A bad mother...

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...

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...

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...

"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!

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.

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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?

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

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...

 

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.