Overcoming

I know it's nearly the end of February and that many of us have moved on from New Year's thoughts. Me, I'm still over here pondering my word of the year.

Thinking of a word of the year is fun for me, I guess because I like words. I downloaded Tsh Oxenreider's New Year's reflection questions and slowly worked through them.

As I was writing about my 2019 I could see clearly that I had overcome many, many new things. I also learned that new things are hard.

Go figure, right?

In 2019 I did so many new-to-me things that my system was a shell shocked come December

Over the last twelve months I have gleaned so much information about myself. I've also learned to set goals, maybe for the first time in my adult life. Achieving goals has also become a reality, which also feels like a recent development. At least in my personal life.

Putting the goals of my kids and husband as a priority came naturally to me. Learning to set goals for myself is a pretty recent discovery.

In reflecting back on 2019 I was also able to see that my tendency to say Everything is fine! crept back in. My ability to disengage from my actual feelings in order to help everyone around me be comfortable is truly amazing.

That ability also makes me sick, apparently.

So my word for 2020 is Overcome. Here's a brief list of what I hope to overcome:

~ Magical thinking about time. This is a phrase I learned in a FB group, and I adore it because it's my superpower. Being on time isn't necessarily a goal (I've gotten okay at that one). What I'd really like to do is have a realistic idea of what I can get done in a set number of hours. I tend to really overshoot, or really undershoot, what I can accomplish.

~ Pleasing others. There's nothing wrong with being helpful. Being a good wife, mom, daughter and friend does not require me become The Giving Tree. Making my needs more of a priority, getting even more comfortable setting boundaries, and not wallowing in guilt that I may have let someone down will be a big part of this.

~ Procrastination. Blergh. This one is the one. This has been an ongoing problem for me, as I know it is for many people. Sometimes it's that I'm not sure how to get started on the thing that I need to do. Other times it's that the task is so overwhelming that I don't want to start because there are so many other projects to get to.

I'll wake up at some horrible hour of the night and realize that I'm just playing through the many things that I want to get done, need to done, or would like to accomplish in the imgined future.

What I've learned is that if I set my timer for ten minutes and get as much done as I can...I can get pretty close to finished. This blog post is a perfect example of that. ;)

~ Diet culture. I've reached a point in my life where weight loss is just not a healthy goal for me. Diet culture had so permeated my life that I didn't know it was an issue. Eating and moving my body didn't bring me joy; they brought me endless bouts of guilt, shame, and avoidance. I used a program called Noom last year that I really took to. For some people it is a diet and weight loss app. For me it was like having a therapist in my phone help me to figure out why I made the choices I made.

I feel like Yoda saying this, but the choice is yours; with this app do as you will.

I did lose weight, but more than anything I regained a love for moving and eating. Yoga, walking, and hiking are my jam. I used to love me some tae-bo with Billy Blanks, as well as weight lifting and Jazzercise. My body does not feel good with hard-core cardio anymore. Thanks for that, aging hormonal system.

I've brought dancing back into my life (just in the living room for now, but hey!), and the boys and I are trying to learn tennis. We're looking to bike ride in the spring. Re-training my brain to accept that moving my body should be fun has been...well, fun.

I am also enjoying eating again, though, which is lovely. The wellness culture movement is just not for me and my family. I'm all for eating in a way that makes your body work in the best way possible (#youdoyouboo), it's just best if its not the main thing in my life.

Going to the grocery store had become a dreaded task because I just didn't know what I should be eating. Noom introduced intuitive eating, something I'm still learning about, and the food police in my head disappeared. I'll need to continue working on this though, as diet culture in the U.S. is hidden behind so many 'healthy eating' styles.

~ Fear of being okay. Life is good for us right now, which is why I have been shocked to realize my anxiety is creeping back in. I was pondering and praying about that when I realized I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Our family had been through crisis after crisis after crisis and the calm really freaked me out. The mindset that this is just how life would be going trapped me. So, I'll be overcoming the crap out of that this year.

Speaking of that, I can't get fellow humans who truly live in crisis with no safety net out of my mind. Lee and I are beyond grateful that we have my parents, as well as framily, that have seen us through some really, really hard stuff. A big life goal of mine is to be someone else's safety net, in ways big and small.

Do you have a word of the year, or a theme you'd like to see carried out for 2020? I'd love to hear!

Be brave, misfits, and may you overcome personal obstacles as we move through the next year.

Boom!

Welcome to the new decade.

I guess that's how we're dividing things now. The internet was full of 'ten years ago' micro-posts. At first I thought people were just enjoying seeing where they were ten years ago because they were bored the week in between the holidays and real life.

Then I realized my son is 10, and he was born in 2009 and it all made sense to me.

Boom!

It's a new decade.

I'd really rather not chop my life up into ten year increments, but in honor of being reflective a few days into this brand-spankin' new year, let's check out where I was ten years ago.

Liam was a tiny baby, around ten weeks or so. Our 'big kids', as we called them then, Kiley and Laurel, were 12, 10, along with just-turned- six-year-old Spencer. I was 36 and Lee was nearly 40.

Delivery of our fourth child had been rough - my babies like to be around nine pounds. I think Liam weighed in at 8.15, which seemed tiny after 10.3 pounds and 22 inches of Spencer passed through my birth canal like a cannon ball in slow motion.

I was anemic, my milk wouldn't come in, and Liam had bad latch. Add to that an MRI to check on my lungs that revealed a spot on my liver. I was completely wigged out.

After six weeks of pumping and visiting lactation consultants I made the excruciatingly painful decision to formula feed. A dear friend saw how worn out I was and said, "If you need permission, you have it."

Giving my self forty-eight hours of mourning helped. Then I wasn't sad, I was just feeding my baby. The big kids were enamored with feeding their baby brother, and Lee loved getting to be in charge of late night feedings.

I loved getting to sleep.

Still, I'd randomly declare things like 'breast is best!' and burst into tears at my lack of nursing superpowers. I had nursed the older kids for 12 months. But you know what? Liam needed food, I needed sleep, and we all moved on. No one is damaged by the choices that we made and we're all alive now.

I learned so much from that choice. Learning to relax into my choice, be thankful that the choice existed and moving forward helped me to grow.

Prior to that I'd been secretly judgmental of mothers who formula fed. Not like, super judge-y but like, silently smug. You know?

Making your own way is really hard, and parenting choices sometimes feel like a decision between good and evil. But feeding your baby is just about keeping everyone alive.

Ten years ago was a very sweet time in our lives.

I remember we had snow that winter, and the parsonage house we lived in sat on property with hills. The kids were all about getting out in the white stuff. I think they used trash can lids as snow sleds.

Just before they went out Kiley came to me quietly and told me she thought her period had started. After ensuring she had what she needed before sending her out to sled, I gave her a big hug.

"Sorry," I said, unsure of why I was apologizing.

She just resignedly shrugged her shoulders and ran out the door.

Sorry that you have to grow up, is what I think I meant. Sorry that you don't get to live in sunlit childhood days forever. Sorry that we can't curl up on the couch endlessly reading books and getting cookie crumbs everywhere.

Sorry we won't live this way forever, snug under the same roof.

Looking down at little Liam, chubby baby hands and cheeks waiting for me to do what he couldn't, and out at my oldest on the cusp of adulthood, I had a real sense of how quickly it would all go.

That was the gift of Liam. He was a living reminder to slow down and savor it all because it would just go otherwise.

Arriving ten years later, the changes feel warp speed.

Kiley is moved out and married.

Laurel is nearly 20.

Spencer turns 16 today.

Liam is 10 and more savvy than most his age. But he still loves LEGO and playing pretend and I will let him stay there for as long as he will.

Kiley worked at a photo studio last winter, and this gem was the product of that job.

I'm 46 and Lee is nearly 50. Our knees definitely hurt a little more. We've been banged up by life a little more. We've also overcome so much. So much.

The night of our 24th Anniversary. We were so tired, but ate really good pizza.

I drink less coffee now than I did then. Lee eats more vegetables than he did ten years ago (though, not by many!). I'm still homeschooling. We still love Jesus. We're re-learning to love the church.

Our kids are good humans. Great humans, even.

We've added new pets, lost one really good dog, re-homed a few, and regretted one. Kids have learned to walk, bike ride, drive, open bank accounts, and navigate calling insurance companies.

Boom!

We've done that together.

What I've shared here is mostly surface - there is so much underneath that I could fill a book. Moves, diagnosis, coping with learning differences, my parents' myriad of surgeries, Lee's surgeries, friendship losses, family changes...I feel like a a completely different person in some ways.

Giving myself a bit of time to consider the last ten years and allowed me the opportunity to see how far we've come. How far I've come. It's a pretty satisfying feeling.

I wonder if you've reflected on the last ten years? Are the changes subtle or huge? I'd love to know.

Be brave, misfits! May you appreciate how far you've come.

When You Can

Over Thanksgiving weekend I felt inspired to start decorating for Christmas.

In recent years I've become very attached to Advent and the notion of preparing for Christ. Slowly decorating and taking in the small joys of the season is one way I keep my focus on the Christian aspect of this holiday.

Dad and I found ourselves putting the lights on the outside of the house. Erik loves the lights, in fact we all do, and it's been so dreary here in Kentucky we thought, 'Why wait any longer?'.

'This is fun!', I said to Dad, with a note of surprise in my voice.

The lights are something I've always delegated to Lee and the kids. It became our tradition. This year, though, found Lee under the weather. Spencer was also battling a cold (or allergies? We never know!). Liam couldn't be bothered, and Erik had a headache.

So it was Dad and I. Because of my ridiculous fear of heights I opted to let my 76 year old father climb the ladder. I kept asking, 'Do you feel secure?' as a means of keeping him safe.

Maybe I've never told you of the time he fell of the ladder, breaking a few vertebrae about 25 years ago.

Still, I felt that Dad was the best choice for the ladder work.

'You never know who's going to be helping with this,' he said. It was just a comment, not a judgement. But it got me thinking: this is one of the first years I felt that I could.

We do what we can, when we can.

Being in the same place for nearly five years has given us time to make memories. It's given us time to figure out new things.

Taking walks most days is one of me and Liam's traditions. The other kids used to come along, but now it's just us two. Arguing is a pastime of Liam's, so there are days that I go it alone.

Living in our neighborhood are some sweet Christmas elves. These elves place ornaments in and around each home. I think it started the year after we moved here, but I can't quite remember.

The flash of color on dull December days is a reminder that someone cares. As we walk and point out shiny orbs spied in various trees, bushes, or bird feeders we can't help but be cheered.

On our most recent walk Liam turned back to go home because he refuses to wear a coat. You see, coats are puffy, tight, and too constricting. Maybe you don't see. I don't, but on child #4 I'm done arguing.

Anyway, meandering through the neighborhood alone I felt nostalgic. It feels good to be a part of a tradition, even one that is someone else's doing. Thinking about the recent years gone by I felt surprised by my own joy.

Years past have found the holidays feeling heavier. Harder. Like slogging through mud.

This year I recognize that I am better able to do things. Life feels easier. A lot of this is because I've put effort into my mental and spiritual health - though I actually think that they're the same thing.

Figuring out the next thing, my parents are through with surgeries, Lee is over some of his health issues, our adult children are adulting at a developmentally appropriate pace, and we're settling into our new way of life are also making the world feel less mud-like.

Also, my children are now old enough that they do not cycle through sickness every three weeks. That definitely helps.

Learning to be gentle with myself during those harder years, but especially in how I recall those harder years, has been important in things getting easier. Hard Times come and we each do our best.

Beating yourself up for how Hard Times were handled is counter-productive to moving forward. It will just get you stuck.

Recognizing that there are always shiny things hanging around, though, that can be the ticket out. Thinking back on daily walks in years past ,the Hard Times rise up like ghosts from Christmases past. Just as in the Dickens tale, there are lessons I can learn from them.

Perhaps being haunted is a choice we're unaware of.

I think I'm done punishing myself for how we were, when we were, and where we were.

As I walk I feel a lightness in my step that I haven't paid as much attention to. Rounding the corner to our park I'm greeted by our new walking path with every new tree decorated with an ornament.

This is new, because the walking path is new.

There's never been this before, and yet it is familiar. It feels like the Already and Not Yet of Advent, walking around the track. Where do you feel that tension?

I see him, but not now;

I behold him, but not near;

a star shall come out of Jacob,

and a sceptor shall rise out of Israel...

~ Number 24:17

The gray sky, thick with clouds, holds back the bright round star that gives us life. But it is there, pushing through. And it won't stop.

So we won't either, friends.

Light a candle, put something sparkly on your front door, and smile at the stranger.

Be brave, misfits. Do what you can, when you can.

Thanksliving

My parents had their 50th Wedding Anniversary on Tuesday. To celebrate, they did what they always do and spent the day hanging out. Shopping, a movie, and dinner out was good enough for Mom and Dad.

What I love about my parents is their romance and how obvious it is to everyone who knows them. Even Liam recognized it when he was just 9. We went to family counseling and one of his tasks was to select a figurine to represent each family member.

Liam chose a 1950's looking wedding topper 'because Mimi and Grandad are so in love.'

Oh, yeah. I cried.

Mom and Dad met at a party at my aunt's house.

*My Dad filled me in on the fuzzy details: "The First Date was not a party. Julie's brother-in-law asked me if I would go on a blind date. I lived across the street. I said no blind dates but Julie's sister made him come back with a better offer. The drive-in theater and they would buy the beer. After the movie we stayed outside talking until about 3 a.m."

They fell in love on their first date. Seriously. I think they talked about marriage immediately.

Mom was finishing her time in the Air Force while living on base in Shreveport, Louisiana. Dad had recently gotten out of the Navy and was working for a little company called IBM here in Lexington. He drove down on weekends as soon as he got off work.

Twelve hours later he was with my mother. Dad told me he once drove so fast that his tires were beginning to melt. I believe him because he still drives that fast.

They married November 26, 1969. Mom was out of the service in March and moved to Lexington with Dad. They lived on fried hamburgers and cooked apples.

Knowing my parent's history gives me this realization: I come from people who make it work.

Everything in my life makes sense in the light of their history. Of course I say yes to hard things. I come from people who don't believe in the easy way.

I'm thankful for their tenacity. Seriously, coming from people who said yes to Hard Things because they believe that love conquers all has gotten me through some hard @#$%.

Mom and Dad understand that life isn't about being easy. They learned quickly that it's hard. They suffered greatly and still came out on the other side.

Granted, the other side found them quite changed. So you know what they did? They adapted and kept living & loving people anyway.

Also, they kept going out for dates. Ice cream dates, walk around the neighborhood dates, and drives in the country. and just enjoying one another's company. They bickered, of course, too. No marriage can escape that.

At least not a good marriage.

My big take away from my parents marriage is not that they love each other in spite of their individual quirks, but they appear to love each other because of their individual quirks.

Dad might roll his eyes over Mom's ability to be late no matter how early she wakes up, and Mom might cringe over one more project that Dad has going, but they also love each other for those traits. They love the whole package.

Mom and Dad don't say mean things about each other, and they don't hold grudges. They laugh at themselves and don't take life too seriously. They're generally up for doing anything.

Except getting another dog. I think we're all in agreement there.

I love that my parents celebrate so close to Thanksgiving. Partly because it helps me to remember the date, but also because they're all about #thanksliving.

So, Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad. Sorry it's a week late. I forgot to hit publish when I was done.

Extra, Extra!

Listening to podcasts is one of my favorite things.

I think it brings about nostalgiac feelings about radio programs that I harbor, thanks to any book or show I've watched about the 1940's.

Taking a walk, folding laundry, cooking dinner, or working in the yard all go by so quickly when listening to one of my favorite podcasts. I have a handful that I listen to every week, without fail, and there are three that I listen to only on Sunday mornings.

The Next Right Thing podcast, by the wonderful Emily P. Freeman is like a compass for me. Epidosde 101, Read Your Own Headlines, is one that I've listened to three times since it dropped on November 5. Maybe give it a listen, then head back here?

I love Emily's insight here, because it's so relevant to my life. As someone who has constant commotion in their headspace the reminder that I can choose my own headlines was timely.

Often, my headline could read: EVERYTHING MUST BE DONE NOW!

Finding myself nodding my head and even stopping on a street corner so that I could really listen to The Next Right Thing wasn't really shocking, looking back now.

Emily says in episode 101:

"Of course, I’m going to go there because there are important headlines that will never show up in your newsfeed. They won’t get any air time on the evening news or push a notification to your phone. These are the headlines that broadcast what’s happening in the invisible world that lives inside our bodies, the inner world of the soul.

I just love this. Being aware of your inner life, or even your outer life, can be really tricky in a world filled with its own stimulating headlines. Never mind your family and friends orbiting around you with their own headlines.

Life right now is lovely and full. My family is flourishing. After five years of living in Lexington it feels like home...again. We have traditions, friends, and jobs. Any angst we're experiencing is completely developmentally appropriate.

Sometimes, though, I feel like I'm driving (metaphorically and literally!) from one place to another, taking action as needed. The noise of the world can fill my ears. NPR, podcasts, audiobooks, children & a husband who need a listening ear - all of these things are good and right but also take up space. Sometimes a lady just needs to rest.

Binge watching Netflix shows isn't really resting, is it?

A few weeks ago I was talking to a friend about silence and the importance of time with nothing coming in. When you live in a large family quiet is definitely a commodity. So I've been practicing silence.

So I've been practicing silence.

In the car, as I drive to tutor students. On my walks, before I listen to a beloved podcast. In the mornings, as my coffee brews. Catching those few moments has added up, friends.

Those quiet times have given me chances to hear Jesus whispering kindnesses in my ear, reminders to be gentle with myself. Reminders that I am not in charge of everything. Reminders that I am enough, just as I am, and that I do not need to continuously improve myself in order to be loved.

Giving myself permission and reminders to enter the calm, even while there are swirling lives all around me, has given me a chance to read my headlines:

Woman Begins Tutoring Business

Peace Found in a Minivan

Body Acceptance is Possible

Noise Cancelling Headphones Can Change Your Life

Life: Sweeter Than Expected

My more negative headlines don't disappear when I focus on the unexpected areas of growth, the hidden slices of stuff to be thankful for. No, they're still there because they're still true. But I am magnifying that which is greater.

I think that's what God wants for us. A life that is full has both of the the things - the Hard Times and the Easy Times. We get to decide which will receive more light.

It's a cliche, but it's a true one.

Me and a Monet at the Speed Art Museum in Louisville.

Lee and I skipped town with our boys for a couple of days. We finally got to an art museum we've talked about going to for years. I forget how much I love art til I'm standing in front of it.

Gazing at those paintings, wondering if the artist had any idea of the longevity their creation would have, I couldn't help but wonder about their personal headlines. Surely they had lives rife with drama.

I found myself pondering the beauty of the world in spite of all the utter craziness.

Certainly if I looked I could find writings to tell me of their personal issues. No artist ever creates because life is perfect.

I want my personal headlines to be a Monet, a thing of beauty that lasts. Perhaps there will never be people who pay to see my work, and that is just fine with me. What's important to me is that the lives that mine touch, in small and deep ways, see that Truth rises above the rest.

My headlines tell of the uncontainable loveliness of a life lived alongside God. I simply have to read them that way.

Be brave, misfits, and take time to read your beautiful headlines.

Double Digits

My youngest child turned ten yesterday, and for some reason double digits feels very old.

Certainly, the fact that my oldest child was recently married plays into my feelings. My second born technically lives at home, though evidence of that is only readily available through dirty dishes and text messages begging me to switch her laundry.

My third born is only 15 but looks like an actual man.

It's all so weird.

Our family tradition on birthday mornings has always been donuts. I would leave the house at the crack of dawn to buy fresh ones and quietly wake everyone but the person of honor. We'd go into the birthday gal/guy's room and wake them with candle-adorned donuts while singing the Happy Birthday song.

Birthday's aren't an area I'm gifted in, particularly the pre-planning part. This little tradition felt thrown together in the early years. By our oldest kid's 8th birthday, though, it was a thing.

Things are different now, though. It's not the same as when we had a houseful of little kids to celebrate one another's special day. Warm, pajama-clad bodies fighting for the right to light the candles while we *quietly try to wake the birthday sleeper - that was a party!

Kiley's 16th birthday, nearly six years ago.

Really there are just fewer people in the house. (There's still a houseful though, so we're not lonely.) I was feeling pressured to get the things needed for the birthday gathering, and everything prepped for my co-op classes, and forgot the donuts.

Sitting in the Kroger parking lot contemplating how to move forward with my life I couldn't help but be a little verklempt. Just as I had settled on taking a nap, Laurel (second born) texted and asked if I would like her to go and get Liam's birthday donuts.

The sweetness of the gesture took me totally by surprise, but also not. This girl, like all her siblings, adores her youngest brother. I knew from the minute that we brought Liam home from the hospital that this baby was not mine and Lee's, he was ours.

Siblings that have the spread my kids do don't always get along, and I accept that. But Lee and I have put a huge amount of effort into ensuring that our kids have relationships with one another that matter.

In fact, we overlooked how off-kilter Liam would be as his older sisters and brother moved into adulthood.

One day last summer he said to me, "I miss them so much that I try and pretend that they don't exist. That way it doesn't hurt as much."

Oh boy.

He was not being melodramatic, either. Liam is mostly pragmatic about feelings (unless video games are involved). I shared with Kiley, Laurel and Spencer that he was a bit bereft without them.

So they showed up.

He got phone calls, surprise lunches out, a couple of trips to the movie, and an invitation to hang out at Kiley's house. Spencer began taking him on bike rides to the Dollar Store and mentoring him in the art of Clash Royale. They ensured that he felt connected to them even while they continued to move forward in their new lives away from our family.

Laurel's text caught me off guard because I don't put those expectations on them. She just did it because her younger brother's 10th birthday was important to her. It is amazing to see the work pay off.

Lee took Laurel and Liam to a hash brown breakfast early yesterday morning. The alliteration was not lost on us. They were back by 8 a.m. so that we could get to co-op for the day. It all felt very grown up.

Spencer reminded me to stop for a few lunch items at Kroger, plus he wanted to surprise Liam with donuts in the car. Kiley called to Facetime with Liam while I was pumping gas. Again, all very grown up.

I listened as Liam chatted with his big sis. "Mom cried because I'm ten."

"Yeah, she doesn't like us getting older."

And that is true, to an extent. Although, keeping them trapped forever young (insert Rod Stewart singing) has never been my goal. My tears were more akin to accepting an Oscar.

Watching people receive their trophy can flood me with emotion. Yesterday, on the Tenth Anniversary of Giving Birth to My Last Child, I understood the way some people simply cannot hold it together while up that stage. They've worked so damn hard at this one thing for so long that they never even imagined the outcome could feel so good.

I'm not even embarrassed to say that my kids are my life's work. Becoming an expert in parenting choices, educational styles, mental health, spiritual growth, and many other electives (hello geology, entomology, knitting, cake decorating, piano playing, knife throwing, Minecraft, YouTube...et al.).

Yesterday was sort of like my Oscar. Except for parents' Oscars are given backstage while our kid is just living their best life.

As it should be, really.

This morning I'm still reveling in the afterglow of my imaginary reward. There is no shiny object to sit on my mantle, no press waiting to take my photograph.

Instead, I just feel the fullness right in the center of my chest. That feeling comes from knowing that, among all of my mistakes, my children will remember to love each other well, no matter what.

Better than any Oscar, any day.

Be brave misfits, and may you love each other well.

Joy & Grief

I've known Heather Harper longer on social media than IRL. I've always admired her sense of humor and authenticity that shows up through her photos and short statuses. I felt bonded to her after we both gave birth to children born after our youngest was much older - 'big gap' babies.

Infant loss is not new to me; I often feel strange that I have never experienced the trauma when so many of my friends have. Heather's willingness to share on about feelings of deep sadness amongst the loveliness of everyday life reminded me that we can experience two true feelings at the same time. Heather bravely shares about the grief that engulfed her after losing her son, Desmond.

Joy & Grief

When I was five months pregnant with our fifth child, a boy we named Desmond, he became tangled in his own umbilical cord, which cut off his supply of oxygen; he died inside my body. I only knew something was wrong when he stopped moving. I delivered his nine-inch long, nine-ounce body on July 10, 2016.

Today, I should have a busy almost three-year-old boy running around, and instead have a three-year-old grave to visit.

Desmond’s death was my first foray into intimate, soul-crushing loss. I had lost grandparents and other loved ones, and then three months after Desmond, my sister (and only sibling) died. None of those experiences were like the death of my unborn baby.

It didn’t just happen to me; it happened inside of me. It wasn’t only a death I had to emotionally accept. I had to physically carry out the act of delivering his body into this world, even after he had left it. 

My grief was not linear, nor did it follow any predictable path. Shock for sure, but even days and weeks later, shock would hit me over and over again, is my baby really dead? My son can’t really be dead.

Guilt weighed heavily on me - as any parent must feel when their child dies. Even when your brain knows there was nothing you did or didn’t do to cause the death, you try to find a way to blame yourself. I had too much sugar or caffeine and that’s why he was so wiggly and got tangled. I wasn’t happy to be pregnant, and I wished him away. That one hung on a lot. I wished him away. I wished him away.

I had both physical and psychological grief reactions. My arms ached. I read somewhere that this happens in the postpartum period to remind a mother to hold her baby. But I had no baby to hold. These aches in my arms gave me nightmares of being at his grave and digging up his tiny casket with my bare hands just so I could hold him again.

In my waking hours, I tried to appease these instincts by visiting the cemetery almost daily, and pulling up clumps of grass to bring home, just to feel some closeness to him. Thoughts came into my mind that sounded like my own voice, but were not my own. For a long time, the most logical thought I could have was that I should also die.

I understood starkly that death is a one-way door, and that he couldn’t come back to me, but I could go where he had gone. 

In the midst of our overwhelming sadness, we started trying to conceive again pretty quickly. At almost 38 years old, I didn’t have the luxury of taking a year to sort through my feelings. Beyond that, I yearned to be pregnant again as soon as possible. I needed to recreate different memories in that hospital.

I needed to carry a living child out of there, not kiss the cold tiny forehead of my dead baby goodbye and leave empty-handed. Terrified of going through another loss, I once even joked, “If we ever do get pregnant again, I just want to go live in the hospital so if anything goes wrong, they can take the baby out immediately.” My doctor assured me that umbilical cord accidents are freak and to have it happen again “would be like being hit by lightning twice."

Eighteen months later, we conceived again. At my eight week ultrasound,  we found out we were having twins. There was barely any time to react to that news before learning they were an extremely high-risk type of identical twins who share one placenta and one amniotic sac.

Twins sharing one sac (called MoMo twins) die just about as often as they survive; up to 24 weeks, their risk is a steady 50% either way. They almost always die of the thing that had killed their older brother: umbilical cord entanglement.

Because they are so likely to die in utero, all moms carrying these types of twins check into the hospital 3-4 months before their due dates to be continually monitored. That way, the moment anything gets scary, they can be delivered and then continue their development in the NICU.

MoMo twins are always delivered at least 8 weeks early for their own safety. Should one baby decide to pull on the cords, or even turn a certain way, it could cut off the oxygen supply for one or both. My wish to “live in the hospital and be monitored 24/7” had come true.

This time, the odds were in our favor, and our girls did survive long enough in the womb to be born alive.

Indigo and Violet, our rainbow babies, came three months early, and spent four months in two hospitals before coming home. I was able to be awake for the surgery and had a quick glimpse of each of them as they were whisked off to another room. My doctor photographed their twisted umbilical cords and it became part of my medical record; a true knot at the top, and then twisted together all the way down.

An hour after surgery, they wheeled me into the NICU to see them. They looked almost exactly as Desmond had: perfectly formed, tiny little features, very dark red skin. It was excruciating to see them that way, and impossible to separate my joy that they’d been born alive from my dread at their appearance. In my mind, a baby who looked like that was close to death. 

What followed was four months of numbness, anger, depression, and exhaustion between two different hospitals in two different cities.

More doctors, therapists, surgeons, dietitians, and empty bottles for me to fill with my breast milk than I care to recall. Finally they came home just before Thanksgiving, 113 days after they were born. It felt surreal to have them at home at last, and so much better than having our family split between home and hospital. 

As I have watched Violet and Indigo grow and become healthier and stronger, I still find myself struggling to love them for who they are, not resent them for who they aren’t. That’s a very hard thing to admit because I feel like a better mother would never have those feelings.

People tell me so often, ‘They are miracles!’ It is true, they are miracles. They are one year old now, they weigh 20 pounds (ten times their birth weights). They no longer require feeding tubes or any medications at all. 

Their sweetness has brought immeasurable joy to our family.

Yet I will always know that they are only here because their brother did not get to live his life. Having these rainbows-after-the-storm did not give me the redo experience I wanted so much, but has healed me in ways I wasn’t expecting. Having been through the hell of losing Desmond, I was not so scared as some are when they get the MoMo diagnosis.  I knew very well my girls could die, and I knew I held zero control over it.

When your child dies within the safe confines of your own body, it makes you realize how futile it is to pretend to have any control over their safety: car accidents, choking on grapes, falling down stairs, running with scissors, any of it.

The only thing I did have control over was whether I chose to get attached to the babies and be a little excited about it, which I did. I was cautious at first - didn’t even purchase car seats until months after they were born - because hope is scarier than despair. Hope can be crushed.

I was foolish to think I could smooth over Desmond’s loss with a new baby.

A person, even a tiny person, can never be replaced once they are gone. But I am getting better at balancing joy and grief. I experience both on a daily basis. I’m really good at micro-breakdowns and have at least one every day. Washing the girls’ laundry and thinking wow they are growing so fast, and suddenly sobbing because there are no little boy clothes to wash. Remembering him on his birthday and then celebrating theirs 20 days later.

I don’t try to ‘get over it’ anymore. There is no getting over it, and I’m finally ok with that.