Happy birthday, baby boy

It is a mad, mad, mad world where you go to the cemetery to sing "Happy Birthday" to your son who would be 2 now. His little sister (now much older than he ever was) joins us, too young to take in the meaning of the gold letters etched in black stone, the dates below his name, the cross that represents the 16 days in between.

We are starting to tell her: "That's your brother, Ewan." We point at pictures. We pointed at the stone and said his name.

I want to throw up.

Austen's Baptism

Greetings from the land of the busy mama!

I just wanted to pop my head up, say hello, and share some happy news with you: Austen was baptized yesterday, welcomed into the community and life of the church on the Feast of Corpus Christi.

My heart was feeling particularly tender as we waited for this day. Ewan's baptism was so very different: James offering up an "Our Father" and blessing Ewan with the water over the hum of machines in the NICU. We didn't know it yet, but Ewan would go into emergency heart surgery the following day. It was just the three of us: no one else to stand witness, no one else to celebrate. But in truth, it didn't feel particularly celebratory. It did, however, feel particularly necessary in that moment.

We've been planning Austen's baptism for a couple of months. We met with a coordinator at our church and planned a party at our home for after. She wore a beautiful dress and we invited friends and family to come participate and celebrate with us at the Cathedral. It was as different as it could be.

I can't tell you how acutely I felt Ewan's presence as the day approached. I sensed something of him strongly at every time of day, no matter where I went, no matter what I did.. My heart felt pulled in every direction. It hurt.

But after all that, I was glad, because he was there to celebrate with us. I know he adores his little sister and that he delights in watching her grow, experiencing the things that he never got to experience.

As one of my friends said, it's a lot for one mama heart to hold. But like the mama belly, the mama heart has a miraculous capacity to stretch and expand, to make way for the loves she carries with her. And that is evermore the case with my son and daughter.

Where the time goes.

I gave birth. I blinked. And then I had a four-month-old.

I will blink, and then I'll blink again and she will be driving.

I'm not sure where the time goes, but I'm fairly certain that it is hanging out with the lost socks somewhere.

Austen, like many babies -- and many grown-ups for that matter -- is a moving target. Just as soon as I have her patterns and preferences mostly figured out, they change.

Just like as of the last couple of weeks, after three and a half months of resistance, she actually likes it now when I wear her in the Moby.

If it's been awhile, it's because I'm remaining in-the-moment as much as I can. It's because sometimes, she will only nap in my arms, slowly falling into sleep after nursing and to set her down is to wake her. It's because she's teething and it's because it's better if I'm holding her. It's because sometimes the only way I can keep her from crying is to show her our reflections in the mirror, dancing and singing a silly song, swaying back and forth.

And yeah, it's the laundrydishesdinnerkitchenfloorvacuuming and also trying to talk to my husband once in awhile. It isn't anything new under the sun, but I'm still finding my way.

We had her four month check up this past week, and she's doing amazing. Healthy as can be. Right on track for weight, 95th percentile for length, and meeting and exceeding developmental milestones. (Cuteness is totally off the charts.) On Sunday, she rolled over both ways for the first time and it wouldn't surprise me if she succeeded in crawling by the time she's five months old.

But enough blah, blah, blah. Want to see her?

Yeah, I figured as much.

I'm exhausted. There are not enough cups of coffee or hours for sleep. But this girl is utterly delightful.

Thoughts on a mother's day

I've been through her line at Costco a number of times. I moved here early in my second trimester of pregnancy with Austen, and Jennifer had seen my belly grow and always commented on how much she liked my hair. When she asked if this was my first, I told her truthfully it was my second child. Boy or girl? she asked.

Boy, I replied.

And that's as far as it ever went.

I went through her line again on Friday and she asked if I'd like to donate to the Children's Miracle Network. Before Ewan even existed, I'd give donations when asked. But ever since Ewan lived and died, fundraisers like this one will always receive my support. Even though he didn't come home with us, we admire the people whose work gave him even a little bit of a fighting chance.

She commented again on how cute Austen was and asked if I'd like to take home a balloon with lollipop attached. I know you've got another one at home, she said.

[Deep breath. Here we go.]

Actually, our son died when he was 16 days old. 

The words surprise me a little every time they come out of my mouth. I still have a hard time accepting the reality to which they point, and am taken aback at how matter-of-factly I hear them passing my lips. He had a heart defect, I explained.

I think people are surprised just as much by what they're hearing as they are by how I say it -- and that I say it. Most of the time, my voice doesn't crack and my eyes don't tear. I touch the necklace around my neck that has his name on it when I say it -- something physical that's with me all the time, pointing to him.

Perhaps it sounds too casual coming out -- like I don't miss him, like it didn't hurt like hell, like it doesn't still kill me to wake up every day remembering that I have a son, and that he is dead.

She reminds me of Ewan so much, especially when she sleeps.

I get why people with whom I have such a casual and impersonal customer-checker relationship don't ask the obvious but personal question about why the son I've mentioned is never with me.

But sometimes I wish they would.

She looked positively stunned and was silent for awhile. That must have been awful for you, she said soberly. I'm sorry for bringing up something so painful.

It was painful, I said. But I never mind talking about him. It wasn't ideal at all, not what anyone wants to face. 

Especially with your first, she said.

Yeah. [Long pause]

So (pointing to Austen) she is a little extra special to us. And we have an incredible appreciation for what they do at children's hospitals. They gave our son a chance.

She thanked me again for my donation. Then Austen and I made our way home.

Though anniversaries and days like Mother's Day can hurt a little extra, I don't need them to remind me of who we've lost. I don't need a stranger asking me about the son she's heard about multiple times but has never seen to make my heart hurt.

The truth is, his death is a fact of my life. 

The truth is, I remember it every day and like so many other mothers who have gone through this type of loss, it's a weight I've become accustomed to carrying. Tears typically don't come in the checkout line at Costco or in the greeting card aisle at Target, but in the quiet of our home after the motions of my day have slowed to a stop, and the sun has gone down.

This isn't my first Mother's Day, but it's the first time I'll have a child to hold when we mark the day. Last time, my arms were empty and it felt incredibly bitter. Though the bitter hasn't gone away, this time it will be more than a little bit sweeter.

Both tastes in my mouth, just like every day.

Today is International Bereaved Mother's Day.

Click on the image to find out more.

The requisite "too cool in my baby shades" pic

This girl is too much!!

Austen & her mama

It's been awhile, I know.

Nothing's wrong, and we haven't been particularly busy. Our days, for the most part, proceed with the same steady rhythm.

I've simply found that giving myself over to the care of this child is where I most want and need to be right now. It's not that I don't want naps, that I don't need to vacuum or clean my kitchen, and it's not that I don't want to blog. I do. It's just that in the category of things I give my time to on any given day, she's going to take priority over just about everything else just about every single time.

I don't need to tell you that it goes by fast. These moments aren't mine to hold, so I'm going to enjoy what I have while I can.

I dare you not to kiss this face.

Homebody

Before I left, I wondered if it would be too much. A little over an hour away from home, I found out for sure and turned the truck around.

If only it were that easy. 

I stopped, pulled over into the shaded parking lot of an all-you-can-eat buffet where I got into the back seat, leaving the keys in the ignition and the A/C going so it wouldn't get too hot while I nursed her. An older lady wearing glasses and a white blouse knocked on the window to tell me my lights were on. I replied "I know," a second time after she pointed again to the front of the truck to warn me my lights were on. I patted the baby on her back, walked around with her outside, swayed back and forth, only later noticing thick whitish streams of spit-up on my shoulder and in the crook of my elbow. I pointed out the Spanish moss, asked her if the breeze felt good.

Austen (9 March 2012)

After a half hour or so of this, she seemed happy again, so I buckled her in and set out again. We made it a mile or two further before I turned the car around.

She screamed some more and I was never so sorry to be alone -- for her sake. I needed to be both places: behind the wheel, steering us home, and in the back with her consoling her, interacting, making sure she knew she wasn't alone. I reached a hand back while driving to stroke her head. I said soothing words to her, I kept saying we would be home soon. I wished sleep for her until we were safely home. If only.

But then it was brake lights, stop and go downtown traffic at rush hour. She kept crying, so I pulled over at a gas station in a part of town no one wants to be in where a woman in a denim jacket and black spandex skirt said to me, "Listen, I'm not on drugs or anything, but I'm begging. Please help me. I need money." I was standing outside the truck, patting the baby's back, rocking an inconsolable Austen back and forth and gently shushing in her ear. My ears were ringing from her cries, and I wiped tears away from the corners of her eyes with the pads of my fingers. I wanted to help, but I couldn't just now. I had nothing to give her. I needed to help my daughter. My mission was singular: get her home.

And finally we made it back, two and a half hours after turning around in the parking lot of a jewelry store. I held her, fed her, changed her. She smiled, cooed, and laughed at me again. Those smiles have never been so sweet and after all that crying, I didn't want to let her go, needing to hold her as much as she needed to be held. She's asleep now, the kind of deep sleep her mama has enjoyed after so much crying. I hope that when she wakes up, she will feel rested, refreshed.

January 30, 2011

I will miss the time we would have had with my friend in a place that is so special to us -- the place where I felt alive for the first time since Ewan died, and with the dear friend who was with me when it happened. But my place is here now at home, beside the sleeping little girl who never gurgled and cooed so sweetly in her sleep. She is mine, and I am hers.

Austen Update!

Austen had her two-month checkup today and she's doing great! I wasn't too surprised to find that she's in the 50th percentile for weight and the 95th percentile for length (24 inches). Our girl is healthy and thriving. Such a gift!!

We are also embarking on a bit of an adventure today. We're joining "Auntie" Christianne on Captiva Island for a couple of days. It's kind of a long drive, but we have the luxury of being able to take our time and make as many stops as we need to. I know Austen is really going to miss her daddy and vice versa.

Daddy and his Austen-girl

Off we go!!

8 weeks!

I can't believe our little munchkin is already 8 weeks old!

She is more and more fun by the day! She spends her days eating and sleeping and more and more often these days, smiling at her mama. I will read to her, play with her, naming off each of her body parts or singing one of the many songs we've made up about her to melodies by the Beatles, Feist, or Eartha Kitt.

One of the funniest things about her (to me, at least) is that she LOVES being on the changing table. Seriously -- it doesn't matter how foul a mood she is in. Take that child to the changing table and lay her down, she turns into a happy camper almost instantly. It's like a magical baby reset button. I love it! She is getting the hang of me wearing her, but still doesn't seem to be a big fan. I'll go on walks with her wearing her in the Baby Bjorn, and I save the Moby wrap mostly for around the house since she will only tolerate that when she's fast asleep (I have gotten her to handle it awake twice now since she was born for a grand total of about 5 minutes). It kind of kills me that she doesn't like it right now, but I'm going to keep trying to see if that is a preference that will change for her.

All in all, we're doing great! I feel a lot more confident at home with her than I did in those first couple of weeks for sure. She's a great little baby and I can't wait to continue to watch her grow.

Continuity

That little monkey has seen and been through quite a lot with this family.

Click image to view a larger version of the photo.

Pockets of Grief

Austen is asleep in the baby swing right now. As I watch her rock back and forth, head lolling off to one side, it occurs to me that we've had this swing since we were pregnant with Ewan. A co-worker of mine, knowing I was pregnant, asked if I wanted any of their leftover baby things that she was seeking to get rid of. After a boy and a girl, she and her husband felt their family was complete. I happy accepted any hand-me-downs she had, and this Graco baby swing was one of many baby things I inherited from her.

I remember bringing that swing home along with a slough of other baby things: a brightly colored jungle-themed activity mat with mirrors, crinkly, crackly fabric, and balls attached that would roll and show off flashes of orange and yellow. There was a box full of rattles and cups and stacking toys. But I remember taking particular care with the swing. I removed the fabric elements and washed them. I sanitized the tray that lifts up and snaps back down. I pictured Ewan in that swing.

But he never got to use it.

When we had Austen, we knew there would be many moments like this: Austen experiencing firsts that only ever were should-have-been's or never-happened's with Ewan. Even though we knew those things would be there ahead of time, the experience of having these moments with Austen is opening up pockets of grief that have more or less been latent and sleeping since he died. We missed the first smile, the first laugh, the first bath. We never got to dress him in any of the miniature clothes I held up to the sounds of oohs and aahs and declarations of "that's so cute!" at any my baby showers.

Now that we get those moments with her, I find these pockets of sadness opening inside me -- the things that we never had with him. There are so many of them, bursting wide open one after the other because of his sister.

After her first bath

It's hard to be overly sentimental about it, to focus on the joy of the moments we share with Austen at the expense of the moments we didn't have with Ewan. It's never so clean and compartmentalized. I even find myself wondering if I can really count these things -- these normal experiences we never had with Ewan -- as a loss. After all, we never had those moments -- we merely expected and hoped for them. It is not the same thing. But it still hurts.

And so I find myself holding the tension one more time: the joy of every moment we have with our healthy, living daughter, and experiencing intimacy with those moments now that with Ewan, slipped through our fingers like water. They were never ours to hold.

Ewan's been gone for nearly a year and a half now. While it will never be the case that having Austen will take away any of the pain we experienced when we lost Ewan, there is something about having Austen here that makes it okay somehow -- that makes it okay not for what has already happened, but it makes it okay in the now. I think it's because losing Ewan isn't where the story ends -- it's still going on.

It's still going on.

7 weeks?!!?

While I highly doubt that the lady adjusting to life with a now 7-week-old baby needs to explain why she hasn't posted much lately, it's still a temptation for me. We've had family come to visit, we've had some bumps along the way in breastfeeding (nothing we can't handle, though -- and thank God they were temporary bumps), and once more in the realm of stating the obvious: I'm tired. I've found myself saying "she must be having a growth spurt" a lot lately -- so much, in fact, that I think I need to recalibrate my idea of what a "growth spurt" is.

There's a lot I've been thinking of writing, but after coming off several nights where sleep came in spurts, I don't feel much up to trying to write it. So I'll post a bunch of pictures from this past week instead and save my thoughts for later.

Enjoy!!

Redemption & Healing

Like almost any mother of a newborn, tired is an understatement. Last night was arguably the most restless since she's been born. After sleeping from about 7:30 to 11 pm, she woke up for another feeding and couldn't seem to get enough. We fed, burped, rocked, and waited and then repeated until she was satisfied and at least mostly asleep. Even after that, she flailed and kicked in her sleep, and consequently, I am bleary-eyed and sleep-starved this morning.

Even so, I can't help but spill over with thankfulness at the redemptive moments we continue to experience with her.

In Austen's birth, I had the birth experience I had hoped for but didn't get with Ewan. Austen gets to experience the dailiness of life at home that Ewan never got to experience. And perhaps most rewarding for me, I am there when she falls asleep -- unlike I was able to be with Ewan.

In my current state I cannot remember whether or not I've written about that last night of Ewan's life -- the one where we weren't there, having gone home for the first time in twelve days because he appeared to be doing so well. He was engaged and alert and though on a considerable amount of support, looking good. He was social and engaged, interacting with us at every opportunity. But at some point that night, he went to sleep and never woke up again.

My biggest regret is that we were not there. There were no human, let alone mama or papa eyes holding his gaze as he drifted off. What was the last thing he saw? Was it the warmer that loomed above him? Was it the collection of tubes and needles going into his arms and legs, dispensing medications? Was it the dialysis unit, the ECMO machine, or the tall metal tree stacked with medications being dispensed automatically at steady intervals?

Whatever the last thing Ewan saw on this earth, it wasn't me. It wasn't James. And if I'm honest, I don't think I will ever be able to let go of the simple and heartrending truth that we were not there when he left, drifting off to sleep for the last time. There is not a single recollection of Ewan's life that hurts me more than this one.

So as I'm feeding Austen these days in that last feeding of the day before she drifts off to sleep for the night, I hold her gaze until her eyes are closed. She will fight sleep, eyelids fluttering in a concerted effort to remain open, taking in the world around her for just a few minutes more. And I will wait and hold her gaze until the fluttering stops and she is asleep at last.

In these moments I celebrate the truth that the last thing she sees before she drifts off to sleep is the face of the mama who loves her without measure. My greatest desire for her (and for all the children the good Lord may grant to us) is that she would feel loved and that if, God forbid, she shouldn't wake up, that the last thing she would see on this earth is the face of someone who loves her.

I imagine I will be rubbing my eyes today, praying for the opportunity to steal a few precious moments of sleep, and that there will be many more days like this one. But I got to see her off to sleep. And so night by night, feeding by feeding, what we lost with Ewan is redeemed in loving his little sister.

God bless you, little girl, and your sweet big brother, too.

Gratitude, and Something More

I think last night's status update says it best:

"Sometimes when I'm holding that warm little baby with her head resting on my shoulder, I remember where we've been and what we've lost -- and I am so overcome that I can't help but hold tight and weep with gratitude."

This Moment

Dirty dishes are overflowing in the sink. Leaves tracked in from the outside are strewn across the living room carpet and the kitchen floor. My coffee table is completely cluttered. I'd like to say I don't care about these things, but I do. To tell you the truth, they are driving me nuts.

But I'm making a choice to let those things sit for a bit, to let the people who are here to do those things for me, do those things. Right now, I've got to cuddle a baby girl. 

I'm the only mama she's got. She's the only baby Austen I have, and this moment won't last forever.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow

But children grow up as I've learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep

I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

from "Babies Don't Keep" by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton

That One True Thing

If you had the chance to let the world know just one thing about you, what would it be?

I had a dream last night that clung to me for hours after sleep had turned to half-sleep and then awake.

I was in an impossibly large crowd of people. Oprah was hosting some kind of major event. I was sitting in the crowd, holding Austen. And one by one, she asked people the question I asked at the beginning of this post:

What is the one thing you want the world to know about you?

And the whole world was listening.

I remember other people sharing, but I don't remember the particulars of their stories. When it came to be my turn, I said this:

"My firstborn, my son Ewan, was born with a heart that was broken -- quite literally broken. He died in my arms when he was 16 days old. This baby girl, his little sister Austen, is our second and it's because of her brother's life and death that she's so incredibly special to us."

There it was: the answer I gave in my dream is just as true when I'm awake. My heart has known all along that if I had to tell the world just one thing, it would be about my children. It would be to tell them about Ewan to make sure he's not forgotten, and to tell them about the beautiful little sister he watches over. It would be to say the thing that, though the world might not see it, is on every breath and in every heartbeat.

It would be to say that one true thing -- that if people can know just one single thing about me, it would be to speak of the ones who hold the greatest claim on my heart.


What about you?
If you could tell the world just one thing about yourself, what would it be?

Let's discuss on the Team Ewan community page.

Daddy

"Any man can be a father but it takes someone special to be a dad."

-- Anne Geddes