I know it's time...

Tonight, my slightly dramatic Momma heart is aching.  Tonight, I sit in quiet living room, my mind whirling as I prepare for bed, exhausted and tired, but not quite wanting to go to sleep.  I would like to postpone the hours of the day just a little big longer in hopes to prevent tomorrow from coming too soon.

Tomorrow is another milestone in our little family.  Tomorrow is the end of a chapter in our lives, one that's been almost five years in the making, that's somehow arrived at a close way too soon.

Tomorrow is my little girl's last day of full-time daycare before she goes off to elementary school.

It's funny to me that I'm so emotional about this.  Both of her older brothers have come and gone from the daycare rooms already.  Her oldest brother has been gone for almost as many years as she has been there.  I don't know if it's harder just because she's the youngest, or more likely, harder because she's been there longest.

Daycare has been a huge part of my life story with this beautiful girl.  

Her first day of daycare

She, the boys, and I all started daycare together on December 8, 2014.  She was 8 months old, and the other two were a toddler and a preschooler.  We ended up at our daycare by a sheer act of God, where I was able to be employed and there was room for all three of them to be there with me in the building while I worked.   It was a huge blessing in a very dark and chaotic time in our lives.  

Nearly every single day since, Norah and I have gone to daycare together.  The boys were with us too, for a while, but they both eventually left us behind, and the last two years, it was just the two of us.  My baby girl has spent the majority of her life at this daycare, with many of the same staff throughout the years, and a lot of the same children growing up alongside her.  It's been a huge constant in our lives.  It's so familiar.  She radiates joy throughout the halls, and I love bringing her with me every day to stop in and say hello to her "best friend," a momma-like figure in her life, her first daycare teacher, and my dear friend.  Every day she comes in for a hug, gets the lowdown on the lunch for the day, and bounces out the door calling out "I love you!" before we make our way to her classroom.

Tomorrow is the last day for that daily tradition (except for school breaks, which seem so far away right now).  Soon, I'll just be coming through that door all alone.  As I write this, it seems like an echoing memory that hasn't even had a chance to actually develop yet.

I've loved the security of having a job and also knowing my babies were safe within the same walls with people I've trusted and known were loving them all day.  It's been so hard to let each of the boys go.  This one just feels a little harder.  My dramatic side already worries that the halls will seem a little colder and the days a little lonelier knowing that all of my children will be down the street for most of their days from here on out.

Yet, I know it's time.

It's time to let go.

It's time to see her grow.

A few weekends ago at church, we were asked to take a moment to listen and hear what we thought God was wanting to tell us, and write it down.

The only thing I heard was, "You are raising light."

It made sense.  "We are the lights" is a lyric to one of our favorite songs (by Cade Thompson), our wi-fi network is "Be a light," and I get "light" songs stuck in my head frequently.  But this was a little different, which I didn't really grasp until tonight as I kissed them all to sleep and left the room.

Photo Credit: Seize the Day Photography and Video

I am raising light.  I have been doing the best I can to raise them to be bright, positive influences on the world, before I let them all go out on their own.  The boys have already entered the school.  Now, she will.  Now it's her turn to bring light, sunshine, joy, and love to the world outside the walls who already know her for those exact reasons.  She's ready to join her big brothers, and I pray that together, they're able to spread joy, love, laughter, kindness, and Jesus to those around them in their personalities, words, and actions.

I know it's time...

Even if I don't want to let her go.

She opened her window.

My beautiful Sweet Pea has been emotional for the last 10 days or so, quite clingy, and not quite herself sometimes.  I've been wondering what was going on, but was unable to pinpoint it.  Tonight, I think I am better able to understand. Tonight, after bedtime prayers, my sweet, sassy, perfectly quirky little princess opened the window to her heart for me, for one of the very first times in a way that both nearly broke my own heart, and amazed me with the depth of her self-knowledge and ability to articulate her emotions with clarity beyond her young three-years.  I had kissed her goodnight, as she said to me (roughly, edited to remove some names), "Mama, my friends don't see me anymore and play with me and don't like me anymore.  They're my best friends and I love them and I miss them."  

You see, almost two weeks ago, she went through a big transition at daycare, where she spends the majority of her time.  She moved from one floor to the next, from young toddler rooms to older rooms where the preschoolers are growing up.  And, while it isn't a big deal geographically, or in many ways, it dawned on me tonight, that it's a big change to her.  

She's been making it seem pretty breezy and not that big of a deal, even though her mama was sad about it at first.  She loves the kids and staff upstairs and will thrive and flourish in the new environment, and I haven't been worried about it at all.

But tonight, as I tried to calm her fears that her friends do in fact still like her, love her, and even miss her too, I realized that she was feeling her first real insecurity.

That time and distance mean people don't care, don't like you, don't miss you, or don't love you.

It's a common thought, even for adults, so I was blown away by her innocent little saddened heart.

After comforting her and reassuring her that she is loved, that her friends miss her, and some will soon be back in the same room as her with the new schedule, teachers, friends, and environment, I left the room and began thinking about what had just occurred.  I understand where she's coming from.

Her previous transitions at daycare have all been on one floor, with schedules that are relatively similar, where she would see the same people passing in hallways.  Her last transitions were done at a younger age where, while still forming attachments to teachers and children, she wasn't as mature and able to process and fear things like she does now.

So this was her first big change at daycare.   She still sees some of her most beloved people on a regular basis, but there are a lot of empty spaces in her day that used to be filled by people she had grown exceptionally close to.

Not only that, but on another level, I can feel her equating that to some of her past experiences where he dad was absent from her life.

And I can understand why she may feel that gaps in time and distance can affect relationships.

I mean, really, they often do.  Only the strong ones survive and grow, I suppose.  It's amazing to me that she is so young and already experiencing these sort of friendship quandaries. 

So, to my darling little three-year-old, her heart is in some sort of jeopardy, and it's my blessing and burden to calm her fears and speak life, truth, and love into her heart, just as with her brothers.  I try to build up their store-houses with these things, to help build their self-esteem, knowing that the way of the world is often to bring you down.  I never want my children to feel worthless, unloved, or anything other than of exceptional value and worthy of the deepest, most sincere love on earth.

They're treasures, and they should know it.

While this moment where the window was open was over an insecurity, I am so fortunate that she chose to open up to me, share her deepest fear at this moment with me, and trusted me with her heart.  I wish I could make her feel better, but aside from praying, which we did, only time will heal.  

And, my darling, my sweet, sweet girl, I can assure you, you are worth missing, and you are loved by those that you  miss right now.  

In the morning, she will be three.

My sweet, beautiful girl,

Tonight, I laid you down, and you told me "tomorrow is my birthday, mama."  We said our bedtime prayer, which ends "God is great, God is great (you insist we say it twice), AMEN!" You asked me for a kiss, and then a hug, and then to cover you up, and then for a kiss, and then for a hug, as you do almost every night.  I closed the door behind me after hugging and kissing your brothers and turning out the light, and I breathed deeply as I realized that tonight is the last night of this year of your life.  It tugs at my heart.

This is the first year you've shown excitement about it, after celebrating a few other birthdays over the year, your memory being much more acute, and feeling traditions take place as you and your brothers grow older.  I'm excited for your excitement, though it's bittersweet to see you transition from baby-hood even further.

Darling girl, tonight, you're still two.  Tomorrow, you'll be three.

I sit here thinking about how, growing up, I had hoped that someday I would have a daughter.  In my mind, she would be a perfect, smiling ball of joy, with curly hair, and beautiful features.  She would be kind and smart and so much more.  After God blessed me with your two brothers, I felt it was my calling in life, loving them so deeply, to be a mom to three or four boys, and felt I would never have a daughter.  I don't know why I felt this way, and it was bittersweet, but I was so sure.   When I was told you were on the way, I didn't believe it until they placed you on my chest, and you were in fact my little girl.  Every day since then, it has made so much sense that you were brought into our lives.  I didn't ever imagine you would fulfill my dreams to precisely.  You belong with us, and God knew it.

My heart can hardly handle another birthday.  Yet another year has flown by too quickly, though, fortunately, the chaos in our lives has slowed down quite a bit, and this transition from two to three years of life with you is much clearer in my memory and I feel I was much more focused on our days together, enjoying them, savoring them, and cherishing them.  Not that I didn't in years past, but someday, you'll understand what I mean when I say they were busier and harder and much more muddled together.

Not this year.

This year, I watched you blossom from a young toddler into a much more mature toddler.  I've heard your vocabulary soar with countless words and phrases I have never heard a two-year-old use before.

I've seen your sweet little self turn a little more sassy, as I was warned may happen over time.  I miss the days when I don't have to remind you to use a "kind voice," but I cherish your personality all the same.

I've seen you grow so tall, your hair so long and curly, your eyes so wide and filled with deep wonder.  You've become very independent, but you still totter back and forth from being "big" and "little" where sometimes you want to do everything on your own, and other times you'll cry on the floor because you think you need to be carried.  I'm sorry when I don't give in to the tantrums.  It's not because I don't want to carry you, it's just that I don't want to fuel that behavior.  I do, in fact, love that sometimes you still want to be carried, and I love the feeling of your arms wrapped around me as I carry you.  Your brothers very rarely express that desire anymore, and I know it will be all too soon that you won't want me to, either.  You use the most adorable phrase when you want to be held, as you tell me "I want to hold you," even though you really mean it the other way around.

I love that you still want to cuddle, sit on my lap, and snuggle in bed sometimes.  I love that you still ask for a kiss and a hug when I drop you off at daycare or Sunday School in the mornings, and that you still want them both before bed at night.

I love when you call me "Mama" instead of "mommy," and I don't know why.

You've got an excellent memory, little lady.  You know almost everyone's name at daycare and Sunday School, and you can recall the middle names, favorite colors, and eye colors of the people who mean most to you, assuming you've inquired what these things are already.

You love music, and art, the outdoors, and your blanket. In the morning, your favorite cat is Benjamin, but when we get home at night, your favorite cat is Lucy.  They both love you, and they're so gentle with you.  When you're sick, they are by your side.  You recently developed a love for birds, and you proclaim it almost daily.  You also love tigers, and dogs, and fish, and bunnies, and lions, and horses, and ponies, and unicorns...  I'm sorry I couldn't give you a pet tiger for your birthday like you requested repeatedly.  Someday, you'll understand.

You've surprised me and gone from wearing diapers full time to barely wearing them at all, and you're so proud of your big girl status in this area.  While I'm grateful that the diaper budget has dwindled immensely and I don't have to change diapers all day every day, it's a reminder that you're not going to be little for much longer.

I love listening to you sing songs and narrate your play.  You've such a bright imagination.  I love that you will play with both of your brothers on a daily basis.  They love you dearly and they make sure you know it.  They are so good about building you up with positive affirmations and compliments.  I hope you'll always remember how beautiful they think you are, even if sometimes they're not being very nice to you.

Baby girl, soon you will lose the remaining baby features on your little body, and become a preschooler like your brothers.  I pray you'll take the days a little more slowly than you have been over the past year.  I know you want to go to kindergarten, too, but you've only a few short years to be a tiny little girl.  Don't rush through them, please.

I pray that as you grow older, you'll continue to be kind, gentle, intelligent, helpful, and hilarious.  I hope you'll want to spin in a dress for years to come, rock baby dolls gently, and give hugs freely.

You light up every room you walk into with a smile full of sunshine.

I pray that I will always be able to remember the deep chocolate color of your bright eyes, the spirals in the back of your hair as they dry after bath, your dark, long eyelashes, especially as you sleep against my shoulder sometimes, the warmth of your tiny little hand as it holds my finger while we walk, and the jubilant melody of your laugh, among everything else about you.

I pray you'll always let Jesus in your heart, and show other's his goodness.  I pray you'll be a blessing to each person you come across.

Miss Norah, you stole our hearts from the get-go.  Cherish it as we cherish you.

Thank you for all of the joy you bring to this world.

I love you, Sweet Pea.
-Mama

Not quite a re-run

Today, Little Miss Pippin met with an ENT. We left with an appointment to have her tonsils and adenoids removed, as well as tubes placed in her ears. The doctor is confident that this will ease her continual sinus and ear infection issues, as well as likely help her to sleep more restfully and soundly through the night. Because she is just barely two, she will be spending the night in th hospital. This will all occur at the end of July. Prayers are appreciated.

I left the appointment feeling hopeful, but also filled with heartache.

A little over a year ago, her brother, not much older at the time than she is now, had a tube and adenoid procedure done. He had two parents there, so I was not alone with three kids before it began because daycare wasn't open before we had to be there, but he had two parents to take turns holding him while he woke from anaesthesia and to comfort him while he cried so hard his oxygen remained low.

A little less than a year ago, baby girl was in the hospital for three days with a fever of nearly 105, being tested for meningitis, spinal herpes, and various other things. Her dad had run off and though was receiving info, wouldn't so much as respond to a single message from anyone regarding the potential threat upon his toddler daughter's life. I sat there for most of those hours, exception a few where her wonderful aunt came, so I could go back to the homeless shelter/transitional housing place and check in (mandatory) and shower, holding her as she fought off the unexplained fever.  She only had one parent.

One of my favorite songs has been in my head much of this evening as I sift through the outpouring of many emotions regarding these situations. "Scars are souvenirs we never lose. The past is never far... Reruns all become our history."

It feels so applicable tonight as I see so clearly the vignettes of last year, trying to mentally prepare for the upcoming procedures this year.

A dear friend pointed out we won't be alone. It's not just me, even if he isn't there, and quite frankly, I don't need or want him there to make a mess out of everyone's hearts. It may be true, but it doesn't make the ache completely vanish.

I know God's promises are true. I need to latch onto them again.

Twenty-Two and almost Two

This week has been a rough one emotionally, as it is every year.  Twenty-two years ago this week, my beloved cousin, a beautiful blue-eyed, blonde-haired, joy-filled darling, wandered away on her farm and was missing for days before she was recovered from the river running through her family farm's property.

Twenty-two years have passed, and I can still see the week unfolding in slow motion like a silent film.

Once upon a time, I would have nightmares about it, trying to reach out and save her, although none of us knew at the time where she disappeared to.  I could never reach her, and she was always lost.

There's something undeniably horrific about losing a child.

Carissa was just a few months past two when she went to be with Jesus.

This year, my darling daughter turns two herself, in less than a month.

I have been trying not to dwell on the significant events of the past since my last posts, but as I mentioned in the post "Littered Dates," it seems they always strike me in some way.  Some years more powerfully than others.  This year has been harder in regard to Carissa's drowning than most, simply because of Norah.

My beautiful, bubbly, joy-filled (typically), blonde-haired, brown-eyed darling who looks much like my grandmother, and has hair that styles like a troll doll while she sleeps, just like Carissa.  My Sweet Pea, who embraces you in whole body bear hugs, just like my cousin would.

My daughter, the wanderer.  The free-spirit.  The one who loves to sing and dance.

Carissa lived to be two.  Norah is almost two.  She's almost older than Carissa was.

Now, I don't sit and fear that she's going to disappear like Carissa did, or that I'm going to lose her any day now.  That seems irrational, and it's all in God's hands.  I trust that he's going to allow me countless more days with each of my children, and I pray diligently in that regard.

But it doesn't mean that somewhere, deep inside, I compare the two, and my heart aches, deeply.  It aches for my cousin that none of us were able to watch grow up to become a woman.  It aches for my aunt, my uncle, and her sisters.  It aches for her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, and the rest of my cousins.  It aches for my children and my cousin's children who never got a chance to know her.  It aches.  And, as hard as I try, sometimes, I still place myself in each of those shoes.  I cannot imagine the heartbreaking loss of my own daughter at this age, and I watched my aunt and uncle go through that.  I saw it all unfold.  And it slays the heart to know it can happen at any time, to anyone.

Tonight, I finally embraced the fact that it has been 22 years this week since we last saw her, and since we said our final goodbyes.  I shed some tears, and I held my babies close.

Darling Carissa, you are missed.  You touched us all so deeply in your short life here on earth.  You were a precious treasure to us all, and you will be forever remembered.  Thank you for teaching me so much about love, life, and loss.  I wish you hadn't had to go, but I believe that you've lived on and fulfilled a purpose even though you're not walking beside us.  I love you.

Boo, Baby Norah!

On Tuesday, April 15, 2014, our third little miracle, Baby Boo, joined the world.

Here's her birth story. If birth stories make you squeamish, read no further, though I'll keep it as graphic-free as possible.

Norah Rachelle joined our family on Tuesday, April 15, 2014 at 2:42pm. She weighed 9 pounds and was 21 inches talk upon arrival. 

At my midwife appointment on Monday, I was 40 weeks, 3 days gestation. I had not slept in over a week due to nightly contractions and other discomforts. So, when I was checked and nearly 4cm, a sweep was done to try to jump start labor. I was measuring well and she was moving well, but everything was favorable for induction. So, if I was not already admitted into the hospital overnight, at 7am on Tuesday, I was to check-in for induction.

Well, despite some contraction increase overnight, the sweep didn't really jump start anything, so after yet another night of about 3 hours sleep, Jake and I headed to the hospital. I felt pretty calm about the entire idea, with an odd combination of relief knowing she would soon be here, and anxiety over the fact that for the third time in four years, much sooner than we had planned, I was about to be going through the childbirth process again. When I was being induced with the boys, I didn't have the anxiety as much, and after much personal reflection, I decided it was likely because they were very much planned, whereas this pregnancy was a mind-blowing surprise. I just wasn't really prepared yet.

Paradoxes aside, here we were, getting ready for the arrival of child number three.

Our nurse was a friendly face we both recognized, though we couldn't initially pinpoint why. Later on, after Norah arrived, she said she checked and saw that she was one of the nurses during Collin's labor! So cool.

Initially, upon being hooked up to the monitors and checked, I was having somewhat sporadic contractions (still) and by this point was 4.5cm. So, the iv was placed and pitocin started. 

I walked 1/4 mile. Sat around. Walked another 1/4 mile. Attempted to nap. Walked 1/4 mile. Text some friends. 

Came back and was monitored a whole. Checked and was at 7cm. Woohoo! At this point the contractions were every 2-3 minutes and really starting to hurt. My hips were taking the brunt of it, it seemed, and when walking with then it felt like they were going to possibly crack in half. Fun times. So, I decided walking was done. Jake and I relaxed and had some lunch, and at noon-thirty-ish, my midwife came by to check on me and break my water. 

It didn't take long for the contractions to really pick up in intensity and frequency despite the pitocin being decreased by half. And good golly, that was wretched. I had come into the hospital with an "open" birth plan, meaning I was just going to see how things went with no real plan at all. It was pretty much the same plan I had with the boys, and it just works very well for me. This time, I decided that I was going to probably go without an epidural, because with Spencer, it wore off way top early and I felt pretty much everything by birth time anyway, and with Collin, I waited too long for it to actually kick in and I delivered before it was really useful.

So, as the contractions worsened and I thought my hips might shatter and my back might snap, I moved to the tub. My nurse said it would likely help with the hip and back pain as well as the increase of pressure with each contraction. 

I think she was probably right. At least at first, she was. I sat in the tub for I don't know how long. After a while though, I thought I was going to be super sick, and so i got out and went back to the bed. 

I could hardly concentrate on breathing at this point, but was at 8.5cm, so I knew  it was getting close to the end. The pressure and pain was so intense I thought I was going to lose my mind and I could hardly think straight, so the nurse offered me a dose of Fetinol at 2:15pm.  I think that's what it is called anyway... as she said it might help with my hips and back. 

Well... It made me feel like I was drunk and dizzy and not much else. Things hurt just as bad, so I changed positions on the bed, and it just continued to intensify.  I was to the point of tears and fear that I wouldn't be able to finish going through with it all, not that I realistically had a choice. It was at this time that my midwife told me I could push.

But... I couldn't. I honestly could not figure out how. I was on my knees upright and just could not process in my mind how to do it, even though she was coaching me through, so I panicked. I started crying and stating I couldn't figure out how and was shaking and nearly hyperventilating.

Jake was across the room in shock, I think, that it was so close to happening, and I cried terrified for him to come to my side.

So, I resorted to the way I had the boys, "normal" fashion, on the bed. But it was still so intense that it took me a contraction or maybe two to figure out how to get my body to do what it needed to.

Then, I pushed through two contractions. Everyone in the room told me it was a short process, realistically, probably about 5 minutes. But it felt like the most painfully agonizing period of my life and I was unsure it would ever end. I cried out that I didn't know if I could do it. I begged for help. But at the end of the two contractions, she was already born.

My first words to Jake were "is she really a girl?!" I guess, deep down, I really did have worries they were wrong and we would have a baby boy and no infant boy things. I think my heart skipped a beat when Jake paused a second before saying "yes," with a giant grin. Turns out he was in shock it happened as quickly as it did and he was not mentally prepared for her to be here already, and she came out facing downward so he hadn't even seen yet. Haha.

I also asked nearly immediately after, if I could take a good nap on Subday, and a Reese's blizzard. Jake promised I could, and I'm pretty sure the whole room laughed at me. 

They placed her on my chest, and I proclaimed to the room how "wretched" and "horrific" and "absolutely horrible" that was to go through with basically no pain medication. Jake told me over and over how great and amazing and wonderful I did, and how awesome it was that it was so fast. I just couldn't believe how much it hurt, and how I actually did it. 

I held her to my chest for a while. I don't know exactly how long, as she cried a minute, and then just looked at me. Jake and I both just gazed at her, still somewhat in disbelief that we had a daughter. We greeted her, kissed her, told her she was beautiful. I told her that some day, she would understand how much I went through to bring her into our family and just how hard that process is. We laughed. 

Eventually, they took her to clean her to and weigh and measure her. She nursed a while. Daddy held her the first time and grinned with tear-brimmed eyes as she cried at him. And we fell in love.

So far, she's been a fairly happy little girl. She's a good eater and sleeps through most of the noises the boys have made while visiting. Her brothers seem to like her well enough. Spencer is excited to talk about her and point her out to people. He calls her "baby Norah" and "baby sister." Collin, with daddy's help, held her. Spencer, as expected, refused.

I'm excited for she and I to join all of our boys at home tomorrow.

Norah Rachelle is a name that carried a lot of significance. Nora is a name on my mom's side of the family, through her mother, who was one of my best friends, that has been used somewhat frequently in multiple generations as a middle name. We added an H to the end as a way to honor one of my very best friends and beloved cousin, Tarah, who has an H. Rachelle, pronounced a bit like Ray-She'll, is a name we chose to combine the names of the two women friends that have been like sisters to me for the longest periods of time in my life, Michelle and Desirae. I do not know if either will ever have a daughter, but I love being able to honor our friendships this way.

Thank you to everyone for all of the well-wishes, thoughts, visits, and prayers!  We are open to visitors at home as well!