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I Stand With You, Mama

Posted on by travelingmamabear

To the mamas out there who are suffering: I stand with you.

I see you.  I see you in the grocery store, and I see you at the park.  I see you in the pickup line at school, at the bank, the doctor’s office, out in your driveway watching the kids ride bike.  I see you everywhere.  And I can see, behind your smile, and your kisses for the boo-boos, and your scooping the baby up into your arms, the pain that lies behind your eyes.

Your kids don’t see it.  You cover it carefully, plaster yourself with smiles and laughs, cover them in kisses and hugs, but I know it’s there.

Perhaps it’s a diagnosis you can’t believe is true.  Maybe your mom, or dad, or aunt, or grandma, are suffering in some way.  Perhaps you’ve just been given news that shattered you to your core.  Whatever it is, it has broken you, but you will not let them know.  You will clutch to those babies, you will treasure each moment, you will make their day the best they’ve ever had.

And then, once the house is quiet, the children all safely and snugly tucked into their beds, stories read, teeth clean, you will go down the hall and you will lie down in your bed and you will sob.  The weight of the day…the diagnosis….the news….will come crashing out of you in ways you didn’t know possible.  You will scream into the pillow, claw at the sheets, plead for another answer.  And then, once it settles, you will wipe your eyes, you will splash your face with water, and you will get ready for tomorrow.

And I stand with you.

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Hold On and Raise Up

Posted on by travelingmamabear

     The carnival-style hanging bar game at Legoland has been taunting my 7 year old for months.  Perhaps you’ve seen a game like it before- a metal bar suspended in the air.  You can win a five foot hot pink gorilla for holding onto that bar for a mere two minutes solid without dropping.  It is so tempting, seeing all of those flourescent great apes floating around this singular bar.  It seems simple.  Yet I knew it was not.  I knew the bar was on ball-bearings, designed to spin slowly out of your grasp, so the odds of a seven year old boy being able to cling on were desperately NOT in his favor.  And that is why I’ve told him no, countless times, every time he asks.

     But today, I decided he should try. He was SO excited to, and hey, maybe I was wrong and he could hold on somehow.  And, if not, then at least he would finally understand what I had been trying to explain to him– it was nearly impossible. Firsthand experience is always the best, right?  So, armed with a five dollar bill and the biggest smile you can imagine, my little boy ran up to the attendant and started jumping up and down.

He slowly climbed the stepladder and adjusted his grip.  He looked at me and grinned. I dutifully pulled out my cell phone to video the attempt.  The man pulled the step ladder away and my boy held on.  He tried so hard.  He held and he struggled and he winced….for a solid 3 seconds.  And then his fingers couldn’t grasp the slippery, rolling metal rod anymore, and he fell to the ground in a heap. He jumped up and searched for my face in the now-growing crowd. (Who doesn’t love to watch humans attempt the impossible, after all?) I cheered for him, my kids clapped for him, and my dad patted him on the back.  The grin remained intact, and we headed over to the popcorn stand to reward the effort.

     Standing at the popcorn cart, fumbling for my wallet, I glanced behind me and I saw it.  It’s possible nobody else would have even noticed- but the devastation written across his face was plain as day to me.  His lip barely quivered, his cheeks were almost shaking, and his eyes were filled with disappointment. I quickly called him over to me as I continued trying to manage the popcorn transaction.  My son came to me and melted into my side immediately.  I put my arm around him and as the cashier told me to swipe my card, I leaned down to his height.

     “What’s going on?” I asked, and the floodgates opened.

He cried silently.

“I hurt my hands for nothing,” he quietly sobbed into my arm.

Oh…..my heart.  My heart.

“Let me see your hands,” I murmured, and he turned them over so I could see how red and raw they were, tiny dots of petechiae scattered across his palms.   “Oooh, baby,” I breathed, as I gently rubbed my fingers across his red hands.  I kissed them gently.

I took a deep breath.  I really didn’t know what to say.

“I know it hurts.  But it wasn’t for nothing.  Think of the excitement you had to try! You’ve been looking forward to that for months! That was worth something.  And you tried something new! How amazing are you! That game was designed to make kids fall.  It truly never gave you a chance.  But you took one anyway.  I am so proud of you,” I quietly whispered into his ear as I brushed the tears from his cheeks.  He nodded, and I continued my quiet murmurings until his tears finally stopped.  I’m not even sure what else I said, but that was the main bulk of my message.  Finally, once I was convinced that the devastation had passed, I kissed him on top of the head and stood up again, smiling apologetically at the popcorn man, who handed me the bucket.

And then the popcorn man smiled at me, and looked me in the eye, and he said, “You are an amazing mother.”

I said, “Thank you,” and quickly moved out of line to allow the next person, but in the next moments, his words rang over and over in my head.  “You are an amazing mother.”  How good it was to hear that! How needed!  In a moment where I was completely making it up as I went along, for a total stranger to make such a kind gesture, to say such reassuring, unprovoked words…he filled my heart with so much strength and love and power….and I’m sure he’ll never know.  I wish, in the chaos of the afternoon at the amusement park, I had taken the time to go back and thank him, truly thank him, for his kind words, because they raised me up.  And isn’t that what we should all do? As caregivers, as adults, as residents of this planet, as HUMAN BEINGS, if we could just spend more time raising one another up, think of how much more positive energy there would be in this world.  The Legoland Popcorn Man made my day, and I won’t forget his words for a very long time.  And I will try to pay his kindness forward, recognizing other people, voicing their successes out loud.  Because I want to raise other people up, too!

Oh, and in case you were wondering, my son immediately rebounded.  Popcorn in hand, his family at his side, walking through the amusment park, he had a pretty good day.  But that’s not to say I didn’t scour the park for a “Play ’til you win” game before we left 😉  After all, he needs to be raised up as well. 🙂

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October

Posted on by travelingmamabear

Yesterday, I loaded my three babies (ages 5, 3, and 8 months) up in the good ol’ minivan and drove just a little over thirty minutes to a farmer’s market where I was meeting my parents and aunt for a strawberry milkshake.  As I waited impatiently in the hot Florida sun for the sliding door to auto-open, my gaze drifted across the street, to a giant sign above a dingy little building that read, “BABY.” Instantly, my mind and my memories were transported back to two years ago exactly, to a very different October in my world.

I’m going to make it brief because I don’t really like to talk about it, and I’m still working through parts of it, but because October is pregnancy and infant loss awareness month, I felt compelled to jot down at least some of my story here.  Two summers ago, my husband and I felt happy and blessed with our son and daughter, but we always knew we’d like to grow our family even more if possible.  So, we started trying, and in August we got a positive home pregnancy test,  but even as I was staring at the results, something- maternal instinct, maybe- in me, knew that everything was not okay.  Because of issues with the ridiculous cost of health insurance, I found myself without an OB/GYN, and I spent that whole day crying, making phone calls, begging any doctor to see me, someone who had a positive home result, but also had other symptoms that did not add up.  Gratitude washed over me when an uknown-to-me office finally agreed to see me- that day- and I found myself driving to that very same “BABY” billboard clinic.

It took about six more weeks….and many, many repeated ultrasounds and blood tests, driving to that clinic every other day for weeks, to confirm what I already knew- it wasn’t a viable pregnancy.  At every appointment, I saw a different doctor, and I grew tired of telling them my story each time someone new walked through the door…yes, the stick and the blood results show that I’m pregnant, no, the ultrasound can’t confirm it…no, I don’t feel that everything is alright.  To make a long story short, one day in October, I found myself in a hospital undergoing a D&C while my husband sat in the waiting room and my parents watched my two children at home.  Analysis of the D&C didn’t yield what they were looking for, and before I was released from the hospital, I was given a shot of methatrexate, a very strong medicine meant to destroy quickly-multiplying cells (such as those in a developing fetus), assuming the pregnancy was ectopic and couldn’t be found via the ultrasounds I’d had so far.  Several more weeks of follow ups watched as my HCG count returned to zero, and my case was closed.

What will never leave me, about that October, though- is not just the emotional wreckage of losing something I never truly had, but the other tolls, as well.  The metha left me feeling so sick for a couple weeks, and with it, I had to cold-turkey stop nursing my 16 month old daughter with absolutely no warning.  I can still close my eyes and hear her screaming for mommy milk from her crib that first night…myself sitting on the couch, my chest leaking, tears streaming down my face.  I feel incredible guilt over that, and I know I always will.  Nursing has always been beautiful to me, and special…a private bond between mother and child that just the two of them can relish in, and I hate that the result of my wanting “more”…to expand the family….took that away from my precious baby girl.  Oh, the guilt.

A few months later, once the drug was cleared from my body, we tried again…and suffered a natural miscarriage.  And then, a few months after that, I got pregnant one more time…and that pregnancy resulted in the beautiful baby boy who is now my third and final child.

So, yesterday, as I stood in the parking lot, looking across the street at that sign, and that building, my mind took me, as it always does when I pass by, to those memories from two years ago.  But then I looked away from that side of the street, and into the van, where my three happy, brown-eyed babies sat waiting for me to unbuckle them, lift them gently from their seats, and bring them in for some ice-cream.  And that’s exactly what I did, my heart slightly more grateful than ever before, to be entrusted with these three amazing kiddos who have changed my life for the better in every, single way.

Posted in Mamahood, Uncategorized

The Last of the Firsts

Posted on by travelingmamabear

I stood above the trash can, a stash of 0-2 month pacifiers in my hand.  We no longer needed them in my home.  My three month old baby cooed softly into my neck, reminding me he was growing bigger and stronger every day, and had outgrown the newborn “tacis.”  I snuggled my cheek against his soft little head, closed the trashcan, and placed the pile of useless plastic back on the kitchen counter.

My whole recent pregnancy, my husband and I had known it was the last.  We had two older children, and had been blessed to get pregnant with each of them when we planned and wanted to.  Then we decided to try for a third, because we truly felt a missing child in our hearts.  That time, we endured a painful ectopic pregnancy, followed a few months later by a miscarriage, and those two events left a lingering fear that never completely disappeared during my final pregnancy.  Pregnancy has never been easy for me, and this time was no different, with 9 month long “morning” sickness, an early scare it could be ectopic again, then later, a blood clot scare, and finally, the feeling that my uterus was literally going to drop out of my body the last trimester.  I could barely walk, let alone take care of two toddlers.  So we knew: we were done.  The whole pregnancy, we reminded ourselves: “This is the last time we’ll first see our baby on a sonogram,” “This is the last glucose test you’ll have to endure,” “This is the last time we’ll feel the baby move for the first time,” and finally, “This is the last time we’re driving to the hospital to have a baby.”  The last spinal for my last c-section.  The last first cry from his precious, tiny mouth.  The last time I held this miracle in my arms for the first time.  The last time I nursed this creature I had nurtured for so many months inside of me, now on the outside of the world.  So many firsts. And so many lasts.

So we knew we were done. So very done.  And all of this was confirmed when, during my third c-section, the doctor poked his head over the curtain and said, “I do not recommend you try for any more pregnancies.  Your uterus is done.”  We’ve always been ones to heed a doctor’s advice, so what we already knew was solidified: this precious, wailing baby boy in my arms was our last newborn.

But still. Knowing it was our last didn’t necessarily make it any easier.  The first physical sign that we were saying goodbye to the last of the firsts was the maternity clothes.  I packed them up quickly and dispersed them amongst friends who could still use them and local consignment shops.  Then came the diapers.  We’d had a stash of diapers left over from our- believe it or not- FIRST baby, and we STILL didn’t make it through the pile this time.  As my son outgrew them, I set aside the rest of our size 1 diapers for a local charity.  I began sorting baby clothing into tiny little piles of adorableness we no longer needed.  And then, the pacis.  My son hit three months, and those pacifiers were no longer safe.  I immediately collected them and put them in a bowl, on the kitchen counter.  The very first day he was too old for them according to the packaging, I brought them to the trash can.  And then I brought them back to the bowl.  For some reason, those pacifiers were just too real for me.  The physical evidence became overwhelming.  So the pacifiers sat on the counter.

Tonight, I decided to share my burden.  I once again collected the pacifiers in my hand, and I held them up in front of my husband.  “I need to throw these away,” I said simply.

Right away, he knew where this was headed.  He smiled kindly, but sternly said, “Honey. Look at me.  Look at me,” as my eyes filled with tears.

“We said we wouldn’t be sad,” he said, “Look at this baby in my arms. He’s healthy and he’s happy, and we’re so blessed.  We need to be grateful, and not be sad.”

I nodded vigorously, as if the effort behind the nodding would be enough to make me believe it.  I knew he was right. I KNOW he his right.  We are done. We have to be, and we choose to be. But I will also take a moment, now and then, to reflect on how far we’ve come, how far we have left to go, and to grieve the ending of an era for our family.  I stood there, still nodding, hand still outstretched full of pacifiers, mutely staring at my baby boy in his father’s arms, for a solid minute.
“Do you want me to do it?” my husband finally asked quietly.

I shook my head.  I needed to do this myself.  And I will.  But maybe not tonight.  Maybe tomorrow.

Posted in Mamahood, Uncategorized

The Fullness of Mamahood

Posted on by travelingmamabear

Every time I venture out into the big, wide world on my own with my 4 year old, 2 year old, and new baby in tow, I’m bound to hear, at least once, “Wow! You sure have your hands full!”  This is never said (I don’t think) maliciously; it’s usually the checker at the grocery store or the elderly person getting into the car next to my overflowing minivan, but to me, it seems to carry a negative connotation.  Usually, when these words are spoken, I’m trying to just survive, get through the shopping trip without a major meltdown or mess, and get home. So my frazzled response is a quick smile or a half nod and a, “Yep!”  But what I really want to say, and what I SHOULD say, to these well-meaning strangers, is, “Yes.  My hands are full.  But so is my heart.”

Today was one of those days.  My husband is working full-time at his job, and also full-time in a phD program.  It’s finals week, so he’s up to his eyeballs in stress and papers.  I knew I’d be going it alone today, all day, but with a fussy baby who hasn’t pooped in days and is less-than-happy with his little world, he wanted nothing but mama’s arms.  Of course, the older two still demanded to be fed three times and cared for in other ways (haha!), and by 6pm, I found myself sitting in the rocking chair in our TV room holding the baby with the older two kids eating their dinner in front of the TV (something I swore I’d never do).  Ha! It was survival time, and I wasn’t proud, but hey- they were all nourished, so I called it a win.

Dinner time was winding down but there were still a few minutes left in the show, and my 4 year old stood up from the table and came over to me.  He said, “Mama, can I sit in your lap?”  He’s getting bigger and these moments are fewer and farther between, so I immediately replied, “Of course, baby, hop up.”  He looked at me, and at his baby brother in my arms, and said, “But there isn’t room.”  I shuffled the baby to my hip, and scooped up my big boy with my other arm, and said, “Baby, there will always be room for you.”

But as my five-year-old-in-two-months sprawled out on my left leg, and his feet nearly reached the ground, and his head rested right up against my head, I realized, there almost WASN’T room!  My mind instantly flashed forward to a time when he WOULD be too big to crawl up in my lap, and- worse still- wouldn’t even want to.  I shook my head to shake away such awful thoughts, and held on to both of my boys just a little bit tighter.   The mindless child’s show played on in front of me, but honestly, I don’t even know what it was.  I was just trying to keep my big boy precariously balanced on my leg and my baby boy from getting squished (or awoken, which would bring my beautiful moment to an end very quickly).  My leg was starting to go numb, but I was happy.

And then my sweet little two year old came walking over, covered in ketchup and chocolate sauce. (Don’t judge! Survival, remember?)  I should have walked her to the bathroom and washed her up, but considering I was already covered in spit-up, paint, ketchup, and spilled juice, what did a little more really matter? She looked at me with those big brown eyes and said, “Up, mama.”

Well, this was gonna be a challenge.  But hey, I’d rocked it so far, so I knew I could throw one more into the mix.  But with one arm corralling my four year old in, and the other arm  cradling my infant, I didn’t have a lot of options.  “Jump, baby!” I directed.  And jump, she did.

So now I had three little bodies snuggled onto my lap.  Over 90 pounds of human was slowly squishing me, and my lap was so very full.  Overfull, really.  And my arms were full. Quite literally.  But so were my eyes, because in this hormone-crazy, zombie like state of newborndom, tears come much more easily than normal for me.  Tears of pride, tears of exhaustion, tears of happiness.   At that moment, they were tears of love.  Tears of joy.  Tears of gratitude and tears of relief.  And my heart was so very, very full.  Full of the love I have exploding out of me for those three little bodies sitting there, squished, on my lap.  There won’t always be room for all three of them to sit on my lap, but there will ALWAYS be room for all three of them in my heart.

So if you see me walking through the aisle at the grocery store, pushing the stroller in one hand, holding a toddler on one hip, and chasing my four year old down the toy aisle, YES- my hands are full.  But so is my life.  And so is my heart.