Parenting After Loss

We didn't visit Lily's grave this Christmas. Let me tell you why.

I forgot.

There. I said it. If you think you can make me feel any more guilty than I already do, you're welcome to try.

What kind of mother doesn't visit her child's grave on Christmas? What kind of mother forgets something like that? A year ago, I would be shocked at my own behavior. A year ago, I left Lily a little Christmas tree, and a stocking, and we took pictures with her special ornament and I spent time there, kneeling in all my pregnant glory, and I missed her. I felt her absence. I realized how different Christmas would be had she lived. How we would be scrambling to get her a nap so she wouldn't be grumpy and how she'd be crying to take off her uncomfortable Christmas tights with the ruffles on the bum.

I remember stroking my belly and wondering if next Christmas, we would finally, finally, finally have a baby to fuss over that wasn't buried in the ground next to my grandmother. I remember being so sure the baby inside me would never come home with me, that I actually checked to see if there would be room to put another tiny casket next to Lily's. I remember thinking that if I had to hang one more sad little dead baby ornament on my tree instead of a cute and happy "Baby's First Christmas" one, I would break into a million tiny pieces. I prayed I would never again have to hang another ornament that made me cry and ache for the giggles that were so blatantly absent from those moments of decorating our tree. As I sat by Lily's grave last Christmas, I hoped with all my heart that next Christmas would be different.

And then it was.

Jones has changed everything in my entire life. I love him more than I ever imagined I could ever love another child. I truly thought for awhile that I'd have to learn to accept this new baby. That the baby growing inside me would be kept at arm's length until I slowly and carefully let them in and learned to love them without the constant, debilitating fear of losing them. But then Jones was born. And I was wrecked for life.

He is the most gorgeous, most adorable, most make-you-want-to-bite-your-own-arm-off-he's-so-stinking-cute baby in the entire world, and you cannot be around him for five seconds without actually feeling your heart melt inside your chest (He's that cute. Seriously.).

But in all his adorable-ness, he has brought with him a chaotic state of life that I never anticipated. Of course I knew our lives would be different, but how hard could one baby possibly be? I mean, I've had twins. Two babies at once! Certainly having one baby now, with two live-in Mother's Helpers as a bonus, would be a piece of cake. That, coupled with the fact that Jones was so wanted, so prayed for, so desperately appreciated, that I could not imagine myself ever feeling the least bit stressed out or resentful of his presence.

Surely I would awaken every morning to his precious cries, no matter how tired I was, and jump at the opportunity to snuggle my sweet blessing that I had waited so many years for. Surely his glass-shattering screams at 2:30 a.m. would sound like music to my ears, because for so many years I prayed to hear those cries, to have the chance to comfort my baby. Surely, if this baby lived, everything would be rainbows and unicorns and glitter for all eternity, because I will have gotten my wish, and people who have their wishes granted would never dream of being unhappy ever again. Ever.

What I failed to recognize is...that's a load of crap.

Jones slept seven hours one night when he was about a week old. Since that night, he hasn't slept a combined total of seven hours, and he will be nine months old next week. I had no idea a human body could function on the amount of sleep Jones and I have gotten over this past year. I have never, ever, not even once since Jones was ripped from my loins, slept all night. And when I say all night, I mean three hours in a row.

I have been breastfeeding for nine months, and have had mastitis seven times. If you don't know what mastitis is, it is hell in the form of a breast infection. I love breastfeeding. I really do. I do not love writhing in pain and feverish shivers for hours on end while my baby screams for something I know will cause me immense pain to give him. And I'm exhausted. Oh. My. Gosh. I am exhausted.

You know when you've been up all night long and you feel like all your emotions are hyper-sensitive and anything at all can make you cry or laugh or laugh til you cry or cry til you laugh? Well I've been up for 270 nights. So.

I saw this commercial for something the other day. I think it was for a phone, or a banana, I don't remember. But it showed this teenage boy arriving with his family for Christmas at Grandma's house. And all his whole entire family was there, and he was just on his phone, acting all teenagery. He's got his headphones in while uncles and cousins talk to him, and he's acting all mopey and he's texting or watching videos or whatever, and I sat there watching it going, "This is awful. Teenagers are the worst." And then, at the very end, the teenager plugs his phone into the big TV in the living room while his whole family is gathered around singing Christmas carols or something, and he proceeds to show them all a video he had been making. Of their family. Talking and laughing and hugging and playing at Christmas. And it turns out, Mopey McCellphone was actually the sweetest kid of all time. And in the commercial, the whole family cried. But me?

I freaking bawled my eyes out.

I mean, I have attended the funeral of my own baby, and I have never cried so hard in my entire life as I did watching that commercial. Which is when I realized...

I've officially lost my mind.

Jones has pushed me to the brink of clinical insanity. And all this guilt I'm carrying? Guilt over crying, guilt over feeling exhausted, guilt over wanting a break now and then, guilt over forgetting to move that damn Elf on the Shelf, guilt because I work, guilt because I didn't go to work, guilt because I didn't visit Lily's grave on Christmas day, guilt because I can't be everything to everybody every moment of every day...it's crap.

Do I miss Lily any less since I have Jones now? No. I wish that were true. The reality of parenting after loss is that I am constantly trying to strike a balance between parenting the babies I am raising and parenting the ones I've lost. The busyness of having three children constantly needing something from me every moment of every day is simply a short-term distraction from the pain of missing the daughter who will never need anything from me ever again.

No, I did not visit her grave on Christmas this year. But on Christmas Eve, I sat in the front seat of the car, while the kids jabbered in the backseat over how excited they were, and I stared out the window and cried. Not exhausted, emotional, losing my mind kind of tears, but soft, real, I miss my baby girl so much tears. And Josh held my hand, and he knew, and he felt it too. And we just missed her together for awhile, while we had the chance to do so.

And then someone in the backseat hit someone else in the backseat, and I was ripped back into my reality. The reality where I have three children to raise, a job, a husband, a home, a ministry, friends, and a million responsibilities that are constantly demanding my attention. And I love that life. And I'm so thankful for that life.

But it doesn't mean I'm not exhausted at times. And I have learned that it is perfectly okay for me to cry for the babies I've lost while at the very same time cry because my dream come true baby boy absolutely sucks at sleeping. Because that's my reality! I'm not apologizing for that, and I am trying so hard to overcome that trap of guilt that keeps getting set for me. I am no less grateful for my miracles because they drain every ounce of life from me at times. And I am no less heartbroken for the children I've lost because I don't have the time and space to dwell on their absence the way I used to. I miss them in the quiet moments, and this past year, I've had very, very few of those.

It is a balancing act I'm not sure I will ever perfect, parenting after loss. But it is one I will have lots of practice at. For I will never again be a mommy who has never lost. Everything I do as a parent is tinged with the loss I've experienced. And I know it makes me a better mom.

But it will never make me a perfect one.

Dear Jake (Happy Birthday Letter)

Dear Jake,

I cannot believe you are eight years old. It feels like just yesterday you were turning two and we were sending your binkies off into the sky!! You were such a sweet little buddy back then, with such a tender heart and the best giggle in the world! You still are a sweet little buddy, but you try to hide it behind a goofy, tough, cool kid now. ;) You still have a tender heart, and I have watched that grow into empathy for others, a sensitive spirit, and fiercely loyal attitude. You also still have the world's best laugh, though it's gotten a bit deeper and less giggly over the years!

You have shot up in height this year and now have a good three inches on your sister, which you are quite proud of. This year your reading "clicked", and since then, you've been reading everything in sight. You love to read things that make you laugh and adventures that "make you nervous". You have started writing your own comic book, and I can honestly say it is the most entertaining thing I have ever read!!! You have a hilarious imagination and way of putting things. You've also shown quite a talent for drawing, which goes nicely in your comic books. ;)

This year you played on your first basketball team, and although you say you like football better, you showed a real talent for it and we hope you continue to play! Your dad tells you over and over that you may not have the most talent for a sport, but you have a great attitude and willingness to learn, which makes you a "coach's dream". You work harder than any other player and take direction well, and we hope that sticks with you! I love to watch you play, and I looooove to see that embarrassed smile creep up on your lips when I cheer a little too loudly for your liking. ;)

I think the most important thing that happened to you this year is that you became a Big Brother!!! Not only did you become a big brother, but you got to name him! I remember how it happened. You were walking through the dining room and you said you came up with a name for the baby if it was a boy. You rattled off a ridiculously long name consisting of about seventeen names, and somewhere in there you stuck "Jones". Your dad and I looked at each other and said, "That's actually a pretty cool name!" I think even you were a little bit shocked that we actually named him that, and I can tell you're pretty stinkin' proud of yourself for coming up with it!

You are such an amazing big brother. No one can make Jones laugh like you can. When it has been awhile since you've held him, you tell me that you and Jones need some "Bro time", and you pick him up, take him away, and play with him or read to him or just hold him and try to make him laugh. You took losing your baby sister harder than even Eisley, and to this day you still have moments when I find you crying and holding your "Lilysaurus" and you tell me that you miss her. I know that losing her made you love and appreciate Jones so much more, and I know he can feel how much you adore him. I can't even begin to imagine how Jones is going to idolize you as you both get older. That is going to be a very big responsibility for you, always having someone watching you and wanting to be just like you. Try to remember how very much he loves you, and be very careful where you step, because Jones will be right behind you.

This year, I am praying that God brings you good friends, ones who are kind and make good choices and are nice to your sister (but not too nice...). ;) I am praying that you will gain confidence in the strengths God has given you, and not worry so much if Eisley is better at something. I am praying that God continues to become more and more real to you as you learn more about His Word and what it says. I am praying for your safety every day. I am praying God will help us be exactly who you need us to be. I am praying that you will make good choices.

I love you so much Jake Robert. You are my comic relief. You are the most caring little boy I know. You are a goofball. You are amazing. Your daddy and I are so proud of you, and so thankful the Lord blessed us with you eight years ago.

Happy Birthday Jakey!

Love,

Mommy

Children Live Here

"This place is a disaster."

I probably say that phrase both out loud and in my head about a hundred times a week. I say it when I walk in the door from work. I say it when I walk through the house on my way to the kitchen for breakfast. I say it to the kids before they go to bed and I whisper it to Jones when I'm up feeding him at 3 a.m.

There is always, always, always a mess in my home. Not a "Somebody call TLC and get this family on Hoarders" kind of mess, but the kind of mess that I am almost certain (if not genuinely hopeful) occupies almost every mother's home.

There is blue toothpaste all over my kids' sink. Sticking to that toothpaste are my husband's whiskers from when he shaved this morning. My daughter's headbands and hair ties are strewn throughout the bathroom and I'm pretty sure I saw one in the toilet, but I don't want to look twice. My living room is covered in baby toys. There are bumbos and boppies and rattles oh my. If I walk through the whole room without awakening a sleeping light up monkey by stepping on its face, wait...no I pretty much do that every time.

There is always a clean basket of laundry sitting by the couch begging to be folded, but more often than not it just eventually dwindles down to a few rifled through pieces of clothing that I throw into the kids' rooms, only to be replaced by another load I will never get to. Video games litter the shelves and floor while the box specifically labeled "video games" sits empty.

There are dishes in the sink, dishes on the counter, dishes under the bed (probably, but I don't care to find out for sure). Bills and homework and sticky note reminders cover every square inch of the desk and counter top. Someone spilled salt under the dining room table and apparently salt is the one thing our dog won't lick up (poop she eats, but nooooo, helping me out by licking up a salt spill is apparently beneath her). There is a lingering smell of dirty diapers, even though I've taken the diaper trash out four times already.

 My couch cushions and carpet are stained with baby spit and boogers. There is dust hiding in every nook and cranny of my home, and the light switch in my son's room has his actual fingerprints outlined in little boy dirt. I cannot even bear to open the door to the playroom for fear I will have a nervous breakdown.

There is playdough ground into my carpet. There are barbie shoes and legos hiding stealthily around the house, never to be found, until you step on one barefoot in the middle of the night. There are binkies everywhere, until I need one immediately, then they are nowhere.

The floors need mopped (but first they need swept). Everything needs dusted. A run through with the vacuum wouldn't hurt, but I'm pretty sure the vacuum is acting as a gift bag holder in my hall closet, so that's obviously out.

This place is a disaster.

The disaster seems to taunt me the most at times when there is simply nothing I can do about it. The debris screams out at me while I sit, tied to the rocking chair while I feed the baby. It whispers in my ear, "You are such a failure" while I rush the kids over the laundry and out the door to school in the morning. It hits me like a punch in the face when I arrive home from a fourteen hour day and all I have the energy to do is shower and lie down.

And in case my family doesn't seem to notice the disaster (and they never do seem to notice it as much as I do), I make sure to tell them. All the time. I remember one specific time I was stressing about the mess, out loud, to my children, the ones who are most responsible for it (or at least the easiest to blame). I was frantically trying to clean up the living room before their grandparents came over for a visit (what will my mother-in-law think!? She cleans houses professionally!! It's like inviting a professional chef over for a dinner of cold hot dogs and boxed macaroni!).

I remember scolding them, "This place is such a disaster! Why are none of you bothered by this? How can you just sit there and read your book and play with your dolls while there is a DISASTER around you!!??" And I will never forget what my daughter said to me.

"Mommy, children live here!"

I looked down at the game of UNO I was gathering up for the nineteenth time that week. One minute ago I was tempted to throw it in the trash after being sick of seeing it on my coffee table, while my husband had started using the cards as coasters.

Children live here.

But what if they didn't?

If children didn't live here, my house would be clean, at least most of the time. Because when I cleaned it, I wouldn't be immediately followed around by little walking tornados, who see an empty, tidy, freshly vacuumed floor as the perfect place to dump out nine thousand action figures and set up a battlefield or perhaps lay out a giant blanket and set up the world's biggest tea party.

If children didn't live here, my guest bathroom would be just that, for guests, or at least suitable for them. The counters would be clean and there would never be toothpaste staining my sink, because there would be no little mouths to do it. There would be no hair ties in the toilet, because there would be no perfect brown curls to need them.

I would never trip on any toys or step on any light up jungle animals, because I would never have had reason to buy these toys and light up my children's faces. There would be no baby swing, baby boppy, baby bumbo or baby blankets lining my floors, because there would be no baby to use them.

My couch cushions and carpet would still be white. There would be half the laundry to do, and half the dishes, so I'm sure I'd be able to stay on top of those. When I got home from my long days at work, I'd be greeted with a clean house, but nothing else. I'd have time on my days off to tidy up, because there would be no baby to care for or children to rush off to activities.

My house would be clean. And quiet.

I thought about that for a few days. I laid in bed and let my mind wander, and as mothers sometimes do, I let it wander to the worst. What if children didn't live here? What if they never had? Or what if they did, but then they stopped? I wondered what it would be like to lose my children in an accident. I wondered what it would be like to come home for the first time, knowing they would never come back, and see the mess they left behind. Wouldn't I break down, clenching the action figures and rattles and baby dolls while I wept? Wouldn't I pray to God that He would bring back the cause of this so-called disaster?

I wondered if I would ever be able to clean any of it up. What would I do with all their toys? All their clothes? Every piece of the untidy mess of laundry and legos would be the only evidence I had that children had lived there. Would I ever want it to go? Could I bring myself to sweep up the crumbs they left on their chairs from the last peanut butter and jelly sandwhich they ate there? Would I ever be able to wipe away the toothpaste they left in the sink that morning? Or the dirty fingerprints on my son's light switch? Could I ever bring myself to make their unmade beds, or would I simply lie in them, tracing the outline of their heads on their pillows?

What would the mess look like to a mother who would never have to clean up another mess again?

I think it would look like treasure.

To a mother in the midst of the stresses and chaos of everyday life, those messes can look like failures. Like evidence of her inability to be the perfect housewife, the perfect mother, the perfect woman. But a simple change in perspective, and suddenly those messes are not evidence of failures, but evidence of all she holds most dear, of everything she cherishes, of moments in time she will not get back again once they are gone.

I thought about the women I know who are struggling, praying, wishing to one day have messes of toys and books and baby things all over their house. Who wonder if they will ever get the chance to step on a lego or wipe crayon off the walls. Who look at those of us with ragged hair and baby food on our cheeks with envy, wondering, "When will it be my turn to look like that?" Who listen to us complain about our messy messes and wonder if we have forgotten what a blessing and a privilege it is to have such messy messes in the first place.

I thought about how in thirty years, when my kids are grown and gone, when I am looking around at my clean house and missing the disaster of when my children were children, what would happen if I could go back in time and visit the house I have today. I know what I wouldn't do. I would not say, "Ugh. What a terrible time in life. What a disaster my house always was then! I'm so glad my house is always clean now!"

No. I would walk around my former home, exploring every room and crying happy tears about the memories they brought. I would pick up the baby blankets and burp rags, and smell them to see if they still smelled like Jones. I would study Eisley's handwriting on the papers she left all over the table, and touch each letter, remembering how very little she was. I would pick up Jake's action figures, and wish I had saved them for my grandson. I would sort through the pile of laundry on the floor and marvel at how little my children once were. I would run my hand over the dirty fingerprints on the light switches and walls and mirrors, and remember when my children had fingers that tiny. I would look at the toys on the floor and the games that weren't put away and remember how much fun we had playing with them together.

I would look at the disaster, and I would think, "Children live here."

And I would think it was beautiful.

My house is a disaster sometimes. When I have the energy and the time, I clean it up as best I can. I ask my children and husband to help me keep the house in a way that we can function and have company once in awhile. But when the mess starts eating at me, when it starts whispering "failure" in my ear and begins to eat away at the joy in my heart, I try (and sometimes, I have to try really, really hard) to see the beauty in the disaster. And I repeat that phrase to myself, the one Eisley reminded me of, the one I forget sometimes.

"Children live here."

And I am so, so thankful they do.