We Are Moms Hear Us Roar

Wow, it's been a while. I have been really busy with writing corporate blogs and magazine articles so I am using that as my excuse. I suppose I could update this blog every now and then but, honestly, all of my efforts are geared towards promoting corporate clients. It isn't that I don't have a lot on my mind. It isn't that my life isn't full to the brink of overflowing. I just don't have time. I've started writing in a journal. Not everyday lest you think I am on top of things. But there is something comforting about the written, not typed, word. Writing things down with a pen on paper is superbly cathartic. 

I know I just posted a blog. But you should know that picture was taken months ago and I just now clicked post.

I have finished all of my work duties for the week so I decided to take an adventure over here and write something that doesn't require accuracy or forethought. You see, this blog is my refuge. I highly doubt many folks actually read this and that is okay by me. I swear.

Maddox...sigh

Patton...Baby Blue Jay

When did I become a mom? When did I become responsible for two of the most delightful people on the earth? When did my heart become so full? I often ponder this thought throughout the day. It is almost inconceivable to me that I am now responsible for the lives of two little ones. Sometimes it hurts so much that I don't know what to do. 

Children are gifts. They are miracles from above. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

If you stay at home. If you work outside the home. No matter. You are mom and that matters. I hate the "mommy wars." Seriously, shut it down. Stop. Quit judging. The majority of us are simply trying to do the best we can and divisiveness does nothing but set up a tug-of-war that no one will win.

So stop.

Quit judging.

We all love our children do we not? And isn't that the most important thing?

We are women. We have desires apart from our kids. That doesn't change after childbirth. I know I do and I have fought so hard to suppress them that I ended up wandering in a desert of my own design. Call me crazy but I think our kids need to be witness to our passions whatever they may be. As a mother of boys, I want them to know that strong intelligent women aren't rare. They are real. They are just around the corner. They are desirable. These women can be found in a variety of contexts from academia to retail. 

Maddox, Patton, and my love Michael are my life. I write. I dream. I run. I ponder. I even love a great lip stain and Lancome mascara. All these things and make up the facets of my life. I am mom hear me roar. So let's put the pettiness aside for just a moment and marvel in the creation of our children. Let's acknowledge that, in parenting, varying roads can lead to the same end.

Put your swords down ladies.

Relish in your roles.

Love your children.

Love yourselves.

If you don't, who will?

Maddox and a Camera

Maddox Took This

Pardon me for the outright self-portrait.  I am not one for selfies.  But this picture was taken by my 2 1/2 year old.  He is fascinated by cameras so I let him have at it every once in a while. 

And this is what he sees.

Me.

I have spent a large portion of my life crafting a me that everyone would find acceptable. Am I nice enough? Am I kind enough?  Am I giving enough?  And I smart enough?  Am I thin enough?  Am I enough... But kids have a way of cutting to the heart of the issue.  They are primal.  They are needy.  They don't judge a book by its cover.

And this is what he sees.

When the Bottom Hasn't Fallen out

My entire life I have lived in fear.  Granted, the fear changes from time to time, but it is there nonetheless.  When I was a little girl I was afraid I had AIDS.  Yes, you read that right.  I knew, knew with every fiber of my being, that I was infected and time was short.  That fear then turned towards some sort of other blood born illness. I used to beg God to make me a cartoon character.  Let someone else draw me beautifully and tell my story.

I was 8 years old.

I used to race the school bus from my stop to my door in hopes that by doing so I could prevent calamity from befalling my family.

I was afraid of tornadoes.  It is perfectly natural to be afraid of tornadoes but not like I was.  I hid under the desk in my room with my stuffed animals imagining my demise.

I have lived my life waiting for the rug to be snatched from underneath my solid ground.  Good things didn't happen to me because if I accepted goodness surely tragedy was just around the corner.  If my cup was full it was about to be tipped.  If I loved surely I would be devastated.  So I hid.

I hide.

I was afraid of being wrong...about anything.  I lived in the consent fear of being discovered as a fraud. That one still has life for me.  Somewhere I learned that who I was didn't matter.  Who I was was not enough.  Who I was was wrong.  So I created the person I thought others needed me to be.  I never made choices.  I let other people dictate my likes, dislikes, passions, and concerns.  Little Annie Lauren faded away.  She was tired.  She was sad.  She was lonely.  So she turned inward and retreated.  And now she is clawing her way out.

Big Annie Lauren is now trying to figure out who she is and who she was.  She's trying to figure out who she was created to be.  And it sucks.  It is hard.  I takes work. Sometimes I want to fight for me.  Sometimes I don't.

Back to the fear of dying.

After everything that happened with Baby Blue Jay I thought I was fine.  Then I realized I wasn't.  We go to doctors a lot now.  He is fine but there are lots of follow-ups.  Neurologists.  Audiologists.  ENTs. And every time I take him to a doctor my own fears come crashing down on me.  I can keep it together long enough not to outwardly display the fear to my kids.  I absolutely do not want to pass this on to them.  They shouldn't be afraid of the doctor.  I shouldn't be afraid.  But I am.  Because when you go to the doctor something could be wrong.  That something could hurt.  That something could take your life. So while I try to reassure my boys that doctors are good I avoid them like the plague.

Until this week.

I finally went to get a physical and blood work because I am an adult and adults go to the doctor.  I was terrified.  But I am fine.  In excellent health actually.  So the bottom hasn't fallen out.

And where does that leave me?  I am living.  I am thriving.  I am not dying...who would have known?When you live with persistent fear it rules you.  It wakes you up at night.  It winds it's way into your lovely day.  It kills your spirit and steals your joy.  It is also an excuse to not fully live.  I don't have to be afraid so now I have a choice.  Oh that word:  choice.  I get to choose if fear will continue to rule me or trust.  Sure I still need to go to the dermatologist but, hey, just scrape off any of my crusty moles and send me on my way with wrinkle cream.  Trust that my Jesus isn't out to get me.  Trust that He wants good things for my life..and I cannot control whether or not he bestows those gifts upon me.

I am not sure why I am writing this.  Processing probably.  But maybe some of you struggle with fear. Fear that rules you.  Fear that robs your joy.  Fear that steals fullness from you.  My earnest prayer is that you will be free.  It is my prayer for myself.

As always friends, you are not alone.  The beautiful thing about humanity is that we have each other.  I have lived on my solitary island too long.  I know the effects of a lonely life.  They are harsh.  But now I have two humans with whom I have been entrusted and their wholeness falls on me.  36 years later I am finally learning that I matter.  And if my children are to grow up believing that about themselves I will be a huge factor in them knowing that.  So let us not life solitary lives.  Let us revel in one another.  No matter our differences we do, in fact, matter.  Soldiers of life let us march side by side and embrace the goodness that has been bestowed upon us.

Slivers to Shattered

Thank you.  Thank each and everyone of you who reached out, called out on our behalf, clung to us and held us close.  Near and far we have felt loved beyond measure above and beyond our capacity to express or return.  Days are brighter.  Sun light has returned.  Baby Blue Jay is thriving.  The nest he has built in our hearts is one of eternal gratefulness and praise.

Patton says, "What's up kids?"

But I am broken.

From slivers of grief to a shattered soul, the cathartic cry I lust for has not come rather the tight rope across the sky has grown higher and balancing act has fallen away.

I know myself.  I knew this fear was coming.  I was afraid of it.  I avoided it.  I cannot any longer.  So here I am broken and undone.  I still, and will always, trust in my Heavenly Father but the day to day has become so much harder.  He has a fever.  I cry.  He throws up, like all babies do and for no reason whatsoever, then laughs about it.  And I pull over and weep.

Because I am so terribly afraid of seeing Blue Jay ice cold again.

This all came crashing down last week when his angel mat, a wonderful invention that monitors the slightest movement in a crib, went off on a false alarm telling us that our baby was not breathing.  I ran in his room and threw him over my shoulder having flashbacks of his lifeless body.  He was sound asleep.  He was not dead.

And I melted to the floor again.  The kitchen tiles became my hell.  I do not know how much longer I will live with the persistent fear and visions of what was on that fateful nite and what could have been.  I wish I could tell you a timeline a smooth progression from grief to peace but I cannot.  I wish I could tell myself that as well.  Alas, I must learn to live in the present whatever that may contain.

But there is hope.  He is here.  He is alive.  He is still the miracle he was.  I realize my words tend towards melodrama, I am an actor after all, but there is no way to tell this story without it.  I have found that writing has provided solace again.  So here I am.  Telling the story of what is while living with the grief of what could have been.  For those of you experiencing loss of whatever kind, cling to the sunshine.  There may only be cracks in the sky but a sliver of light is still there.  You may be shattered like me but one day we will be whole.  You are not alone.  So cry my friends.  Weep with joy and pain simultaneously because we are human.  We are complex.  We need and we shy away.  And, no matter how much we think otherwise, we need one another.

Waiting to Break

Life these days is a precarious balance between bewilderment and bliss.  The past few days have been a balancing act on a tight rope across the sky.  I find myself teetering on the edge in the most unlikely moments:  washing the dishes, dispensing vitamins, changing diapers.  Nothing is the same and everything is the same.  It isn't but it isn't.  All the routine stuff of my day is not so routine anymore.  There is a deeper appreciation for a screaming baby and a little boy who still hates to sit and eat at the same time.  But there is a profound sadness at what could have been.

And I have yet to break.  I am waiting expectantly for it though.  I want that moment of despair to come so that I no longer dread it.  I need the catharsis that only a soul wrenching cry can give.  And I am waiting for it.

Here's why.

On February 19th, 2014 my baby boy died.  At 12:56 AM the bedroom door to our room flew open, the light was thrown on, and I was awoken to the cry of my husband saying, "He's not breathing.  Oh God he's not breathing."  I remember looking at the clock.  I remember throwing back the covers.  I remember starting CPR while he called 911.  I remember my precious blue jay being ice cold and the color of gray skies.  I remember pushing on his chest and blowing air into his mouth.  I remember blood coming out of his nose and breast milk foaming at his mouth.  I remember desperation and nothingness. And I remember going outside to wait for emergency services to arrive.  It gets foggy after that.  The next thing I can recall is holding Michael outside of the ambulance preparing him for the inevitable:  our boy wasn't going to live.  In those moments I just knew he was gone and we had to start accepting that.  While paramedics, firemen, and police men and women did their best to revive him we stood by helplessly waiting for someone to tell us it was all just a dream.  This wasn't happening.  But they never did.  It was the most active silence I have ever experienced.  The work of saving a life was happening right behind us and no one was saying a word.

That night I learned that I excel in the crisis.  Irony at it's best.  Ask anyone who really knows me and they can attest to the fact that I lose it in the everyday.  But for some reason I can hold it together when there seems to be no hope.  And that is what happened.  Michael rode with the ambulance and I waited for a neighbor to come and keep watch over a sleeping Maddox before I left with an officer.

Nothing can prepare you for something like this.  After the ambulance headed out, I was left alone with two police officers telling me hard decisions were on the horizon.  I heard them talk but I didn't comprehend.  And then the fire chief came. When he walked through the door I instantly recognized him from the cross fit gym.  And I melted.  I melted to the floor and he melted with me.  In that moment I needed to be known by someone and although our connection existed inside a hot and sweaty gym where I worked my body it was enough.  I felt a crack in my soul.  His name is Paco and he was an angel that early morning.

Somehow I got to the hospital.  A police officer drove me.  We talked about country music and nothing at all.  I remember thinking to myself, "am I acting appropriately?"  I have seen far too many crime dramas where the perpetrators gave themselves away by acting inappropriately and I wondered if I was one of them.  The thing is I had all sorts of thoughts that night, random thoughts.  Being a few weeks removed now, I think I was unconsciously deflecting.  I couldn't deal with what was happening and was reaching for any sort of normal I could find.  None of it felt real.  My mouth was dry.  I wanted to go back to sleep because surely when I woke up this wasn't happening.  Except it was.  There is no prescription for grief.  There is no protocol.  I learned that firsthand.

When I got to the hospital I remember seeing a couple of familiar faces in the nursing staff.  I saw the doctor.  I couldn't look at my baby.  People were stern, focused.  One cop and some paramedics stayed.  A surreal quiet surrounded our space.  We were loved by those around us.  And I folded.  I folded over and stayed there.  In those moments, I held Michael who was needlessly carrying the burden of our pain.  He blamed himself.  I wanted to protect him from those destructive thoughts.  There was no sense to any of these.  There was no blame to be assigned to anyone.  And we waited.

I remember our Pastor and his wife being there but I cannot tell you when they arrived.  I remember standing with them and Michael.  I remember squatting in the hall.  I remember calling my parents and having terrible reception.  I remember being driven home not knowing what was happening next.  Now I know that baby P had been revived but coded again.  Somehow they brought him back again.  The flight crew from FL Hospital for Children arrived at our local hospital after a failed attempt from our flight crew to take him from Melbourne.  Michael left to go to Orlando and I stayed behind to await my mom's arrival.  She came and took the reigns assuring Maddox, our oldest, would have as close to normal a day as possible.  I left with two dear friends who dropped everything to be with me and take me to Orlando.

And I waited some more.  I knew that Patton had survived the flight but had no clue what I was walking into.   The next few days were a blur of tests.  We still had no idea why he quit breathing.  Nothing in the previous days hinted at any illness.  First the CT scan of his brain came back clean indicating no damage.  Check.  Then the EKG of his heart came back clean.  Check.  Initial results were promising but the doctors, without saying it outright, were waiting on something to indicate damage.  After all, no one can go as long as Baby P did without oxygen and survive with no residual damage...except he did.  Meningitis was the culprit.  The prevailing theory is that his little head hurt so much that he simply quit breathing to avoid the pain.  He fought the illness in the safest place possible.

Baby P is fine.

I cannot explain it.  I have no words.  I do not understand.  He is a miracle.

I also cannot explain why I never asked "Why?"  I cannot explain the supernatural peace I had.  Please do not misunderstand, I was terrified.  I was confused.  I wanted to believe none of this was happening.  But in the midst of it all what I felt more than anything was Peace.  A peace which transcends all understanding.

We spend 10 days in thee PICU.  Baby P came home last Sunday.

And now he is cutting teeth.

He is alive.

He is a miracle.

There is so much more to the story.