you so.

Just what I needed today...

2010-04-17T11:48:00.007-06:00

Early this morning, at around 3 am, Ferdinand woke me up with a persistent adamant desire to be let outside. I groggily got up and let him out and headed back to my warm bed, but he starting barking as loud as he could...or at least, it sounded particularly loud considering the hour of blackness that surrounded our neighborhood. I trudged back up the stairs muttering to myself about "stupid dogs" imagining him barking at nothingness and shadow. I stepped out onto the front step and tried to focus my bleary eyes on where the barking was coming from while demanding in a hushed voice that he needed to "stop it!" But...something was strange. half of my new 6 foot high bamboo fence was GONE. I had just installed it 2 months ago, and now....it was gone. My heart sank..."What the F(*%$!" I ran toward where it had been, and saw that the portion that seemed to be missing was laying in the street, cut down! Ferdinand was barking like mad, and I realized that he had caught the person doing it in action before they could cut down the entire stretch of fencing. I hugged him..."What a GOOD dog! Good job baby!"

I ran in the house to get my sleeping husband so that we could put it back up in a haphazard way before it was run over by the morning traffic. We worked quickly in the dark, trying to figure out why someone would do something like that...was it just mischeivious vandalism? Was someone trying to steal the rolls of bamboo for their own use? Why do people attack other peoples personal space? Thank goodness for BIG, SMART, WONDERFUL dogs!!!

Once the fencing was up again, and the adrenaline started to ease, we brought our Big wonderful watch dog in the house and admired how he plopped down with an "Oooomf"--the satisfied sound of a dog that knows he's done a good day's (and night's) work. I closed my eyes to images of baggy pants and hoodies cutting down the fencing that I had worked tirelessly to put up....now I had to do it all over again...but with thicker wire, and much much more of it!

I woke up feeling a combination of loneliness and hope; a wistful feeling that was permeated by the rays of sunshine blasting in through the cracks of my bedroom curtains.

It's Saturday and my husband and I were to go on a walk in a nearby meadow where the buttercups and bluebells are starting to erupt. Blue birds in a vibrant shade of Indigo were flitting about, singing their song of springtime glory and Felix and Ferdinand were playfully romping around the field showing off their puppy souls with delight. We talked about the purple and yellow flowers in the field, about Simon and Alexander, about how wonderful it was to have such perfectly perfect dogs to ensure protection and vigilance to things we cannot see or hear with human eyes and ears.
We talked about the incredible things that are happening in our government right now, from helping people stay in their homes to attacking the unregulated predators of the private student loan business. We addressed the effects of stress and strain on even the most loving relationship, and held each other close in the midst of birdsong and whispering breeze.

Turning back toward home, we talked about the mindfulness that occurs when walking a pair of big dogs as opposed to walking alone; because you must be in control, you must be alert...and peaceful. They can feel your energy, and walk more easily when you are in control and at peace. We came to the fence, which was wobbly and ill-placed now as a result of our inability to really "do it right" at the witching hour of 3 am.

Ty left to record a CD with his band, The Voodoo Horseshoes, and I turned on the crock-pot that contained last nights veggie soup. I came downstairs to my bedroom/office, turned on the treadmill and computer and started walking my way through emails, face book posts, and newly commissioned writing assignments. I noticed that Waterfall Angels was announcing new photos and started admiring the beauty of Rainbow Falls....and then...I realized that they were there too! Simon and Alexander....were at Rainbow Falls.

Seeing their names, remembered in such a beautiful place, meant the world to me. That selfless deeds like this are happening in my world, given by dear people who give simply because they know how much it means...well...it counteracts the acts of selfish disregard that are found in other pockets of time. It laughs at the vandal who spent time breaking something down that I built to create a sense of space and privacy for my family, and shares something beautiful instead. Thank you. Thank you for making this moment so precious. Actions like these are powerful testaments of the beauty that humanity has to offer...it is special, and reminds me that we can each do a little something to truly make the world a better place.

Before you were gone...

2010-04-16T11:37:00.004-06:00

The sun is shining outside; Just like it was last year.
The birds are singing outside; Just like they were last year.
The breeze is cool and inviting; Just like it was last year.
The trees are beginning to swell; Just like they were last year.

Last year, I was in love with my swollen pregnant belly...full of twin babies I was unaware existed. Last year, I felt the laughter that came with understanding I would always be the mother of sons. Many sons. I admit that I felt like a goddess. My glowing round belly the epitome of life incarnate.

Excited to know my family was growing.
Excited to know that my husbands book was ready for release...ready to be born. "Being Ourself"...the compilation of 10 years of hard work, spiritual surrender, and hope.

Trusting that there was a plan.

Almost a year has passed, and in looking back, I wish I could have known that my days with my pregnant belly were to be cut short. I wish I had known that I was the mother of twins. I wish I had known.....so much more than I knew.

But I didn't know.

I didn't know.

No one knew the real plan that would be unfolded in only a matter of days.

Now I stand, days away from the date that marks the complete upheaval of our lives...and there are no signs....no signs except for the heaviness of grief that trails on. No signs except for the raw corners of my eyes, and the quaking feeling that ebbs and flows within.

Yes...I smile more.
Yes...I am functioning "well".
Yes...my living children are laughing upstairs,
and Big shaggy Sheepdogs are peacefully in slumber nearby.

But the book....is still waiting for attention. Hoping that we have not let too much time elapse...hoping that our losses did not kill that beautiful book along with them. Hoping that all the hopes of last year are not completely dead. Hoping that there is hope.

Our babies. Simon and Alexander...gone. I remember how beautiful and happy you were in that place of golden flowers. The place between life and death. You showed me there was something else....something real. There you dance and play...waiting...waiting....

My heart is still beating.
My body still has hunger pains.
I still want to laugh.
I still enjoy the ecstasy of true, steadfast love.
I still walk forward.
every day.

every day.

But you are gone.

every day.

And because of this...every day contains a hole.

But the sun IS still shining.
And the birds ARE still singing.

And I am still here. Without you.

But here, just the same.