Breath

Ready? Deep breath. Four years. Four. You, my child, are my heart. For these past four years I've watched you grow from baby, to toddler, to now kid. I look at you with wonder. How did I grow you? How did I birth you? How did I get so very lucky? This has been a year of transitions for us, with more to come in the near future. Yet, you are my constant. My constant reminder to slow down, to appreciate, to be okay with imperfection, to forgive easily, and to breathe.
Before you were born I expected I would have a child who I loved and who brightened my day. I expected to be changed by motherhood. I expected a little person with my hands and my husband's eyes. But I never expected you. You are my unexpected joy, my unexpected teacher, my unexpected friend, my unexpected challenge, and my unexpected breath. You, and now your brother too, are my child. Today you are four. Today, and tomorrow, and all of my forevers, I love you with my whole heart and my every breath.

Love,
Mama

Brothers

I get the distinct feeling that, in a few years, I'm going to have my hands (even) full(er).

Simple Life: Update 2

Well, the best laid plans... We are moving to New England! My husband was offered, and accepted a job out east so off we go. Our plans to build a small, sustainable homestead will be put on hold temporarily as we make this move and see where we go from there. I am sure many challenges and adventures await us. I am sure we will miss our "tribe" here in Indiana. I am sure a new tribe will emerge. I am sure glad I get to walk this earth with these people.

Blood, and Bones, and Tissue Paper

Last fall BC and I were playing... something. I forget what, exactly. Something monster-related. I know I did a bit about how I would eat his fingers - yum! And he said that, no, I couldn't eat his fingers because they were muscles. "Oh really?" I queried. "And what other muscles do you have?" "My arms and legs!", he said. "And your heart!" I said, capitalizing on the teachable moment. "Do you know what else is inside your body?" He grinned, "blood, and bones, and tissue paper." I laughed, he giggled, and our game went on.

The night I went into labor with AL was a night I'll never forget. I was running short on patience. I wasn't feeling well (in hindsight yes, because I was in pre-labor), and I just wanted BC to go to sleep. He was fighting it, as 3-year-olds are wont to do. I was getting frustrated. He was getting frustrated. But instead of taking a moment to connect with him, I let my exhausted frustration get in the way and told him he just needed to go to bed. He tried to bite me. I told him I wouldn't let him bite me and that if he tried to do it again I would leave the room and Papa would have to do bedtime with him, instead of me. He tried to bite me again. I left the room. Seconds later he came out of the bedroom, crying, trying to apologize. But I held firm to my limit. My husband scooped him up. I said, "I love you. Good night." And, the image of his tear-streaked face over my husband's shoulder, looking at me - wanting me - will forever be burned into my memory. "Bye bye, Mama." was what he said.

Bye bye.

When I think back to that night, to that moment, I feel nauseous. As parents we always have things we wish we could have done differently, moments we would like to take back, words we wish we hadn't said. It wasn't too long after that moment when I began to realize I was going into actual labor, and I began consciously willing myself not to. Because I didn't want my last night with BC as an only to be so hard, so unsettling, so... not right. I didn't want his last words to me before his tiny world was turned upside down to be "bye bye". And yet, they were. When I accepted the fact that birth was imminent, I woke my husband, called the midwife and my mom, and then told my husband to go back to bed to "try and get some sleep." I sat in the kitchen on the yoga ball and cried. I just cried and cried. Because I knew. I knew that the "bye bye" at bedtime was it. I could never do that moment differently. I could never take it back. And in that moment - the one I wish for all the world I could do over - with those two words, my tissue paper heart was ripped in two.

Second Verse, Definitely NOT the Same as the First

The birth of my first child was a long, hard labor. It was an experience I wouldn't trade for anything. I learned a lot about myself through that labor. The birth of my second child was a complete surprise. Even my midwife, who had cautioned me that second labors often go faster than first labors, said it was almost unheard of to have such a huge difference in length and difficulties of labors in the same mama. Our second child, AL, was born 2 days after his due date, after a 5ish hour labor, and exactly 2 pushes. BC slept through the whole thing. We called my mom, who was on deck to be with BC while I labored, at 5:02 AM. "Okay. Real labor has started so you should come over now." Not in a panic. Not even especially to rush her. Just, you know, it's time. She walked in at 5:18 AM to see my husband on the floor, holding me, holding our new son. The midwife missed the birth by about 10 minutes. I now have the distinction, and distinct honor, of having "caught" both of my children. In case you're wondering, yes, I feel like a badass.

AL was latched by the time he was 15 minutes old and nursed for a solid 2 hours. BC asked to "see the placenta" and was fascinated. He may want to be a midwife when he grows up. We are all settling in quite nicely.

To My First Born

My dearest son,

Today I am 40 weeks pregnant with your sibling. I have been trying to write this note to you for several months but am just now finally getting my thoughts about the impending arrival out of my head and into the world. You have been my only child for the past three and a half years. These years have been the best of my life, because of you. You made me a mother. You are my first born; the first to teach me how to love unconditionally, the first to call me "Mama", the first to let me not live up to that title and love me anyway, the first to walk through the world by my side as my child, the first Great Mystery I will never solve. My love for you is beyond compare to anything I have ever known. You and I, we've created a special world for ourselves. We are buddies. We are Mother and Child. Your Papa is the third in our cozy tribe and together, the three of us, face the world head-on. Not loving every minute of it, but loving one another fiercely through it.

Right now my belly is round and large. You scarcely fit on my lap because of it. With every inch my belly has grown, with every loss of an inch on my lap for you to sit, I have felt this deep, nagging worry that I cannot ignore. Will you ever wonder, I wonder, why your Papa and I wanted to make our cozy tribe of three into four? Will you be heartbroken to learn that the baby being out of my belly does not mean my lap will be free for you to sit upon whenever you choose? Will you struggle with suddenly having a sibling, feeling that you were not enough?

Son, you are enough. Enough to be my first born. You are perfectly you and fit perfectly into my life. Another child in our family is one more person to love. Another child in our family means a sibling for you. It's a gift I am giving you. Siblings, my darling boy, are the relationships that outstretch all other relationships. As your parent, I will have the honor of walking with you through the beginning and middle of your life. Your partner will, eventually, have the honor of walking with you through the middle and end of your life. Your sibling will have the honor of walking with you throughout your entire life. Your sibling will be the one to know you as a child, a young adult, a middle-ager, and an old man. Your sibling will know how you got that scar, be able to hold entire conversations with you only using quotes from the favorite movie you share, fight with you both verbally and physically (but always make up), wonder with you at the mental status of your parents, share your joy and your sorrow, hold your past, celebrate your future, and call you Brother. All of that is what I want for you. I want you to know the richness of siblinghood.

You are enough. You will forever be my first born child, the one who first called me Mother, the one I first called Child. Now it is time for you to be called Brother.

One Year Later

A year ago I was in a pretty dark place. I wasn't sure how long it would take, or how I would even go about getting out of that place. But here I am, one year later. The emotional and spiritual scars from my miscarriage remain, at times, palpable. Leading up to this "anniversary" (as it were) I was filled with all sorts of irrational fears and worries about my current pregnancy. Knowing they were irrational didn't seem to help quell them. But here I sit, the day almost over, so grateful for what I have, sad for what I've lost, and hopeful for what will come. One year later and I am in a much brighter place. One year later and I am certain sure I will always remember the loss. Just as I will always know that, sometimes, hope is all there is.