Another Letter to My Son

July 10, 2013

Dear Jack,

Lately it seems all we do is fight.  You have become a master at pushing my buttons.  I try to stay calm, but you push and you push and you push, and often I cave to the frustration.  I yell at you.  I scold you.  I punish you.  Sometimes I resort to spanking you.  I refuse to read your bedtime stories or I deny you a TV show.  I threaten to cancel a play date, and I've even made up fun plans we weren't actually going to do just so I could take them away.  And while you sit in time out and cry on the stairs or scream at the top of your lungs from your room, my heart is breaking, and I'm screaming on the inside too.

I love to read you stories at bedtime.  My favorite part is when you have memorized a book so well that you read it to me using the same voices or intonation that Daddy or I have used when reading it to you.  I love that you want to read lots of stories, and even though it can take forever, I find myself enjoying that time with you so much that I keep giving into your requests for just one more...

I hate to take that away from you...but even worse, I hate to take that away from me.

I really understand the whole "this hurts me more than it hurts you" concept of parenting.  We can be having the loveliest day together, and then like a switch was flipped, you turn into a little monster.  I'm not even exaggerating.  One time you got mad at me for refusing to buy you a HUGE container of gummy bears at the grocery store, even though I told you we had some already that you could have when we got home, so you threw the container into the cart so hard that it broke and the gummy bears went flying everywhere.  In the past year going to Target has been like playing Russian Roulette with our day b/c if you don't leave with a toy, there is a likely chance you will fly off the handle and have a complete and total meltdown; therefore, we try to avoid taking you there at all costs.  And then just the other night you punched me in the stomach b/c I said we were not going to watch one of your shows during dinner.  I sent you to bed without dinner, which turned into about 4 hours of war.  That was a tough night for all of us.  Sometimes when you behave so poorly, Mommy and Daddy have a hard time interacting well with each other b/c we are both so frazzled, and so we end up arguing too.  Of course all of your blood curdling screams kept your poor little sister awake, and we all know her cry is the WORST...add it all up and The McQ Zoo was not the fun, happy family we like to think we are most of the time.

I feel very guilty about going back to work.  I am a hard-working, dedicated employee too, so even though I wish I didn't have to work, I do a very good job and I'm not a slacker.  That part of who I am just intensifies my guilt b/c I am often torn between something I need to get done for work and something I'd rather do with you.  Often work wins b/c it pays the bills.  Then I feel bad b/c I parked you in front of the TV for too long, or I let you have fruities for breakfast, or I didn't make you brush your teeth...all so I could take advantage of a few minutes to finish something up or send an email or make an important phone call.

And while I took advantage of those few minutes, you took advantage of me.  You whined for 2 more packs of fruities and I caved so you would stop whining.  You asked for 2 more shows, and I caved b/c I needed a bit more time.  Then when I finally get up from my computer, I find you have mixed your fruities into your apple juice and purposely poured half of it onto the floor...or some similar sort of "Mommy, look what I did" act.  So now instead of being free to play with you, I have to clean up the mess and decide on a consequence, which sucks even more b/c ultimately I know it is my fault that it happened in the first place since I gave you the opportunity by not watching you closely enough while I worked.

I worry that I am failing you.  I worry that our fighting will drive a wedge between us too deep from which to recover, and sometimes I am afraid that you won't love me as much as you love Daddy or GRandi or Grandma b/c I so often have to "teach you a lesson."  I cry sometimes, mostly at night in bed, thinking about how different our year with you as a 3-year old has been from our year when you were just 2.  Suddenly you are fresh, talking back and having an attitude, sassing me, and again, pushing my buttons over and over.  Your tantrums are spontaneously ignited with no rhyme or reason other than the basic you don't get your way accelerant.  No longer are you my sweet little baby, but rather you have become a feisty, testy little boy.

But your heart is still gold, and I know that.  I know who you REALLY are, Jack.  I know logically that you will always love me no matter how much we fight, but I thought I had at least until you were a teenager to feel this much heartache in our relationship.  And I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU NO MATTER WHAT!  If you don't notice anything else in this letter, read and comprehend that, my son.  None of these fights make me love you less.  And although I yearn for the sweet little baby boy who would never even think to hit me, I wouldn't turn back time to change the amazing little big boy you have become.  These are the growing pains of parenting.

Honey, one of the hardest parts of being a mom is the constant battle between wanting to make you happy and wanting to keep you safe and healthy.  I can't make you happy all the time.  You just can't always have your way.  Sometimes I have to make decisions that you don't like.  I have to protect you, and that extends beyond just holding your hand in the parking lot, although that is one of my biggest rules.  It means I have to feed you good food, make sure you get enough rest, show you how to behave in social situations, how to be respectful and kind.  I have to educate you and ultimately raise you to be a grown up, a man, a contributing member of society, and I have to teach you about God.  A lot of this stuff is easy for me b/c I already am a grown up, and I know logically what to do, but then again, so much of it is harder than I ever imagined, and some of it, like God, I don't really know how to explain.  I want you to appreciate everything I do for you, but I know you are too young to really understand what that means.  I know it, but it doesn't make these trying times hurt any less.

And then I am torn again when I hear a tragic story about a family who has a sick child, or worse, a family who is mourning the loss of their child, and all I want to do is snuggle up to you in your bed, kiss you a million times, take you for ice cream every day, buy you every single toy you ask for, give in to whatever your little heart desires b/c I should be grateful that I am lucky enough to have the opportunity to do so if I want to b/c you are here and you are healthy.  I think back to when you were in the hospital for that surgery you never should have had; that was a horrific experience for me to see you in so much pain, but you were so brave, and I know I was your hero then.  Am I still your hero now?  I hope so...

You are almost 4 now.  The time is flying by and I cannot stop it.  You keep growing and learning and getting bigger and smarter, and I know a lot of that is just natural and out of my control, but so much of it is how Daddy and I parent you.  When you behave in ways we don't like it can be a hard lesson on us b/c it is often a reflection of ourselves.  Sometimes it hurts to accept responsibility for your behavior; I hate when I realize something you have done wrong is my own fault.  But then sometimes I feel defeated at the end of the day when I know I did everything I could do and yet you still behaved terribly.  It is a true challenge just to have faith in myself as a parent, and even though I do believe overall I'm doing a pretty good job raising you,  there are definitely days I doubt myself.

Jack, I am so incredibly proud of you.  Not a moment goes by that I am not totally and completely in love with you and thrilled to be your Mommy.  I feel sad that so much of our recent time together has been spent in conflict.  Our battles are so unnecessary, or maybe they are exactly the opposite, and totally necessary to help us both grow to be better people.  I honestly don't know.  I know that I pray God will guide us through these challenges and bring us out on the other side, both of us stronger and our bond deeper b/c we got through it...but then again, I am not naive to the fact that with each new phase of life comes a new something to get through.

One thing I can tell you without a doubt is that you are extraordinary.  You are a dynamite stick of energy and you already encompass the phrase "go big or go home" in all that you do!  You never give up, and even the magnitude of your tantrums impresses me b/c I see your perseverance.  I see it in how you taught yourself to swim again and how you learned to ride your bike.  I see it in your love of sports and in your karate!  You are brave and tough, but your greatest strength is your heart.  Despite our spats, I know that a kind-spirited, loving, bright and sensitive soul lives inside of you, and even on your worst behavior days, I can see the light in your eyes and know you.

And Jack, I already forgive you for whatever is to come.  And I hope one day, you will forgive me too.

You are my favorite boy in the whole world.  I love you a million 250 80 zillion 3 hundred 'o six...and then some.

Love, Mommy

Glass Half-Full

With our first breath of living, we are dying. Or maybe it is from the moment of conception; I don't know for sure. I just know that the journey of Life ultimately leads us to Death. For most, it is a slow process, and there is enough time between the beginning and the end so that our everyday thoughts are not consumed by its morbidity. But with each passing day we are living, we are one day closer to dying.  Glass half-full or half-empty?

 

I'm not sure if Death comes calling or if we arrive to it, but somewhere along the path of living, dying is an inevitable road block, not only taking its victim, but also disrupting the flow of what may have been smooth sailing for those who loved, knew, or maybe just knew of that victim. These days I find myself struggling with Death; I'm haunted by its realness. I'm saddened by its presence, as it fogs the clear vision of joy that truly IS my Life, as my glass overfloweth! I can't seem to shake the feelings of worry and guilt and confusion that are racing through my mind day-in and day-out, and as a parent, I grow more fearful of the possibility of losing my children at God's will, finding it hard to trust in Him to keep us safe and protected and healthy. Why me? Why us? Why not me? Why not us? How does He pick and choose? What rock can I hide us under so that we may not be found by Death?

 

But of course, I don't really look for hiding places along Life's journey. I'm not sealing my kids in a bubble so that they remain untouched by all that could possibly hurt them. I'm not peeking over my shoulder for anticipated evil or even just rotten luck. Instead I wake to each new day with a full and thankful heart because I believe in miracles, and even though Death is lurking, Life is happening - right here, right now. And if Death is going to come anyway, I want to experience Life to its fullest, most joyful extent. Logically, or maybe illogically, I know that is what I'm supposed to do. I know it deeply and honestly. I know it faithfully.

 

But recently Death has made itself known to me, reminding me of its authority, and beating into me my lack of control over it. I'm not depressed. I'm not ill or insane (although that may be debatable!). I'm just affected.

 

I normally take a glass half-full approach. I am usually optimistic, checking the flip side and seeing the silver lining wherever it may be. As I write this piece, however, I'm finding no resolution to my confusion about Death. I remain ambivalent, for while I fear dying, I love living, yet ultimately, they are one and the same.

 

I don't know what is on the other side, but I imagine it is a beautiful place filled with angels and soft voices, like dreamland, that place between being awake and asleep, where you only partially know what is happening, but it feels so good to keep your eyes closed. I like to think that our most confident, beautiful self is the self that lives there, despite the self we are when we go. I believe there is no pain, no suffering, and that once we submit to being there, we don't even try to go back. I tell myself we really will be "in a better place," just as we insensitively, but with the best of intentions, tell those who are mourning of the ones they have lost.

 

But I'm still not ready to go there...or to say goodbye to the ones I know who have already gone there...and most definitely, I am not ready to think that my babies or my husband could possibly EVER go there.

 

My heart is aching for the loss of someone I hardly knew, but whose random, kind words touched me so deeply that I was affected.  I despise that she has met Death so early, so young, so unfinished. She was full of joy for what her future held: loving and raising a beautiful child and watching him grow into a man, and an upcoming marriage to that sweet boy's father, who loved her with all of his heart and soul. I could feel his love for her in his written words; I could see, as they gazed at each other in a picture, the light in their eyes, bright, cheerful, radiant. I could sense they were meant for each other, meant to be together forever...

 

But even "forever" on their journey through Life has been met with Death. And although Death is what is inspiring this post, I believe her Life is what affected me...her thoughtful, joyful, expression of interest in a single moment of a random day in my Life...

 

I am sad, and I grasp desperately at bits and pieces of joy that I've stockpiled in my memory to refer back to in moments of despair and uncertainty - a video of my son dancing at the zoo on a rainy day, my daughter saying "mama" for the first time, my husband laughing with me at a shared joke...

 

I didn't know she was sick. I didn't know much about her at all other than we were classmates years ago and she was a genuinely, kind-hearted person. But a simple comment she took the time to post on my facebook page in response to a picture of my baby girl laughing was enough to affect me. When I noticed a few days ago comments of prayers going out to her, I instantly joined in and blindly offered her my own, feeling connected to her by just those two sentences and that smiley face icon she’d posted on my “wall.”

 

I know Death is a part of Life. I get it, but I don't have to like it. I don't have to embrace it and act all tough about it or be ashamed if my glass half-full feels a bit closer to half-empty.  Even an optimist can take a day off.  I'm reminded that the only way to know joy is to know suffering. It is a hard lesson, the lesson of Death, but it is a Life lesson.

 

I am affected so deeply by Death that I want to soak up every detail of Life! I think of how short Life can be and how vulnerable we all are on its journey, and I don't want to waste a single breath.

 

When we first discovered our daughter's heart was beating, after being diagnosed with a "non-viable pregnancy," our doctor told us "this is what faith is." Never have I understood those words more than in that moment. I carry that faith with me every day in my full and thankful heart. Despite the suffering in the world, and regardless of our journey to Death, Life is a miracle! 

 

Just as I am affected by the tragedy of Death, I am equally affected by the miracle of Life, and that, my friends, is a glass half-full.

 

 

Sweet Dreams

(Feb 7, 2013)  Based on the volume of my son's screams during what has become his usual bedtime tantrum, it would not have surprised me to see police at my door tonight. We live in a town home community, and the walls only have so much between them to buffer noise, and had I been on the other side, I may have wondered what the heck was going on as well!  As it was, my neighbors did not call the police, and for that I am thankful.

But Jack did tell me I was going to jail.  He also shouted at the top of his lungs that I was going to time out, and then he proceeded to wrestle with me over brushing his teeth and again over washing his hands, hitting me in the face multiple times and kicking me as I tried to pick him up and place him back on his step-stool to continue our night-time routine.  I'm exhausted, and as I type this, I notice my writing also seems tired, and I doubt I can adequately describe the chaos that just was putting my child to bed.

Two years ago, I wrote this, a piece dedicated to my beautiful boy, documenting his spirit and spunk as well as boasting about the love and kindness in the heart of my then 18 month old.  I explained that his alter-ego, Destructo Dan, is how we adoringly referred to him when he was feisty and mischievous, and that out of that spark within him bore the nickname, Jack-Bo, which we still call him today.

Jack-Bo is still loving and kind-hearted.  He has a sweet and thoughtful spirit.  His overall personality is still very much go-with-the-flow and laid-back.  He tends not to get worked up over things as much as some of his peers, and sometimes when he does, he is usually quick to recover and move forward with life.  He is very brave, extremely tough; he loves to "tackle with Daddy" (and also unsuspecting friends!).  He is tall, trim and strong.  He truly IS physically advanced, riding a bike without training wheels this young and hitting pitched balls with a real metal bat.  He also loves to play basketball and dribbles quite well, and football is another sport in which he shows some natural talent, often effortlessly throwing spirals.  This athleticism he gets from his father, certainly not from me.

From me he got a steel trap mind, a memory that doesn't forget.  He got my eyes, which are officially green now, and of course he still has my chin.  We have the same hair color and texture, the same mouth shape and his baby teeth look just like mine did.   In fact, he is basically a clone of me at age 5...but of course he is only 3.  It never ceases to amaze me how mature he can be for his age, referring to both his appearance and his personality (at non-tantrum-throwing times).

Fast forward to a few days later, and here I am writing about how once again, the tantrum at bedtime was excruciating.  Tonight was another "battle over brushing," and thank goodness he had a bath so I got to skip the hand washing!  The age of 3 is torture.  We did not experience the "Terrible Two's" by any means.  I think that when 2-year olds are frustrated, but unable to communicate well using verbal language, tantrums are how they act out, thus the whole "Terrible Two's" concept.  But Jack communicated beautifully at age 2.  We always understood him, and we were very close, connected by such a deep bond, and he just didn't seem to get frustrated much, but rather he continued to be our easy-to-please little Jack-Bo.  Other than some regular tears over going to pre-school, I can honestly say the kid never cried.  

Now, on the other hand, not only is he a great communicator, but he is also a smart-ass!  Yes, I said it!  He is F-R-E-S-H.  He is basically a manipulative genius who can smooth-talk us into almost anything just by utilizing his natural charm.  Oh, he is sweet.  He is precious.  He has eyes so big you can see deep into his soul.  He is sincere and kind-hearted, and when he swears he won't cry at bedtime or promises he won't hit you again, you believe him.  Because who wouldn't believe that sweet little, innocent angel-faced boy?

But how quickly he forgets those promises when the time finally comes to execute them, and we are reminded instantly that he is still just a normal tantrum-throwing toddler.  Of course even his tantrums are exceptional in our eyes!  Exceptionally awful, I mean.

Enter Miss Lander.  Our darling "Baby Girl" has brought a new dynamic into our crazy zoo.  She giggles when her big brother makes faces at her or kisses her.  She adores him, and he reciprocates 100%.  They are buddies, and it is beautiful and heart-warming to watch as their relationship grows, sweet siblings.  Lander is much more dramatic than Jack ever was as an infant.  He rarely cried.  She goes from zero to pissed in about 3 seconds.  He never seemed to care when he ate, but he was always a good eater when it was finally time, sometimes settling down for a good half-hour to nurse.  Lander is more demanding, and when she wants it, she lets me know she wants, and it has to be RIGHT THEN.  There is no cushion, no gray area, no room for error with her.  Either Mommy delivers, or she freaks out.  

Then of course there is sleeping.  Jack has always been what we call the "Ultimate Sleep-Fighting Champion," consistently battling over bedtime and naturally a night-owl like his Mama.  But Miss Lander is a sweet dream where bedtime is concerned.  Naps well too!  I cannot even express how relieved I am that she is so different from Jack in this way.  God knew what I could handle...

Lander is also just the world's happiest baby.  (Except for when she's not!)  She smiles infectiously, and she bats her arms up and down and kicks her little feet excitedly when she is pleased with attention.  She flirts with everyone, and all of our friends and family comment on how sweet and happy she is.  She is this way 95% of the time.  The other 5% she is completely freaking out as I mentioned above.  I'm not sure what this means for the teenage years, but I am up for the challenge!  ;-)

And as challenging as things may be with my Drama Queen and USF Champ, I wouldn't change them for the world.  My kids are awesome.  And I'm doing the best I can with them, loving every minute of it, and dreading how quickly the time flies by as they grow and change daily.  Jack is no longer a baby and hardly a toddler, but rather a little boy, my "big kid" now, and it both pains and excites me as we enter the next stage with him.  Lander is 6 months, and it feels like just yesterday I was still waiting for her to be born (probably b/c she was 16 days late!), and yet now she is sitting up and eating solids and (OMG) she has two teeth!  

Last night I strapped Lander onto my back and took a walk around the neighborhood with Jack riding in his Power Wheels truck.  We went to get the mail.  During our adventure, we stopped for a few make-believe trains, and Jack had to get out to check under the hood at least once.  Lander babbled and kicked her feet and grabbed at my hair as she happily tagged along, and when we returned home the fun continued as we played basketball in our driveway.  It was a beautiful night, mild temperature, pretty skies.  We were out there, just the 3 of us, for a solid 2 hours, waiting for Daddy to get home, and enjoying a leisurely Friday.  "This is a fun day," Jack remarked to me.  Yes, it was a fun day.  One I'll not forget.  Ever.

I'm not sure what the cops would find if they were called during one of Jack's bedtime tantrums.  Maybe they would arrive to see him finally giving in and defeated, standing with his mouth open as I brush his teeth with the blue Sponge Bob toothbrush, his face still flush and his tears still fresh.  Or maybe they would be in time to witness his wild outbursts and manic behavior, kicking and screaming and fighting with all his might.  Or, better yet, perhaps it would take them longer than the 5 minutes all of that lasts and they'd find us in bed, reading stories and cuddling, the tantrum well behind us, at least until the next night.  No matter what, they'd find us loving our boy...

And they'd find Baby Girl sound asleep in her comfy crib, sucking her thumb, and snuggling with her stuffed animals and Pink Earth Bunnie, her bottom up in the air with her legs tucked underneath.  And they'd hear the sweetest little breathing sounds and sighs...

I'm all over the place in this post.  Maybe it is b/c I am emotional, maybe just tired.  I know it is a bit mixed up, but I think my overall point is the same as always: to record some memories and reflect on how wonderful my life really is.  So often I begin a piece emphatically with a problem or challenge only to talk myself down from the ledge throughout its composition.  Once again, the writing proves to calm me, providing my own personal therapy and helping to remind me of the important things in life.  Thanks for being a part of this journey.  Thanks for reading...

~The Zookeeper

 

A Scene to Ponder

If she hadn't been asking for help, for money, I probably would not have noticed her.  She was a young black woman with an average frame dressed in jeans and a dark shirt with a vest-type jacket over it.  Her clothes were clean from where I stood and not distracting or noticeably worn.  She looked healthy, and she had her hair pulled back appropriately for a humid day.  There was nothing striking about her appearance, and had she been walking down the street pushing her stroller, she would have looked no different than any other mother in the crowd.

But she was not walking down the street.  Instead she was positioned on the sidewalk next to a group of University of Georgia buses   She was sitting IN the stroller, her baby cradled in her arms, and she was mumbling to the people making their way into the Atlanta Falcons football game.  "Don't you people see me?  Help me out.  See my baby? My baby needs some food.  Come on, help me out."  There was no real sense of urgency or dire need expressed in her words.  In a way it was more like she believed the people owed it to her to help her out, and she was just going through the motions of asking.

The baby could have been anywhere from a few weeks to a few months old, a boy from what I could tell based on the blue sweater-type garment he was wearing.  He had no pants, but he did have on a diaper.  It was not too hot or cold outside; it was warm with a cool breeze, so there was nothing significantly unusual about the way he was dressed, and if he had been in the stroller with his mother pushing him along, I'd have thought nothing of it.

But the infant was not being strolled along on this beautiful fall day.  Instead he was being exploited on the side of the road, resting in the arms of a woman who was begging for help from a crowd who would most definitely be in that location on that day with money in their pockets for spending inside the Georgia Dome.  Call me harsh.  Call me insensitive.  I may be neither or both of those things.  But most definitely, I am disturbed.

As we passed her, my husband and I, our 3-year old in tow and our 2-month old snugly wrapped onto my chest, I couldn't help but stare.  The woman's eyes did not meet with mine, and she made eye contact with no one really.  In that brief moment nobody approached her with money or even acknowledged she was there.  I asked my husband if he saw her, and he said yes, but when I mentioned the baby and the stroller he said those details did not register with him.  I made a few comments about how uncomfortable this scene had made me, but then we continued on our way to the game and I forgot all about it...until we were walking back...over 3 hours later...and the woman and her child were STILL there.  

This time she was standing next to the stroller and in the process of adjusting her baby in her arms when we walked by, still rambling the same requests for help, and I saw 2 men with conflicting opinions approaching her.  One said, "gimme a ten," and the other disputed the amount.  "Ten bucks, no way man!" but they still walked toward her.  

This time I was even more disturbed, for it had been over THREE hours and she was still there begging with her child.  I instantly had so many thoughts running through my mind, ideas of where she may have come from and how she could have gotten to this point in her life.  I wondered if she was a drug-user or if she was homeless, and I questioned how she could even have a child.  I was instantly so grateful for my own circumstances, which even at their lowest have always been better than hers, and I was saddened to think her baby would grow up this way, if he survived at all.  Part of me felt like she didn't deserve that baby, but then again, I didn't know her or what she had been through.  All I knew is the image of a woman on the side of the road, looking capable, healthy and of sound mind, using her baby to guilt people into helping her, was disturbing.  

About 20 feet down the street was an old black man in a tattered wheelchair...with no legs...also begging for spare change.  This scene bothered me much less.  With no legs he could not walk, likely could not work, and he was old and probably very much alone.  In my mind, he was a more acceptable pan-handler than the young mother who should have been seeking free childcare and job counseling at a shelter.  Okay, so maybe that is a bit harsh, but for some reason, I have less sympathy for her than for the man with no legs.  

All I care about is that baby.  That poor, innocent baby...already a victim of circumstance...

I don't know with any certainty my own opinions on homelessness or poverty.  I know I get uncomfortable at a stop light where unfortunate souls are peddling with "Will work for food" signs.  I feel nervous and try not to make eye-contact while anxiously wishing the light to quickly turn green.  I justify my lack of response by telling myself it could be dangerous to acknowledge them, and suddenly they are somehow a threat to me, and I have dehumanized them in my mind, reducing them to criminals as opposed to just people asking for help.

I remember when I was a kid, my mom and I saw a "homeless-looking" man at McDonald's once.  We lived in the suburbs, so it was not exactly a bad part of town, and it seemed odd this man was there.  He was an old white man with a long grey beard, and he looked pretty tired and worn out.  I don't recall the season, but I know my mom and I sat outside, so it had to have been a nice time of year; the man was wrinkly and dark-skinned from sun exposure.  While we ate we watched him inside sitting in a booth, and we talked about what we thought his circumstances might be. He was staring at a job application, and we assumed he must have been unable to read.  As we were leaving, my mother decided to ask him if he needed help with the application.  He politely answered her saying no mam, that he knew how to read and write but that he was stumped b/c the application required an address and he didn't have one to put down.  My mother talked with him a bit and we learned that he was a war vet who's only family was an estranged daughter.  I vaguely remember him saying something about how quickly he went from everything was fine to having nothing.  He spoke properly and kindly, and he seemed educated and totally sane.  I remember feeling so sorry for him and so confused.  My mother told him of a halfway house and suggested he go there and use that address and phone number for his job applications.  The man seemed genuinely grateful for her advice and concern.  On our way out my mom bought another meal and left the tray sitting on the next booth over most definitely where the man could see it...

I believe in general we should help those in need.  I believe those needs are relative and some are more important than others.  I believe that people who try to help themselves deserve the help more than those who expect handouts.  I believe the world is a screwy place where lots of people have been dealt a bad hand...but some people cash out early and give up while others keep fighting until they change their circumstances, be it for themselves or for their children.  

I believe that no matter what I have been through in my own life...and it hasn't been perfect...I will never be on the side of the road with my children begging for help from strangers passing by.  Maybe that is b/c I have an amazing family to fall back on.  Maybe it is b/c I am educated enough to always have a job.  Maybe it is b/c I don't feel entitled, but rather I believe in working hard and earning the life I want to live.  

Or maybe it is b/c I am so naive to what that mother has been through in her life that led her to that moment...all 3+ hours of it...

Regardless, the disturbing scene was enough to make me ponder the sad things in life and keep me awake writing tonight.  I realize that bad things happen sometimes, but I don't understand why God has blessed me with so many gifts while others are out there struggling to extremes.  I do believe that everything happens for a reason, and maybe the reason I witnessed this was so I would dig deep down and figure out how I feel about these sorts of issues, but then I think, what was the reason for HER though to be in this position in the first place?

I got to kiss my babies goodnight and tuck them safely into their comfy beds tonight.  I read stories to my toddler first and nursed my precious baby girl.  We had come home from a fun-filled day at the zoo with friends and had a delicious dinner that my husband cooked for us after his day at a job where he works hard to provide for our family.  I woke up this morning full of joy and gratitude.  I'm going to bed blessed and thankful.  

I wonder where that baby is sleeping tonight...    

Writing Leads the Way...

As another due date comes to an end, I am once again awaiting the birth of a child who I know will come when she is ready.  That is what I want...ultimately...for her to be fully cooked and prepared to enter this world as a healthy, strong human being, my baby, my 2nd born, my sweet Lander Lee.

And as we anticipate her birth, we gear ourselves up for some new challenges, mostly related to the toddler-hood of our 1st born, my sweet Jack Patrick.  Jack-Bo, as he is well known, is a mostly easy-going, agreeable, brilliant almost 3 year-old who keeps us entertained each day with his amazing abilities, unique sense of humor and genuinely kind heart.  But as in all families, some days are better than others.  Jack is still a toddler, going through toddler changes, testing toddler boundaries and discovering toddler independence.  He is finding his own way in the world more and more each day, but his is still only a toddler sized world, his exposure limited to what we allow and what we teach him.  We are pretty honest and open with him.  We don't hover or shield him from all the evil truths in the world, but we do "toddler-size" the bigger issues in life to accommodate his level of maturity.  Of course we want him to be a nice boy, to treat others with respect and to understand there are consequences for his actions.  He is no dummy; he is learning all too well the meaning of "consequences," as lately he has been going through a hitting, scratching and kicking mommy and Daddy stage when he does not get what he wants. Mostly this behavior is related to bed/nap time or else potential treats or special outings. Still, as parents, it is our job to guide him and teach him right from wrong, and help him find acceptable ways to deal with anger or frustration.

Sometimes when Jack is having a tantrum I relate to him so closely.  It is like his acting out is a reflection of exactly what I am feeling in that same moment.  I, too, want to scream out, and sometimes I do!  He has witnessed fights between his parents; he has even witnessed multiple arguments between myself and MY parents.  He has seen that relationships can be complicated and that we are not perfect, but he has also seen that life goes on, we all recover, and the love within our family never stops flowing.  That is a truth I am proud of living...

This morning I experienced a sadness that until today I had not felt yet as a parent: that of your child so angry that he tells you he does not love you.  Regardless of what I know to be true, that he DOES love me with all his heart, my own heart shattered during our terrible exchange.  To make matters worse, my expectations for  Lander's "due date" day were completely destroyed, and part of me hoped that she would not come yet so that there would be time to move past the hurt Jack and I were both feeling.  It all started when I asked him if he wanted to go to breakfast...

"I got a great idea, Mommy, let's go to the mall!"

"That IS a great idea, Jack!"  I'd be able to walk around, maybe kick start some contractions, and we could eat lunch at his favorite place in the food court and ride the carousel again.  Then I looked at the clock on the computer: 9:45AM.  "Okay, the mall isn't open yet, so let's..."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!  I want to go RIGHT NOW!"  He lays down on the floor kicking and screaming.

"Jack we are going to go and we can have lunch there, but we have to get dressed...."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!  They ARE open!  I want to go RIGHT NOW!"  He stands up and begins slapping my bare leg.  When I catch his hand in the midst of the 3rd or 4th slap, he takes the other one and claws at my same thigh.

"Jack, this behavior is unacceptable; if you hit Mommy again you will have to have a consequence.  I said we will go to the mall and have lunch there, but we have to wait until it is open."  All through my calm lecture he is screaming and flailing about, either not understanding what I am saying in the first place or else just too far gone to reel himself back in.  He hits me again. "Okay, forget it, we're not going."  

He continues to freak out.  I tell him to go to his room to calm down.  He screams "NO!" at me again, so I scoop him up and deposit him in his room and close the door.  He screams and cries for another 15 seconds and then I hear him playing calmly.  I sit back down at the computer and decompress, my heart racing in disbelief at how such a situation even occurred. Somehow he immediately took my "the mall isn't open" statement to imply we would not go.  Either way, I cannot reward that type of behavior. I gave him several chances to HEAR what I WAS saying.  I even tried to ignore the first few slaps, realizing they were out of frustration, but in the 5 minutes that this all went down, I had to be the parent first and foremost...and sometimes that is the hardest job in the world.

Maybe 10 minutes later he came out of his room and said,

"Mama, I being a nice boy, is the mall open now?"  

I hated to answer as I did, but it was the right thing to do.

"I'm sorry Jack, the mall IS open, but we are not going.  You hit mommy and scratched me, and that behavior is unacceptable, so now we won't be going." 

Tears stream down his face as I am talking; he starts shaking and running in place and screaming again.  He presses his face against my leg and then hits me multiple times again, although with less force than before and intentionally making eye-contact as he does it, testing me. Then he throws himself onto his knees.

"I don't love you, Mama!"

I sigh.  My heart breaks.  I take a deep breath and look down at him on the floor.

"Well, I still love you."

That was the end of it.  15 minutes and my whole life changed with an experience so hurtful...but I managed to move on with the day, made other plans, picked up the pieces of my broken heart and kept on going.  And eventually, (not even another half hour from then), Jack came around to his senses and told me how much he loves me.  He hugged and kissed me and we got dressed and went out to run some errands.  He mentioned several times about going to the mall another day, and I said yes, we will try again another day.  We talked about how he hurt my feelings, and he offered to kiss my boo-boos on my leg where he hit me.  He told me his feelings were hurt too, and I said I was sorry that his feelings were hurt but that he still can't hit or scratch Mommy.  In the car we listened to his "songs" as he asked things like "Is this 'Dancin' in the Dark?'  Or Adam Levine?  Turn it up, Mommy."  He was completely unfazed by the morning while I was doing my best to keep the sadness I was feeling from surfacing.  Inside I was grieving for the loss of our perfect day together, one that would quite possibly be our last before his sister was born.  I suppose it seems over-dramatic as I sit here writing about it now, but I am 40 weeks pregnant and my emotions are on high alert...

And although our day was mostly pleasant after that, with only one time-out and a few basic reprimands, the evening brought on its own set of challenges as bedtime approached.  Daddy carried him upstairs as he hit and kicked, knocking a picture off the wall in the hallway.  We told him if he continued with this behavior he would lose his stories, and he chose to continue, so that was that.  Daddy restrained his little arms that were wildly flying at me while I brushed his teeth, and then we managed to wrangle him into this jammies, wash his face and hands and go potty one last time.  Despite his tears and pleading, the battle of bedtime came to an end with no stories read, but lots of prayers said.

Daddy took the dogs out and eventually went to bed.  I played some Words with a friend, and when my phone battery died I tried to go to sleep myself.  But as I cuddled up next to my boy, I began caressing his hair and rubbing his soft arm, patting his back and then I gave him a hundred kisses.  I just talked to him, while he was sleeping, telling him how much I love him, how proud I am of him, how Mommy and Daddy support him and want him to know we believe he can be anything he wants to be and do anything he wants to do.  I reminisced out loud about the first time I met him, the first time I touched him, BEFORE I ever saw his face, as his little head popped out of me and I felt with my own hands his thick hair swishing in the birthing pool until one last contraction confirmed his arrival into this world, and into my arms for the first time.

My whole life changed in that moment.  Jack was not the only one born, as I was born again too, as his mother, as the person I knew I was always meant to be.  My purpose was defined and concrete, even touchable, as I inspected each and every inch of his perfectly formed body, memorizing each curve and wrinkle so that I would never forget the day we were birthed together.

I don't know if it will feel the same this time.  I know lots of people worry about if they will be able to love their 2nd child as much as their first.  I do not have that concern.  I already love her just as much, and she is still safe and cozy inside of me!  And each day I love them both more and more; I cannot imagine NOT having enough love for both b/c I think with each child your heart grows, so there is always enough love.  The journey with each child may be different...the challenges greater with one over the other, the ease of one over the other as well.  I anticipate going through each stage of development with Lander and having to re-evaluate my parenting based on HER needs, HER personality, HER abilities and maturity level.  Not everything is the same all the time, not everything in life is fair.  Sometimes you have to bend in order not to break, and sometimes you have to break in order to truly heal...but the one constant is that I will always love my children with a customized love plan for each one.  I can't take the credit for the concept of a "customized love plan" for each of my children, but the person who pointed out its powerful meaning helped me to heal from some of my own personal struggles while also giving me confidence in my instincts as a mother.  So while I may not be re-born as a mother again during Lander's actual birth, I am just as certain that her mother is who I was meant to be.  I know I will inhale every bit of her being in those first moments and store those memories forever inside my heart right next to the place reserved for Jack, but in a newly grown partition just for her.

The reality that I am having another baby is setting in, and yet I am still in such disbelief that this is my life.  My wildest dreams have come true; I am married to my soul mate and I have the family I have always wanted.  Nothing else even matters.  Brett said it best in a conversation with Jack last night after a late work call.

"Daddy, who was on the phone?"  (Jack is in the bathtub.)

"One of daddy's workers."  (Daddy is standing and fiddling with things in the bathroom.)

"Work is mean.  I don't like anybody to go to work!" (Or something similar...)

"Well Daddy has to work to make money..." (Tries to explain that money is needed for food, toys, etc.)

"Money is old!  I don't like money!"  (Anything he doesn't like is deemed "old" these days.)

"Yeah, you've heard us talk about money a lot, huh?"  (Daddy sits down on the step stool by the tub, and Jack gazes up at his hero.)  "Well, money makes the world go round...but that's not what we're about.  We're about love...and family."  (The conversation continues as Daddy bathes his boy...)            

And that really IS what we're about.  The McQ Zoo is about love and family.  I thank God that we know and believe that, and I thank God again that we live by that.  In fact, it is b/c of God that we have the blessings of our family and therefore feel SO MUCH love.

When I started writing this post I was thinking about the changes we are about to experience with the birth of a new baby and all that Jack is going through...I was thinking about the Bob Dylan song "The Times They Are A-Changin'" and how some of the lyrics of that song could relate to our newest family dynamic...I Googled and listened to that song and others from that time period by similar artists while I wrote...thinking the music was inspiring me...

But as they often do, my thoughts shifted during the composition of this piece. Sometimes the writing leads the way, not the writer, despite one's efforts to create inspiration.  That is why writing is so therapeutic to me; it helps me see answers to questions I didn't even know I had, and that I may not have recognized otherwise.  Tonight I started writing b/c I was worrying about change, maybe not even realizing that I was worried, but perhaps just thinking deeply about what is to come and knowing I needed to work it out in my own mind through some good old fashioned stream of consciousness; what I (re)discovered though was that once again, the trend continues: the trend of unwavering love.

Things in The McQ Zoo are not about to change after all.  There may be some differences, but our foundation is the same solid, secure and safe place it has always been.  We have God to guide and provide for us, and we have our unwavering love.  Honestly, now we'll just have even more of it!  

And I can't wait!

P.S. Wow!  I sure do feel so much better about my whole day and what happened with Jack-Bo this morning!  Thank you in advance to anyone who reads this post and/or comments on it b/c this is an awesome reminder of just how much writing means to me and my own personal health.  I really feel like I can go to sleep now, and THAT is a HUGE deal for this insomniac!
  

Mommy Needs a Time-Out Too!

Being a mom is crazy hard.  Soul-crushing hard. Heart-breaking hard.  Throw your hands up to God and scream "WHY!" hard.  And then of course at the same time it is beyond wonderful.

Less than 3 months until his 3rd birthday, my little Jack-Bo is going through some sort of "beat up Mommy and Daddy" phase.  The tears resulting from this are not just his.  I have cried time after time privately and even some in front of him, yes, hoping to guilt him to this phase's finish line, and so far unsuccessfully.  And I have also spent full days fighting back the tears and just trying to make it through work only to go home and be confronted by the same little monster I left that morning and a literal slap in the face.  We consistently do time-out, TV restrictions, take away privileges like play dates or bike riding, and although I am ashamed to admit it, I've even spanked him a few times.  Not my finest moments, but in an effort to get his attention a quick swat on the bum was all I could think of, and so far, even that has backfired on me.

So he doesn't like to go to school.  He is 2.  Why should I send him?  Sure, he wants Dada and misses his GRandi.  So let's call them.  Of course he is just tired.  A nap should clear up this tantrum.  Yeah...NO!  I am not some pansy mama raising a wimpy little boy who can cry and whine and get his way and manipulate me into doing whatever he wants!  I am not going to be his best friend, not now, and likely not ever, or at least not until he is already grown and I'm sure he isn't on any drugs or in any gangs, and most certainly not robbing banks or shooting people.  No, I am his MOTHER.  And I am trying to teach him to be respectful and kind and non-violent!  

And some days I feel like I am failing.

When your 2-year old has a response for everything, always getting in the last word, all I can think of is how terrible I must have been for my own mother.  Throw in my super stubborn husband and at least 1 controlling grandparent gene from each side and you are looking at a quadruple dose of willfulness.  "Willful" is the nicer way of saying "brat."  I swore I'd never call my child that b/c I remember being called a brat myself as a child, and I truly hated it.  So of course, this is one of those posts that I hope he never reads, b/c I don't really think it of him...but right now he is acting like a spoiled rotten brat.  Ouch. It hurt me to write that.

And that is the other dilemma.  In all the pain of the smacks in the face and the kicks in the shins, what hurts the most is my heart.  Why is my SWEET boy (when I know that is who the REAL Jack-Bo is) acting out so physically?  Why is he screaming at the top of his lungs and thrashing on the floor and responding to every  "no" with throwing punches? THIS is not my child.  THIS is some imposter!  Some alien from Mars has clearly abducted my son and replaced him with this wild look-alike with a raging temper and insane right hook!  But I know that isn't true...and the aching in my chest only grows more and more unbearable as we continue on through this phase of toddler-hood.

I'm calling it a phase of toddler-hood b/c no way is this going to last.  At some point there will be bigger fish to fry, much more valuable things to take away, harsher groundings, less leeway.  Before I know it my 2 year old will be 12, and quite possibly taller than me.  I don't imagine he will still be swinging, b/c if he is, Dr. Phil, here we come!  Ugh, I say that now like I know what the future holds, but honestly, I could be ruining him already and not even realizing it.  I probably need therapy to talk me down from the ledge of guilt. I am very hard on myself, on so many levels, with unrealistic personal expectations. Hmmn...

Am I expecting too much of him?  Do I hold him to a standard too high for a 2-year old, even a brilliant one, to reach?  Am I stifling his creativity or holding him back from his full potential by setting limits and expressing what is unacceptable behavior?  Am I crushing his spirit and shattering his dreams by making him go to school or not letting him watch one more episode of "Curious George?"  Is brushing his teeth really that important?  I mean they are baby teeth; he'll get a whole new set...   

And see, there it comes again, the guilt, the doubt, the OMG-I-am-ruining-my-child thoughts.  Look, I run a tight ship.  It may be a messy, loud, dog-hair laden ship, but it is a take-no-crap ship too.  Still, I am human, and my tough outer shell is no match for the soft inner core of my heartstrings, which get pulled daily by the quivering lip of a toddler pot about to boil over.  Add in the hormones of being pregnant, and I am a mess these days!  Now I am starting to wonder how I ever imagined I could be a good mom to TWO children???

The logical, practical, totally rational and sane person inside of me realizes that I AM a good mom.  I know my son loves me.  I understand that his acting out may have much to do with his lack of maturity (I mean, he IS only 2!).  I get that he also feeds off of our stress (as parents), and right now our family is going through a  lot of changes.  I know he DOES miss me when I am at work, and I also believe he knows just how much I'd rather be with him, and yes, I think he has found a way to use that very fact against me in the worst possible way...b/c what mother doesn't feel torn when her child says he hits you b/c he doesn't want you to go to work.  He is angry at me.  And even though I don't want him to express anger by hitting, I don't want to punish him for his feelings, right?  It is a very tough spot.  Like I said, parenting is crazy hard.

And as I type this post at 3:30 in the morning, I am really not coming to any resolutions for the "phase" we are experiencing.  I can't really say I feel much better about it, although writing often relieves some of my stress b/c it allows me to express my thoughts clearly, but I can say I know in my heart I am doing my best as a mom, and I love my child infinitely, unconditionally, and that love grows deeper with every passing second.  I thank God that I am able to recognize that this too shall pass, and as my MIL says "small children, small problems," and even though I cried myself to sleep a few hours ago, I know the little angel who cuddled up to me in the bed and kissed my shoulder is truly an exceptional child and the greatest gift from heaven above.  

I also know that in the morning, before he remembers that he wants to be in control, he'll snuggle with me and let me hold him and hug him and kiss him and love all over him. Then he may smack me and spend the rest of the day in time out, but I'll fall back on those morning snuggles and do my best to smile from behind his time out chair and take my own time-out too.  

I don't know any bible verses to quote here, nor do I have any special words of wisdom, but I do have a slip of paper from a Chinese fortune cookie taped to my monitor at work. It reads "Patience is a Key to Joy."  I don't believe having patience means giving in, but I do think it means riding out the challenges in life all the way to the other side, b/c where ever that is, perhaps there we will find our joy.  I know Jack-Bo will get to the other side of this aggressive stage he is in right now.  And even more importantly, I know that when he does, he will know that Mommy and Daddy never stopped loving him along the way.  

I also think I need to cut myself some slack.  I need to be patient with ME.  I need to remember this is all a process, this parenting gig, and no matter how much I think I know about it, I am learning more and more every day.  And on the days when I feel like I know nothing, I need to remember my son is still young, and I have his lifetime and the rest of mine to figure it out.  And if I never really do, well, then I need to just enjoy the adventure... 

I might be a little delirious seeing as it is 4AM, so I'll end this post here with one last thought.  Tomorrow is a brand new day and a chance for me to start over.  I am going to take some deep breaths and hold no grudges against my precious boy for the heartache I experienced tonight.  My love for him is unwavering, and he gets to start over too.  Here's to hoping for a better day!    

     

From Miscarry to Miracle: A Work of God

This is what it looks like when they tell you your unborn baby is not alive. The unmarked, straight white line, which should be filled with little heartbeat blobs transforms into a never-ending needle that instantly pierces your heart which explodes in your chest, making it so you can't breathe or speak. Then, in disbelief, you strain to hear what isn't there and the needle is back, puncturing your eardrums now, and shrieking a long, beat-less scream. All you hear is the loudest nothing, which is deafening, and all you feel is the sharp sting of emptiness.

I'd had some bleeding early on in my pregnancy with Jack, so they did an ultrasound and we got to see his heartbeat, a moment that Brett and I will never forget, as we saw for the first time the life we had created together growing and living inside me.  This time around, I had some bleeding too, so I was not worried, but rather I was eager to go for that same, precautionary ultrasound.  It was the Tuesday after Thanksgiving.  I'd been feeling very sick to my stomach and tired, all normal signs of pregnancy.  We were seeing the midwife that morning.  I was excited and giddy, and we laughed a lot during the midwife appointment, joking about being confirmed pregnant by their test, even though I'd done 6 of my own.  As we fully expected everything to be fine after our initial visit with the midwife that morning, we kissed goodbye and Brett went on his way to work.  I went to the ultrasound appointment by myself.

See Baby, LLC was crowded, and I had to wait a bit, but I didn't mind.  I was missing work, which I was confident I could make up, and this was all more important anyway. Finally they called me back to a relaxing, spa-like room, with soft music and dim lights. The table was a tan suede and there was a pillow used to lift me up, as the ultrasound tech explained this was a "stirrup-free office."  I thought to myself this is a fancy place!  

She began the scan on my abdomen, and right away I had a bad feeling.  When I asked her anything all she said was sometimes this early they need to do a vaginal scan.  A few minutes later she had me go to the restroom and position myself for that one when I came back.  During the vaginal scan, my heart started to sink.  I was panicked.  She wouldn't tell me anything!  Finally I asked is there even a baby???  She said there was and showed me where on the screen.  For a moment I relaxed.  Then I just sat still and silent while she continued to freeze the screen for measurements.  She said nothing.  Then she turned the sound monitor on and all there was was a static-y silence.  I asked her again if she could tell me anything, but this time she just said, the doctor will talk to you.  She seemed sad.  I was freaking out inside.  I said, so there is a baby, but there is no heartbeat?  This time she answered.  "There is no heartbeat."

A few minutes later, she went to get Dr. Bootstaylor.  He wanted to confirm for himself whatever they weren't telling me.  He spoke calmly and soothingly and said we'd talk about things in his office.  He clearly didn't want to have this sort of conversation during a vaginal ultrasound.  I suppose that was better, if there is to be any sort of "better" in a situation like this.  When he left the room, I got dressed and then I was escorted to a seat in the hallway where I was to wait again.  I texted my mother, and I texted Brett; both responded with instant concern and some level of terror.  I didn't write much, just that there was no heartbeat and I was waiting again.  I didn't really know what that meant yet, but I did know it wasn't a good sign.

Dr. Bootstaylor is the nicest doctor I've ever met.  He showed me pictures and explained everything to me, and all I wanted was for him to be mean so I could hate him for the terrible news he was telling me.  My baby was not alive.  My baby's heart was not beating and he diagnosed this as a "non-viable pregnancy," telling me I would miscarry within 1 to 4 weeks.  I cried in his office.  I felt so alone.  I asked a lot of questions.  When?  "It must have been very recent b/c of the size."  Well, how big did it measure?  "6 weeks and 2 days."  Well that has to be wrong b/c I'm only 5 weeks and 6 days.  "Are you sure about your last menstrual cycle dates?" Yes, I was sure.  I was 100% certain I had not miscalculated.  "Do you mind if we take another look?"  

For a moment I was filled with hope.  Maybe they were wrong.  Maybe this is a mistake! He wants to look again!  We have another chance!  But, the outcome was the same.  No heartbeat.  Dr. Bootstaylor told me my options: a D&C, medicine to move it along, or waiting it out naturally.  I wanted to know what is normal, what do most people do? "Most people go home and let it sink in with their families."  He told me the midwife would get his report and call me to discuss the options in more detail.  He was so kind and genuinely compassionate.  He was so attentive and truly focused on me.  I asked him if I could come back, and he nodded and said I could.  Then he stopped, looked me straight in the eyes and said with the most direct and certain of tones, "Let me be clear.  It is ABSOLUTELY okay for you to come back."  

I left See Baby and somehow managed to make it back to my car, which was parked on the very top level of the parking deck, uncovered and in the rain.  I sat in my car and wept, the tears just flowing, and I could no longer see the rain on my windshield through the flooding in my own eyes.  I called my mother, who by this time was having her own meltdown worrying about me, and I called Brett, who had pulled over on the side of the road waiting for my call and was kicking himself for not being there with me during this tragic experience.  We decided to meet back at home.

The rest of that day is blurry.  I don't remember what I did other than try to sleep and pretend this wasn't happening.  I prayed a lot.  I cried and cried and cried.  The midwife called and talked to me for a bit.  I asked her if maybe it was just too early, but she said no.  Dr. Bootstaylor is a perinatologist, not just some random OB.  He operates on the unborn!  He would not diagnose something like this lightly.  The midwife suggested that I avoid the D&C and try to wait it out naturally.

My emotions were unstoppable.  They just poured out like open floodgates.  I couldn't control them!  I was terrified of what was going to happen to my body.  I was freaking out about what I was going to tell my work. I was scared of how long it would take and if would hurt.  I was haunted by the idea that I was carrying a dead baby!  I was heartbroken and grieving for the loss of a child I already loved.  I was shocked and still in disbelief, doubting what was supposed to be this determined truth.  I was angry at God!  I was thinking the most horrific things could have caused this, like a fight with Brett, or me yelling at Jack or Jack kicking me in the stomach.  I was sad to explain to Jack that there wasn't a baby in my belly.  I was actually embarrassed that I had told some people already, feeling like I'd jinxed things.  I felt like a failure, like my own body was failing me.  I was so hungry and thought my eating must be a side effect of the stress.  I felt sick and believed it was just part of the devastation.  I know many women who have lost an unborn baby, but until now, all I could ever offer as comfort was "I can't imagine what you must be feeling."  Now I knew what it was like, and it was the worst day of my life.

Before the call from the midwife, I had already emailed the kind doctor.

Dear Dr. Bootstaylor,

I have not received a call from Margaret's practice yet, and nothing has happened on my end.  Is it possible that this is just a misnomer?  I don't want a D&C or medicine.  That seems so unnatural and abortion-like.  I don't judge others, but that doesn't feel right for me.  How long until it is either revealed that the baby is alive or it becomes dangerous for my body to carry a non-viable fetus.

Thank you.

His response came late that night.

Noted.

I can appreciate your level of comfort and personal sentiment.

Regarding the diagnosis, it is certain. Regarding when your body will begin to go through a natural process of miscarriage, that is uncertain. It could be days or weeks. More importantly, it is not harmful to you (physically). Waiting is an option that many patients choose, and it's a safe option.

Regarding Intown Midwifery, they received the information and report, this afternoon. They may have been very busy. I also know that Margaret was out of town until early this evening. Please don't hesitate to call their office in the morning.

If I can be of any further assistance, please don't hesitate to call my office (404-223-9306) or send an e-mail.

Thank you.

Jack was mostly with GRandi during this time.  I was in a deep depression and unable to even cope with being around him, but by Thursday I started to accept the news and wanted it to hurry up and just be over.  Every time I went to the bathroom I took with me a little plastic Tupperware to "catch the baby," just in case.  I really did not know what to expect, but I knew I didn't want to just flush it without seeing it.  The internet was an inconsistent and awful resource, so I had it in my mind that I would push during a bowel movement and the baby would come out with a thick clot of blood, a little alien form with eyes like poppy seeds and the size of a black bean.  I thought it would feel like terrible menstrual cramps and the beginning of labor.  Every time I felt the slightest pang I rushed to the bathroom in both fear and anticipation.  How long was this going to take?  I needed to get on with my life!  I needed to be a mom to Jack!  I needed to go back to work!

I called Dr. Bootstaylor and left him a message.  He returned my call and I asked him more questions.  If I had another scan, what would we be looking for to confirm something was happening?  He said we would see shrinkage in size, deterioration.  We also discussed the abnormally large size as being a contributing factor to the impending miscarriage.  I asked was Friday was long enough to wait to expect to see something, to confirm the miscarriage was happening?  He said every day that goes by should have some change.

Although I was praying, I was trying not to hold onto too much false hope.  My mother's doubt was wavering back and forth, and never did she once fully commit to the doctor's diagnosis.  My sister questioned over and over that maybe it was just too early, but then even she felt like her thoughts were just setting me up for more diappointment.  We were confused as to why I was having the upset stomach, saying it was like a slap in the face and calling it "mourning" sickness.  I finally decided I could no longer stand the waiting and I wanted some medicine to move things along.  I was worried about the timing with needing to go back to work, but between Dr. Bootstaylor's words - "Let me be clear.  It is ABSOLUTELY okay for you to come back." - and my mother's consistent prodding, I decided I needed more proof before I did anything unnatural to my body.  

On Friday morning, December 2nd, I went back to See Baby, LLC.  This time Brett was with me.  We had a different ultrasound tech.  I was already crying before she began the vaginal scan.  Brett was sitting in a chair next to me as I was on the fancy table with the special pillow propping me up.  We watched the screen, but then I just looked away.  I was tense and the tech told me to try to relax.  I said something to the effect of what's the point?  I know it is going to be the same.  Then in a little sing-song voice with a Russian accent she said, "I don't think so; there is heartbeat!"  My eyes raced back to the screen and there it was, the most beautiful pulsating blob I'd ever seen!  I wept uncontrollably, and Brett stood over me and squeezed my hand and we both cried together and held each other, and the tech asked me to try to be still so we could hear, and then she turned up the sound monitor and there it was!  A white line filled with precious little heartbeat blobs!  It sounded like angels singing!  The only thing I've ever heard that compares with that is the sound of Jack's laughter!  

This is what it looks like when you're carrying a miracle!   The straight white line is filled with little heartbeat blobs, each one like a trumpet announcing the life that bursts inside you!  The joy that rushes your heart is overwhelming and mixed with a new kind of disbelief and fear again of the unknown! The shock that you felt before is still there, but altered and fuzzy.  Your mind starts to wonder if it is playing tricks on you, and your body tenses with the instinct to protect as suddenly you are once again a vessel for the greatest gift from God.  And then you feel terrified b/c you knew it was possible but maybe never believed it would happen to you!

We waited in the hall for our meeting with Dr. Bootstaylor.  We were excited, but scared, nervous and anxious.  We were confused!  But mostly, we were amazed!  As we walked into his office, he shook Brett's hand.  Dr. Bootstaylor's exact words to describe this change in events were: "unequivocally miraculous!"  He said "this is what faith is," and told me we have defied all odds.  He said he had been 100% certain, and even now is still 99% certain, and we are the 1%!  He said I have shown them a miracle.  He said that he would not say he has never seen this before, but he would say it is rare beyond belief.  It is truly amazing!!!

The heartbeat was a bit slow; normal is 150s, acceptable is 120s, ours was 110-112. Another ultrasound was scheduled for the following Friday to check again for better activity, but they did not seem overly concerned.  They also sent me for a progesterone level test, but that came back normal.  The size of the baby was also odd.  In the original scan 4 days earlier, the baby measured 6 weeks and 2 days, bigger than it should have been.  An inference for the lack of heartbeat could have been related to the size abnormality.   The 2nd scan took place on the actual 6 weeks and 2 days marker, but now the baby measured at 5 weeks and 6 days.  It was not significant enough to change the due date or worry, but it was odd that it was smaller than it was 4 days ago and yet now the heart was beating.  The doctor did not want to speculate, but he did say it could have been related to fluid or a mass present in the original scans.   Mostly though, he believed it was a miracle.  It actually helped us to trust him and believe in him that he didn't try to come up with all sorts of explanations to justify what was ultimately a mistake in his original diagnosis.  He said, "sometimes you just have to toss the science aside and go on faith."

A week later we returned to check the heartbeat again, hoping it would be in the normal range of 120-170. This is what a 138 fetal heart rate looks like!  :-) Dr. Bootstaylor assured us this baby was coming!  We were thrilled and beginning to feel more confident, but still I was plagued with paranoia.  A week before Christmas I had some unusual bleeding.  It was enough to freak me out b/c of what I was told to expect when I was waiting to miscarry.  I grabbed my Tupperware again and started preparing for the worst.  On Dec. 19th I went in for another ultrasound.

This is what a 166 fetal heart rate looks like!  Isn't it just amazing???  It turned out the baby was fine, but the placenta was blocking my cervical canal, the starting symptoms of Placenta Previa, but Dr. Bootstaylor told us there is plenty of time for the placenta to move as my uterus expands and not to worry yet.  That is a hard piece of advice to take after the roller coaster we have been on, but b/c the heartbeat was so strong, we felt really good and relieved just in time to enjoy the holidays with our little Christmas miracle baby growing inside of me!

And today we got to go back for the 12 week ultrasound!  This is what our precious miracle looks like now at 11 weeks and 5 days!  They did measurements to check for down syndrome indicators, but found none.  We declined all genetic testing, as we also did for Jack. Jack went with us and got to see his sibling on the screen.  He held my hand the whole time and they did the ultrasound on my belly, which was a nice turn of events for me!!!  Also, we got to see the Physician's Assistant this time instead of Dr. Bootstaylor, which is SUPER DUPER good news b/c that means he isn't worried about us anymore!  Today the baby's FHR was 159, and he/she measured 1 day ahead of actual.  Wednesday marks the end of my 1st trimester, and I am really looking forward to having some energy back and saying goodbye to the nausea.  Plus, I was SO READY to let the cat out of the bag and publicly share all the excitement with our family and friends!  It has been extremely hard not to blog about everything as it was happening, and it was actually tough just to maintain my facebook updates b/c so many of my daily thoughts have been related to this new baby and our growing family.  

And lastly, I want to express our gratitude to our friends and family who already knew about this wonderful miracle and thank you for all of your prayers and positive thoughts. God has heard each and every one of you and answered our prayers!  Today I saw this quote on a facebook friend's wall:

‎"The most important prayer in the world is just two words long:

 'Thank You'." 

 -Meister Eckhart

I thank God every day for the blessings he has bestowed upon me and my family, and I pray for our loved ones and the loved ones of others.  It doesn't take but a second to acknowledge Him and just offer the most important prayer of a full and thankful heart.

Thank you, God, for the miracle of Baby McQ #2!  And thank you, God, for the blessing of our sweet Jack.  Thank you, God for entrusting these precious gifts into our care. Please guide us to lead them humbly in life and help us to teach them about Your unwavering love.  Thank you, God.  Amen.