Six

In the wee hours of this morning, at exactly 1:54am, she is exactly six years old.

The birth stories might all be blending together, memories turning a little fuzzy around the edges, but the love I have for each one of them, there is nothing blended or fuzzy about it. It continually amazes me how the more children you have, the more your time may have to be shared and split, but the love isn't shared or split at all. The love for each individual child is there, distinct and unique, just like the child. My heart just grows bigger and bigger and sometimes I wonder if it will burst wide open, yet it doesn't. Not in that way, anyway. It just grows and expands and feels like a big fuzzy blanket surrounding us together.

Today is her birthday.

Six years on the sixth.

My sweet Little P, who sits in the middle. Her older sister on one side, her younger sister and angel brother on the other. This dainty little girl, with her love of accessories and fashion and high heels, who hates getting her hair brushed but likes having it styled nicely. She is the most tender-hearted six-year-old I know. Almost always the first to share, she sometimes bases her decisions on what she knows her sister would want. She is kind and thoughtful and has a delicate heart.

Paige, who was only three when we lost her brother, she is the first to bring up his name, to talk to him, to draw for him, to remember her baby brother in every family thing we do. She cries for him and misses him and is the most vocal about his absence.

My darling middle daughter, who wears her feelings on her sleeve. Whose entire body radiates joy when she's happy, dancing and skipping and singing with smiles. And alternately it is clear when she is not happy, her emotions unable to stay contained, she can yell and stomp her feet and slam doors with the best of them.

She needs her sleep like her mommy, and will actually sleep in unlike her sisters. She is not a morning person and needs time to wake up before rushing into the day.

She is creative, and loves to draw or paint or do any type of art activity. She frequently asks if she can use my phone, not for a game or video, but because she wants to plug her headphones into it and listen to music.

I still sometimes think of her as my baby, partially because each of my kids will always be my baby, but also because she was the littlest for so long. She can be quiet and hesitant, especially in new situations, but she has also gotten more confident and sure of herself this past year. But she can also be loud and silly, especially trying to make her family laugh.

Oh, Pega Ninnie. My dearest Little P. My Paige. You are such a beautiful little girl. Your beauty radiates from the inside out, and I am so proud to be your mother. Happy, happy, HAPPiest of birthdays to you, my big-little six-year-old. May you dream of joyful things always.

Love forever and ever,
Mom

Our Love Energy

I put Nora to bed tonight.

Just like I do most nights. Rocking, nursing, rocking. Sometimes when she doesn't quite seem ready to be put in her crib, I lay her against me, her head on my shoulder.

We rocked a few minutes longer tonight. Nestled against me, I was acutely aware of our chests pressed together, a thin layer between my heart and hers. My love for her a living, breathing thing. An energy that increases in strength when we are connected.

I riled her up tonight. Right before bed. I hate it when Adam riles her up right before bed. I hate it when he riles any of them up right before bed. But for some reason tonight it was me. Somehow we started wandering around the house popping out from behind doorways at each other and squealing with laughter after I yelled, Boo! And instead of stopping after a time or two I kept going. And going. And getting the big girls into it too.

A half hour later we started petering out, which is good because it was already an hour after she normally goes to bed. I'm not really sure why I didn't feel the rush to get her to bed like I usually do. She didn't get a nap today, so keeping her up later than normal is a bit of a risk. If she's too overtired (or riled up -- ahem) she has a hard time going to bed.

Sometimes when it's time to settle down and go into her room for our bedtime routine she fights me, whether she's overtired or not. But tonight, even though when I told her it was time for bed she fussed, as soon as we got into the bedroom she snuggled right in, ready to nurse and rock and nurse and cuddle.

I held her against my chest, breathing in our love energy. I treasure these moments, knowing that she will grow out of them, knowing that sometimes during the day it is really hard to feel our connection. She wiggled a little, her sign that it's time for her to lay down, our time done until next time.

I took in one last big breath, our hearts beating together, our energy fizzling, and said good night. And it was. It was such a good night. Whether she sleeps well tonight or not, it was worth it. It was all worth it.

It always is.

xoxo, christine

Bunk Bed High Jinks

We are all perched in the bedroom. One on the top bunk doodling in a notebook, another throwing her hands up while jumping up and down for her victory dance, a third one peeking over the dresser trying to find things she normally isn't allowed to touch, and me sitting against the wall with my legs stretching all the way to the bed, an unintentional divider splitting the space.

When the little one pulls at the bed, jutting out her chin and grunting her request, it becomes an invitation for the rest of us. As she flops her body back and forth on the mattress, snuggling under the covers and then bouncing up and down, we become like a moth to the flame, we must join the fun. The bed is beckoning us to climb aboard, and we do.

The four of us are squeezed onto the bed. The little one squeals and laughs, delighting in our participation. We wrestle each other into the pillows, giggling as we try to avoid knocking heads. The older two take turns driving what has now become the boat, and at some point we all start singing about the foot bone connecting to the ankle bone and all dem bones.

Eventually it is time to wind down, the little one has to go to bed soon and I realize that a quieter activity makes adjusting for bedtime a little easier. Our adventures on the bed are over, for tonight.

I am left with the sunny feeling of having this time with them. It was perhaps a small sliver of a moment, but I will hold it in my heart. Not all moments are so joyful and filled with ease when three children try to play together. But tonight, for that small moment, there was no arguing, no pouting, no tears. No yelling, or frustration, or anger. Just smiles and snuggles and being together.

And I hope that they remember it with warm hearts. I hope that they think back on times like this and remember how we all played together and laughed and lived so deeply in our connection to each other. I hope I remember it too. One of the memories I can pull out after a particularly frustrating day, and remember that the days aren't all bad. We have a lot of these good moments too. They are here, waiting to be remember, to be acknowledged, to be called upon at anytime.

This night time bed party just filled my tank to the brim. And I am so grateful to embracing the moment and climbing onto the bed with them. That the four of us crowded together with our feet in each other's faces and our arms wrapped around each other and our laughter echoing our hearts' content.

My heart is content.

xoxo, christine

Rock-A-Bye Baby

It is late. Later than usual.

I push open the door and a triangle of light falls across her body. She is in her usual sleeping position, belly down, feet tucked under, butt up in the air.

As I tiptoe toward her she stirs, and I pause hoping not to disrupt her. She has not been sleeping through the night lately.

Her eyelids flutter and she pushes onto all fours. There is no sound, no cry, not even a little peep. Just the rustling of her body movement into standing position. She is still mostly asleep yet vertical in front of me.

I know all of the reasons I shouldn't, all the reasons I will probably regret doing it, but I pick her up anyway.

One leg tucked on either side of me, her head falls to my shoulder and I am acutely aware of how unbaby-like this position is. She is more of a toddler with each passing day.

Her body pressed against me, our breathing finds a rhythm, the rise and fall of each breath in perfect synchronization. And I am so glad I picked her up. No matter what difficulties it might lead to later.

We sway together for a few more minutes before I gently lay her back down. I expect that it will not be this easy, that there will be crying, back rubbing, maybe even nursing. I expect that it will be many minutes until I get to my own bed.

But when I lay her down she rolls onto her belly, clutching her pink bunny. Her eyes are still closed, her breathing is heavy. I touch her matted hair and kiss her head.

I close the door with my baby sleeping soundly on the other side.

Our quiet moment. The perfect ending to the day. The comfort of those few minutes with my baby tucks me into bed, promising sweet dreams for both of us.

xoxo, christine

A Birthday Written in the Stars

My dearest Nora May,

Today you turn one. A whole year. 365 days of life. 365 days of you. 365 days since the first moment you came into the world, our world, bright eyed and probably crying (but I don't remember clearly if you actually cried right away or not because I was still reeling from such a fast and painful delivery. I however, was definitely crying.)

Every moment with you has been filled with joy, layered with happiness, wrapped in love. It is like you knew what we needed before you were even here. Although not without your tears or anger, you are a happy baby, your smile garnering comments from strangers wherever we go.

I hardly remember what our life looked like before you, you fit so snuggly into our family, a missing piece we didn't even know was missing until you were here. And then when we held you in our arms, when we brought you home, when we looked at you and snuggled you, it was like, Yes, of course. There you are.

How can it already be a year since you were that teeny seven pound newborn? I look at you and I still see that baby, but then I look again and I see an almost toddler who cruises her twenty-two pounds around the house like the boss, pulling herself onto every piece of furniture she can, going straight for any crumb, any cord, any thing that is sure to elicit a "no-no" from a family member.

This past year has had some difficulties, for sure, but even in my frustrations, even with the agony of sleepless nights, all is well, all is right. On this day last year, on the day you left the comfort and warmth of your home for the past nine months into the unknown and cold of our world, you brought with you so much joy, so much love, so much healing to my mama heart.

My worry of how your sisters would feel, how they would adjust, was unfounded, they opened their arms wide, their hearts already synchronized with yours. You are three sisters, a trio. You look for them when the are not there, you smile when they enter the room, you are ready to get in on their fun.

Nora, this year has gone too quickly, my heart aches at the thought of you no longer being a baby. And yet, I am so happy and thrilled to see you grow and flourish. I could never want to keep you a baby forever. Every day with you is like unwrapping a present. You have given me more perspective, more understanding, and even more love into my heart than I thought was possible.

Your life was written in the stars long before I was ever here. But I am so incredibly thankful, and so incredibly grateful, to be your mother. Happy Birthday, my sweet Nori. I love you SO much. Thank you for bringing your light into our lives. You make it brighter.

Love, hugs, and kisses,
Mommy

We're Still Adjusting Too: Truth Telling Tuesday

Even though Nora fits into our family perfectly, it's not all easy peasy lemon squeezy adjusting to life with three kids.

Like when I'm trying to put Nora down to sleep and a little blond head pops in whispering, Mom, can I have a snack? or Mom, can I watch tv? or Mom, can I play outside? I furrow my brow and wave vigerously as I want to scream, No. Nonono. No! Go away. Because if Nora sees a sister or hears a sister or even senses a sister is near by she is going to be ready to find out what kind of fun her sister is doing and how she can be a part of it too.

No matter how many times I remind the older girls that unless it is an emergency -- Is someone in trouble? Is someone hurt? -- then whatever it is they want to ask can wait. This is not a free-for-all "yes" to any question, it is a you-can-wait-the-few-minutes-it-takes-to-get-your-baby-sister-down-to-bed-to-ask thing. I try to emphasize that it takes at least twice as long to get Nora settled in if our routine gets interrupted, which means twice as long until I will answer their question, but it's a hard lesson to grasp.

We've also had a little realization that babies require a lot of attention, which means that if you're an older sister you get less attention, and if you're the oldest you seem to get the least amount of attention. This was part of a conversation I overheard the girls share in bed awhile ago. It's hard for their minds to understand the needs that babies have. We aren't giving them less attention, but I'm sure it feels like it because we have to provide all of Nora's needs. Plus, it's difficult when you're a seven-year-old and your two younger sisters are home with mommy getting more one-on-one time while you're at school all day.

Also, now that Nora is completely mobile they are starting to grasp that she can get into their toys. Mom? Can you grab Nora? We're trying to play here. I understand how frustrating it can be, to have a baby demolishing the elaborate set-up they made to play, and sometimes I will keep Nora away. But there are other times that if they want Nora kept out of their toys, then they are required to move their play into their bedroom. Sometimes they like to play with their baby sister, but lately there have been quite a few, Nora! Stop it!s drifting in from wherever they're playing.

Still, it is worth it all.

The way they rush to Nora's side when they hear her wake from a nap. The way Nora smiles when she sees one of her sisters walk into the room. The way Hope wants to feed Nora at dinner time. The way the older sisters giggle and copy the silly faces Nora makes. The way they fight over who gets to sit next to her, push her in the swing, give her more hugs, try to make her laugh. The way she looks at them, like they hang the moon, which as her big sisters, they do. They are her world. And she is theirs.

And the three of them, they are mine. I will take it all. The easy, the hard, the good, the bad. I will take it all because it is all where I am. It is all where I want to be.

xoxo, christine

It's A Big Deal Day

Last week, along with a five-year-old's birthday and Easter, we had a major milestone for Miss Nora. She turned nine-months-old. Nora has now been out of the womb for more than she has been in the womb.

(Of course my husband, Mr. Stickler For Details, had to point out that Nora came two weeks before her due date so technically she was likely already past that point by the eighth of the month, but I put my fingers in my ears and stuck my tongue out at him and ignored his attention to detail.)

How strange to think that she has been in our outside world for nine months already. Where did the time go? Surely she can't already be crawling and pulling herself up and trying to put everything in her mouth? She was just born! Yet, surely she has also been with our family from forever ago, so nine months really isn't that long at all. Nine months? Only? But how did our family dynamic ever feel complete without her presence?

I am in love with this little baby of ours. The way she smiles and kicks her legs when she sees someone she likes. The way she wrinkles her nose. The way she squints her eyes and shudders every time she tries a food for the first time. The way she leans and tilts her head to the side when trying to see something out of view. The way she fusses every single day when it's time to put her arms through the holes in a onsie. The way she makes a beeline straight for whatever she's not supposed to have, pretty much anything small and chokable. The way she rolls herself onto her tummy to sleep. The way she follows her sisters around the house now that she is mobil. The way she smiles, big and wide, still gummy with no teeth. The way she leans in open-mouthed to give kisses.

The way she fits, just-so into my arms.

Happy Nine-Month You've-Been-Out-Longer-Than-In Birthday, Nora May.

xoxo, mommy

Lost

My heart has felt weighted lately. The part devoted to the loss of my son is pulling down more than usual, washing me over in melancholy, sorrow, and fear. Although I know that things are just as they are supposed to be, and I would never trade the baby I have for the one I lost, I still sometimes wish that I could have both. That the way things are supposed to be include one toddler boy and one infant girl, who get smothered with love from their two older sisters.

He feels very far away right now, my son. I can not imagine what it means to raise a boy. I can not picture what he would look like or be like. I am reaching out to him, but it's as if I'm reaching for a cloud or a rainbow. My hands either go straight through and grasp at nothing, or he is always just out of my reach. Every time I move closer he moves farther away. Yet, despite my sadness, I am afraid to look at photos and examine what is currently pumping through my heart.

The memories of him seem so distant that I'm afraid they never happened. What did it feel like when I found out I was pregnant? How were those first few months before we knew anything was wrong? How did we tell our girls?

How did I feel him, trying to grow within me?

What did it feel like to hold him?

How was my relationship with my husband when we lost our son? I have a vague recollection of feeling really good and close and having an amazing perspective on life and what is important. I remember being desperate to keep that perspective forever.

I'm afraid we've lost that.

I'm afraid that what we learned from our son, what we gained in losing him, has faded. Perhaps into nothing at all. What was it all for?

I'm sorry, my baby, that you seem so far away. I'm sorry that I'm too scared to look at pictures and read your book. I'm sorry that you do not get to be here with us, evening out our little family, fighting with your baby sister for our attention.

I love you, Calvin John. I love you, I love you, I love you.

xoxo, christine


PS. If you want a wonderful perspective on the ongoing grief of losing a child, Jessica at Four Plus an Angel wrote this beautiful post that a friend shared with me. Grief is like carrying a stone.

Eight Months and a Day

Today.

Today my baby is eight months and one day old. In some ways it feels like it was just a blink or two ago when we were welcoming her into the world, and yet at the same time I can hardly remember what our life looked like before her. It feels like she has always been here, been a part of our family.

I suppose, in a way, she has always been here, just waiting until it was her time. Waiting and waiting until her presence could be recognized, a physical part of our family. It is as if everything before has been leading up to this exact moment. Which it has. Which it always does.

Everything before Hope led up to Hope. Everything before Paige led up to Paige. Everything before Nora led up to Nora. Everything before this moment, led up to right now, these eight months and one day.

It all led up to now. To two proud big sisters who can capture her attention like no one else. To the way she giggles when I nuzzle my nose in her neck. To the way she smiles when her daddy comes home, kicking her legs and squinting her eyes right at him. To her fuzzy brown hair, her rolly thighs, her big blue eyes that don't want to miss a thing.

She has been with our family before we even knew we were a family. When Adam and I were sitting at a restaurant in Ireland, nervously picking at our dinner, giddy with the anticipation of a date and another date and then another. When we had a brisk pre-birthday dinner walk on the Stone Arch Bridge and Adam got down on his knee to propose. She has been with our family when the two of us said our vows in the church I was confirmed in. When we moved into our first house. She has been with us since we welcomed Hope into the world, and two years later when we welcomed Paige. When we found out we were pregnant with Calvin, and then when we found out we would lose him.

She has been with us the whole time, patiently waiting. A glimmer in my heart. A spark. A butterfly. A secret that only my heart could feel. Only my heart knew.

We are an odd number in our house now, the five of us. And I worry sometimes about the three girls growing up and someone always feeling left out, of it always being two against one. Yes, I worry and we are an odd number, yet there is nothing odd about it.

She is the magical golden thread weaving into our family's pattern. Her thread was always there, intricately tied into all of our designs, waiting for its time to be noticed, to be seen, and now we do. Now we can see what a beautiful part her piece is adding to the whole. How is it possible that we ever existed without her?

Eight months and a day. Nine months before that. Years before that. A lifetime.

It all leads up to today.

xoxo, christine

On Complicated Grief and Love and a Little Boy

Our toilet got clogged last night. Then, in the process of trying to get it unclogged, it, of course, overflowed. And you know that water isn't "fresh" toilet bowl water. It is yucky, ucky, stinky, crap-filled water. Spilling over onto anything in its path.

Our nighttime bathroom mishap pretty much feels like a metaphor of... today? Life? The grief of losing our son?

Today is the first anniversary of Calvin's due date. I'm pretty sure my emotions are all clogged up inside of me until they aren't anymore and they just kind of seep into anything surrounding me. (Yes, I totally just compared this all to an overflowing toilet.)

Although not every day, I think about Calvin a lot. It is mostly in passing, in casual conversations with Adam and the girls. He is included when the girls do family counts and in pictures they draw. Paige has designated her old green blanket his. We talk to him and pray to him when snuggling into bed at night. And his blue blanket is still tucked under my pillow. I'm still waiting for a dream from him.

Truthfully, I don't spend much time imagining how our lives would look if he had lived. If things had been different. Oh sure, when I see a random baby boy around Calvin's age, I usually get a little flutter in my heart. Or when I see a chunky baby in blue with his daddy, my heart aches for Adam not to have the experience of raising his son. But mostly I don't let myself think about "what if" or "if only" because it is just impossible to know.

I can not imagine having a one-year-old son right now. I can not imagine what it would look like or feel like to be chasing after a toddler who goes from room to room finding every tiny toy the girls leave on the floor. I can not imagine the "Mo-oms!" being called when he, once again, ruined whatever his sisters were playing with. I can not imagine shopping in the little boys section full of blues and greens and clip-on bow ties. I can not imagine what adjustments our family would have made. How we would interact with each other, how we would feel. I can not imagine who our girls would be if they hadn't lost their brother.

Mostly, as much as I wish Calvin could be here. I know he can not. And he never was going to be. And I'm okay with that. It is why I can love Nora without any guilt toward Calvin. There is no "it could have been" with him alive in our lives. And I miss him, of course I do. And I love him, of course I do. But I know that things are Right with us. Calvin prepared the way for Nora, because without losing him, we would mostly likely not have her.

And having Nora here is definitely Right. (It is important to me that Nora grow up knowing that, even though we miss her older brother, we would not trade her for him. It might be hard to imagine or understand, but I know that he is where he is supposed to be so that Nora could be here with us.)

And I can't imagine our lives looking any different that what we have right now. The blessed experience of carrying our son for six and a half months. The joy and utter devastation of cradling his little body. The fear and hope of another baby. The hesitant excitement of a healthy pregnancy. The abounding love of welcoming Nora.

I am terribly sad that Calvin didn't get to stay with us, but I am incredibly grateful for the gift he gave us. And I will shed tears of love as we remember him today and the gift he was for our family.

xoxo, christine

Conversations in Blue

We are painting fingernails. Hope has chosen a bright blue, one no one has used in months.

I hesitate, but only for a second, before saying, This reminds me of when we all painted our nails this blue for Calvin's memorial.

Yeah. I was thinking that too, Hope comments, her eyes watching every stroke on her nails.

Paige scoots in closer. Did I wear that color too?

Yes, honey. We all had our nails painted this color for Calvin's memorial.

What's a memorial? Paige asks, and I realize that even though she knows Calvin died, her memories of last year have the haziness of a three-year-old, and unless we talk about it, she probably won't remember.

I explain as best I can, that the memorial was a way to remember and say goodbye to Calvin, that our immediate families were there, we were in the little chapel at our church, the priest said some nice words, and we all were crying.

I didn't cry. Hope announces. I was bored.

Yes, Hope. I remember that, too.

Did I cry? Paige looks up at me, her hands cradling her face.

Some. I think that seeing everyone else so sad made you feel pretty sad too.

* * *

I am closing up the last of the polish, lining them up to be put away. Hope is waiting for her nails to dry and Paige walks in, her hands clasped together, her eyes searching mine.

Mommy? I miss Baby Calvin.

I pull Paige into my lap and squeeze her. Me too, baby.

I wish we had two babies.

Yeah?

She sighs and rubs my belly. This baby and Baby Cal.

I wish we had two babies, too.

Baby Calvin would be first. Then this baby. She declares firmly.

Yes. I confirm. Baby Calvin came first, then this baby.

She pushes on my belly button. I hope this baby doesn't die.

I hope this baby doesn't die too.

But Calvin was sick. Hope interjects with authority. This baby isn't sick.

You're right. So far she's been healthy, but we never know what might happen. But she is growing bigger and stronger, so hopefully we will get to bring her home. I don't want to upset them, but I also don't want to make a promise that gets broken, so I try to encourage hope without completely denying the possibility that we could lose her too.

* * *

When I am in bed, I think back to our conversations. I am glad that I brought up Calvin's name. I only wish I had reminded Paige that Calvin is always with us. That even though we miss him and wish he was here, he is always with us in our memories and in our hearts.

* * *

I have been feeling especially emotional and delicate lately. I think it is perhaps because this weekend marked the point in pregnancy that we found out Calvin had died and delivered him. Twenty-eight weeks and five days.

For the last four days or so, I have been wearing blue bracelets. I have several, collected throughout the years from various places and people. They are significant to my loss of Calvin only because just now I have decided to wear a blue bracelet (or two) as a way to remind me that I am a mother to a son, not just daughters.

(Even though I already know this. Even though I have his footprints tattooed on the inside of my wrist. The blue makes me feel happier about having a son. Not just the sadness of losing my son.)

I also light his candle most evenings. The smell is comforting, whether I am sitting and thinking about him, or just going about my usual evening routine. It is the candle we picked out to light on his due date, the smell having no similarity to the actual smells from the day of his delivery, but the scent has become "Calvin" to me. And I find it reassuring, that sweet blueberry aroma, wrapping around me like a cozy blanket.

* * *

I am sad about so many things surrounding losing Calvin. But I also want to feel the joy of having him with us, of remembering him. I guess, for now anyway, adding a little blue to my days makes that feel like a real possibility.

xoxo, christine

His Blue Blanket

I miss my son.

As much as I obsess about this current pregnancy and the potential for losing it, this pregnancy has also provided me with a distraction from my grief of losing Calvin. I'm pretty sure that I have been avoiding some feelings, and pushing things down, slightly aware that my grief will come back and take me by surprise. That sometime in the future I will need to do more processing, that which I am avoiding right now.

We still talk about Calvin. (Of course we do.) Paige will bring up Baby Calvin. Hope will point up toward the sky in reference to him always being with us. His name doesn't come up all the time, but it happens most often when we talk about our family, and even when we talk about this baby who is currently growing within me. When Hope drew a picture of our family as flowers she included the four of us, the baby in my belly, and a teeny tiny daisy for baby Calvin - since he was teeny tiny.

The past two nights my heart has felt heavy, my body overwhelmed with emotion, my tears flowing freely. I want to hold him again. I want to kiss him again. I want to tell him I love him. I want to hear him cry, even though we never got to.

I've been sleeping with one of his blankets. One of the blankets he never really got to use. It had a spot by my pillow for many months, but the past two nights I've held it against my heart. It's just symbolic since it never got to become his own, but it's all I can do to feel closeness and comfort. It's all I can do for my grief.

xoxo, christine

It Doesn't Always Start Out as a Good Night

My Wednesday night consisted of:

OH MY GOODNESS I AM DONE WITH ALL THINGS AND THE WHINING AND THE CRYING AND THE COMPLAINING ABOUT EVERYTHING AND THE NOT EATING DINNER AND THE MESSES IN EVERY ROOM AND I JUST CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE AND I AM DONE WITH ALL THINGS PLEASE FOR THE LOVE JUST GO TO SLEEP.

And even though I was feeling all the things, I was at the same time trying to be understanding because my six-year-old had been up since before 6:30am and hadn't eaten anything since 4:00pm and who wouldn't be crabby given that equation?

Heck, I got more sleep than she did, ate an actual dinner, and by the end of the night I was ready to throw up my hands, stomp my feet, and scream and cry and hide under the covers.

I managed to get them to bed with very minimal yelling (go me!) but perhaps a lot of frustration and exasperation (well, you win some you lose some), but once they were all snuggled and tucked in bed and we all breathed a big End Of The Day Sigh the day was over and we all survived.

As I tucked my six-year-old in and sat with her I had a fleeting moment of major mom guilt, because of course she was falling apart tonight and why wasn't I more patient and understanding? Shortly before her eyes closed I reminded her how much I love her and how sorry I was that today was so hard for her and how sorry I was that I got so frustrated.

And mostly the mom guilt passed me by as I kissed their foreheads and brushed the hair off their faces and remembered that even with all the hard things I love them so much and I love being a mother. I love being their mother. And I would do it all a million times over, even the hard times, even if I'm not the greatest and bestest at handling those hard times.

We all have easy days and hard days, good moments and bad moments, six-year-olds, three-year-olds and moms alike. It was perhaps not my best night, but I certainly have had worse parenting outbursts, and at least I was able to (mostly) keep the ALL CAPS feelings inside -- although I was extremely tempted to "yell" my frustrations out on Facebook.

I survived. We survived. And we even ended the night with a hug and kiss and a happy good-night, which isn't always the case in these situations. They fell asleep almost instantaneously, while I curled up in front of the tv with a glass of milk and an extra large brownie.

And we all had sweet dreams. Good night.

xoxo, christine

Six.

To my first-born,

Today, my beautiful daughter, you turn six years old. Today we celebrate your life, your joy, your 'you-ness'.

You have brought so much into our lives, starting with that first positive pregnancy test six years and nine months ago, to today. You are such a sweet joy, full of light and love for the world.

This past year you have really opened up. You have grown from a timid little five-year-old into a confident six-year-old. You are no longer afraid to try new things, and even jump right into them. Kindergarten has taken me by surprise with how much you love it, how easily you dance onto the bus, how much you come home having learned.

Your interests are becoming fine-tuned with an absolute love of art, adoration of puppies (and most animals), and a wonder for being and playing outside. (The kind of wonder and joy I remember having when I played outside for what felt like hours, even by myself, as a kid.)

I love watching you at your tennis lessons because you look like you are having so much fun, skittering around the court and learning something new. I loved watching you put on your first pair of ice skates and slipping and sliding around the ice. And even though you kept falling, you didn't give up. You didn't even want to hold onto me, instead telling me, I want to do it myself, Mom.

As you grow up you are learning the meaning (and use) of grown-up words and how sometimes they aren't literal but figures of speech. And even though sometimes I wish you'd stop growing (it's happening so fast!) I love that you are growing up and becoming more and more of your own person.

Even though I sometimes claim you are emotional, you keep most of your feelings and emotions inside, something that worries my mama-heart. I want you to know that I am always here for you, and that I want to hear what you are thinking and how you are feeling whenever you need to talk.

I love you from the tips of my fingers, with every beat of my heart, to the tips of my toes. I wish I could explain to you how my love for you is bursting in every cell of my body.

Today is a new year for everyone, but for you it is a doubly over, filled with the possibility of 2014 and also being a new age, six.

I wish for you to be happy with who you are, to be healthy, to find joy in your life. I wish for you to always know how much you are loved, how special you are, how much the world needs your amazingness.

Happy Birthday, Hope Margaret!

xoxo, mommy

Let There Be Peace on Earth (and let it begin with me)

I just spent the better part of an hour reading the comments from an essay written by an atheist about celebrating Christmas. The essay itself was, for me, unremarkable. It was the comment section that left me breathless.

The comments, as I'm sure you can imagine if you've ever read comments online, range from ridiculous to moderately sane, from atheists, agnostics, and Christians alike. To be fair, I did not read them all (so maybe there were more pleasant or sane ones than those I read), but overall it left me feeling really sad.

I don't understand why people don't just get along. Why we all can't just respect each other. Why we all feel the need to be rude and resentful or judge and criticize other people.

I believe in God. I believe in Jesus. But just because I believe these things doesn't mean I can't respect and even love someone who doesn't. It doesn't matter if Jesus was the first person to ever preach about goodness and kindness (I am pretty confident he wasn't). Whether or not your belief in goodness and kindness comes from Jesus or Buddha or the humanity itself really doesn't matter to me. (And it shouldn't matter to anyone else.)

Isn't that what is most important?

I don't know. Perhaps I am being blasphemes for thinking I can be a Christian and think it's more important to be a good person than to believe in God. But I guess I think it's okay. I'm sure some (many) could find fault in this. I'm sure some (many) could claim I am "cherry-picking" my Christianity. And to that I say oh well. My personal faith (and any possible challenges about my faith) are my own.

I believe in God. I believe in Jesus. I also happen to believe in being kind, compassionate, and loving. And I know numerous people (some close friends) who don't believe in God but also believe in kindness, compassion, and love. Whether or not they believe in God has no influence on whether or not they are my friend. And I'm pretty sure they would say the same about me.

What would the world be like if we all were the same, all believed the same? I just wish we could respect our differing opinions as opposed to argue.

Just as an aside: I have had plenty of times I've initiated conflict and been very judgmental (especially talking politics) so I'm not pretending I'm above anything or anyone. I just wish we could all be nice to each other.

If you believe in being a good person, and I believe in being a good person, whether that belief comes from one place or another shouldn't matter. If we both claim to be good people, shouldn't we be nice to each other?

Yes. Just yes.

As this year is ending and a new one is beginning I am sending love and respect out into the universe.

Whatever you believe or don't believe I wish for you: love for your neighbor, love for yourself, and peace in your heart this coming new year.

xoxo, christine

My Love Will Find You

Dear Calvin,

Today was your due date. I wish you were here. I wish I could hug you and kiss you and snuggle you again. You and your siblings are the best things that ever happened to me, that I have been a part of. You make my life richer, more complete.

I hope that you know how much I love you. How much I miss you. How sorry I am for not being able to keep you here with me. I hope that you know I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

Having you and losing you has made me more of myself. (Perhaps that sounds convoluted or crazy, but I think it's true.)

Your life has already taught me so much. It gives me more appreciation for what I have, and better perspective on what's important. Your strength inspires me.

My dear, sweet baby boy, I miss you. I miss you terribly. But I hope that you know, I hope that you feel, wherever you are, my love will find you.

xoxo, Mommy

A Picture Worth a Thousand Tears

We got to see photos that were taken from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep after Calvin was delivered. I am so grateful that we were able to have a photographer come in and capture a few precious moments with our son. These photos will be treasured forever.

But I am broken all over.

And I am disappointed. In the weeks of waiting, expectations managed to creep into my subconscious convincing me that these photos would be of something that didn't exist. That somehow our baby would look less like he did on August 17th and more like he should if he were full-term and healthy. That somehow within the past ten weeks, our reality that day consisted of a baby that the girls could have visited, should have visited. That somehow our photos would conjure the same warm-hearted feelings I get when looking at professional photographs of families walking hand-in-hand through falling leaves, little hands pressed with eager anticipation on a mother's round belly, moments of happiness and joy that I am so used to being posted everywhere I turn.

I look at these photos and a numbness settles over me. Is this really us? It is so strange to vividly remember sitting on that hospital bed posing for that picture, yet feeling a disconnect to who that person was. I know that these are the exact people we were, he is the exact baby that I remember delivering, and yet it's like an entirely different universe. It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago.

I am ripping in two.

I think part of my disappointment is simply grief. Looking at all these photos opens the wound that was scarring. It is fresh and raw. I have been so eager to get these photos back that I didn't stop to think of how hard it would be too.

But I am incredibly thankful for what our photographer gave us. Even if she could magically make our photos different, I would never want her to. The photos are perfect, I know, because they capture our reality. They capture our time with Calvin just as it was. They capture the three of us in the moments we shared. They capture our heartache. And our love.

xoxo, christine

Gone

I close my eyes.

There is a meadow. It is amber or maybe emerald. That part I am unsure of, but the rest I see with clarity.

He is young, maybe two, with bare feet and overalls. He is perfect.

His towhead is shaggy, tickling his white eyelashes. His eyes are the color of a cloudless sky. And his smile, it is as bright as the sun.

In the distance there are other children. Cousins and a brother or sister who have gone before him. They are laughing and playing.

He looks at me and waves, his smile shining. Our hearts connect and I feel it. He knows our love.

Then he turns and goes to them. They are calling his name. Caaal-viiin! C'mere, Calvin! They run away together swinging arms and giggling.

He is happy. He is at peace.

Our sweet baby boy, Calvin John, was born already an angel on Saturday August 17th 2013. He was eleven magnificent ounces and ten amazing inches. And our miracle angel in every way.

"Some people dream of angels. We held one in our arms."

xoxo christine

Keeping the Mom Guilt at Bay

Some times when I've had less than stellar days or weeks, I'm okay with it, and manage go easy on the MomGuilt. But other times, even with the excuse of a migraine one day, the MomGuilt brings me down. And last week, with a friend out of commission and an exhaustion that felt like it came from nowhere, was one of those weeks.

Today was better. In fact, I would even go so far as to say it was great. We enjoyed a quiet and quick morning together, and I even had enough time to drive through and get a coffee before taking the girls to school (preschool and ECFE class). That right there is a drop in my Bucket of Awesome!

The MomGuilt is hard because some days I can see it coming, like a car's headlights in the distance and I manage to turn down another road, swerve, or even speed on by. But other days that MomGuilt knocks me right out, with no warning, and I'm left with just the vibrations in the head of repeated ways I'm failing at this Mom-gig. And the self-doubt and questioning, why didn't they cover that at the birthing classes at the hospital? Babies: Guaranteed to make you question your ability to make the right decisions every step of the way.

Don't get me wrong, I think we're doing a pretty good job over here. But the fear. Oh the fear is amazing. Am I doing the right thing? Should I go to my baby or let her cry herself to sleep? And then three years later: Is my daughter's tough adjustment to preschool because I let her cry herself to sleep when she was nine-months-old? Is it because I coddled her too much by letting her sleep with me until she was three-years-old?

Either way you do it there will be questions, doubts, and fear. That's a guarantee with kids.

But, I guess, as with life, that's kind of how it goes. We're all doing this thing the best way that we can, each and every day. We do what we think is best, with whatever background, whatever research, whatever Instinct we have, and hope that it's enough. That if we give what we can (and sometimes what we can give is much less than on other days -- and that's okay!), that if we give what we can, if we love, if we share, if we support, we are doing enough.

Really, when I think about raising my girls, I just want to know that it all revolved around love. From love comes compassion, hope, joy, satisfaction, the need to do good.

So what does it matter how many hours of television they watched the week I felt exhausted. Or what kinds of snacks they got the day we ran out of fruits and I wasn't up for a two-child trip to the grocery store. I am doing the best that I can. And so are you.

Give yourself a pat on the back. Take a deep breath. Push away that MomGuilt. We are enough for our children. We are all they need.

xoxo,
Christine

A Note From My Sister

Today I am welcoming my sister, Elisabeth, to this space. I have written several posts about how wonderful my sister is and how much I love and admire her. After the most recent post (for her birthday), she informed me she wanted to guest post for my birthday. I am honored to have her here today, and humbled by her thoughts and words.

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Twenty days ago, my sister wrote a beautiful blog post for me on my birthday. Although I can’t hope to write as humorously (see number 2) or eloquently (see number 5) as she, today is her birthday, and I wanted to share with you the reasons why I look up to my “little” sistah:

1. She challenges me: I was twelve and she was nine when we went on our first ski trip. We weren’t the sportiest kids, but somehow our Austrian genes kicked in and soon we were snowplowing down the exceptionally gentle bunny hill. The ski lifts, however, continued to terrify us, especially unloading from the lift, when we had to skid down that short, icy hill. My coping strategy was to preemptively crouch as low as possible on my skis, bum skimming the snow, until I was safely on even ground. ...until my little sis decided to zip down, STANDING UP on her skis. What?! On the next run, I was determined that if my nine-year-old sister could manage to get off the ski lift without wiping out, so could I. Without my sister there to challenge and push me to take risks and grow, I am certain I would be in a very different place today.

2. She’s funny: My sister has mentioned in previous posts that our Austrian grandmother referred to her as the family clown. This was an endearing term – I think my sister reminded Grossmama of her fun-loving Uncle Karl, whom she adored.  What my sister didn’t mention was that we didn’t speak a common language with Grossmama when my sister first earned her title. My grandma knew my sister was funny, and they didn’t even speak the same language!

3. She’s intelligent: In high school, my sister and I had a phenomenal history teacher who challenged his students to question and think critically about the world. As part of one of his trademark assignments, he told the story of a man who was to be executed in a revolution. This man wrote a letter to his unborn son, leaving him with one word by which he hoped that his son would live his life. Our assignment was to choose one word and write a letter as if we were this man, writing to his son. It wasn’t supposed to be a guessing game, but I remember trying to figure out what my teacher would want to hear, and being mildly disappointed with a mediocre grade on the assignment. Three years later, my sister was in the same class. Her paper received the highest grade possible. While I was busy trying to figure out what my teacher wanted me to think, my sister really thought about the assignment and wrote a beautiful, heart-felt letter.

4. She has a successful career: I see it in the way her two-year-old asks, “Would you play with me, please?” I see it in the way she pulls aside a whining four-year-old and whispers something in her ear. The whispers are greeted with a pout and a huff…and acceptance. I see it in my nieces’ tea parties, their “guessing games” in the car, their silly versions of “The Wheels on the Bus.” As a mom, my sister has the most challenging and important career that exists; she is a wonderful mom and is raising two amazing little girls.

5. She’s brave: The fact that these, my words, will soon be published on the internet for all to read is intimidating enough for me. My sister not only publishes her words on a weekly basis, but shares her deepest struggles and fears. Despite a growing awareness of depression, many people who share that they are struggling with depression experience judgment or rejection. My sister’s courage in sharing her perspective gives a voice to the millions of people who live with depression, ultimately contributing to acceptance and understanding.

Sistah, I love you more than I could ever express. I hope that you know how much I admire you. Whatever happens in life, I will always be here for you. Happy birthday!

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Elisabeth, thank you for the wonderfully sweet post. I love you and am thankful every day to have you as my sister.

xoxo,

Christine