Lucille Kate... Thoughts on the First Year

I dreaded so much writing this post, and so I avoided it, as a good mother should, for over four months.  There are so many thoughts and feelings and joy and grief associated with your first year that I felt both devastated and relieved when it was over.  To talk about your first year means to talk about the reality of the second half of it.  The reality of experiencing pain so deep there were days when I couldn't breathe.  Of sadness and anxiousness and depression so painful I questioned if I would ever resurface from the murky pool of tears I constantly seemed to be drowning under.  The first six months of your life I cried tears of post-partum depression, feeling like I was suffocating from under the weight of a baby who was so clingy I could never catch my breath, and the second six months I clung to you so desperately I'm shocked you didn't push me away for all the tears and hugs and sob-filled nursing sessions.

I prayed for you, my girl, for five. long. years.  I awaited patiently (and not-so-patiently in the last weeks) for your arrival, counting down the days with both longing and sadness.  This seems to be a theme in our relationship, and I wonder how it will play out in the years to come.  I wanted so desperately to meet you, and at the same time, I was just so wondrously appreciative of being pregnant that I wanted to experience it forever and ever.  I knew in my heart this could be my final pregnancy and baby, and so I wanted it to never end... even when I was puking.  Even when my face was covered in acne and rashes.  Even when I was doubled over from pains of a 24-hour natural birth.  I wanted to see you.  To meet you.  To know you.  But at the same time I was devastated that I would finally have to share you with the world after having you all to myself for nine long months.

The reality of life once you entered was what I had both prayed for and what I later prayed against.

I so desperately wanted a baby that I could rock and love and would be content to never be put down.

I got a baby who demanded to be rocked and loved and would scream for hours if put down.

You nursed like a champ.  Which means every second of every day and night.

You loved mommy's affections.  Which means you screamed and fought the touch of anyone else who tried to held you.

I longed for a sweet little something that would help erase the pain of all those years of infertility and loss.  And what I got instead was a sweet little something that left me exhausted and weary and angry and sad.

Months went by.  We cried together.  I went to therapy.  Your acid reflux took its course.  You finally, FINALLY, took a bottle for daddy.

And then your Uncle Jerry died.

The morning I found out was unusual in that you took a three-hour long nap, which never happened.  You are not known for your good sleeping habits but for some reason that morning you slept and slept and slept.  You slept through my sobs when the phone call arrived.  You slept through my screams when I couldn't handle the hugs and the phone calls and the "I'm so sorrys" that came pouring in and I ran to the backyard to shout every horrible word I've ever known.  You slept through the most horrific hour of my life, and then you awoke like an angel, went easily to your Grandma Malise, and stayed in her arms semi-permanently for the next seven days.

I cried for the next month.  Not the exhausted sobs I had cried the first six months of your life, but the painful, gut-wrenching, can't catch your breath accompanied by dry heaves sobs that can only come from a truly broken heart.  And you were there.  To catch my tears on top of your soft silken locks.  To reach out to me longingly and lovingly.  To snuggle in and nuzzle close and love me when I was haggard and angry and wanted nothing more than to keep the blinds closed and stay in bed for a day or a week or forever and ever.

I don't know what I would have done without you, sweet girl.  Your brother and daddy were amazing during this time.  Loving me and being patient with me and keeping the house together when I could hardly keep my own two feet on the ground.  But they don't need me the way you do.  Your survival was dependent on my actions alone, and so survive we did.  Long hours of nursing and haphazard walks through Target to fill our cart with things the credit card says I bought but I have no memory of at all.  All night on-line shopping sessions when you woke up crying and I couldn't and wouldn't put you back down for fear I would have to go back to sleep and my nightmares would come again. Drives to get coffee. cokes. or to nowhere at all. 

Before you were born, I hoped and prayed you were a girl.  I would have been thrilled with a boy, for a brother for your brother, for another little mister to play soccer and cars and ride bikes with.  But I longed for a daughter.  For a spunky little thing who I imagined would look like her daddy and bring a silly, sweet personality to balance out her serious and type-A mama and brother.

After Jerry died, I knew why I was meant to have a girl.  A sister for my Samuel.  Someone who he could protect and love.  Someone he could look after.  Someone who could depend on him and look up to him and love him through differences and arguments and the years that separate them.

Someone to be a Christie to my Jerry.

The Lord knew what he was doing, giving me a baby girl.  He knew what he was doing in his timing of it all.  In the years of waiting.  In the years of longing.  He knew when I would need this baby and the baby I needed her to be.  He knows more than me, which I always seem to forget but will never stop being thankful for.  He knew I would suffer a great loss.  He knew that this sweet, clingy baby would keep me from falling completely away from all reality.  He knew I would need this brother and sister pair... to remember my brother, to rejoice in the sweet twenty-nine years we had together, and to relish every moment that we are a family of four.

My Lucy Kate has been one of my hardest and one of my greatest accomplishments.  She is still my sweet baby and yet such a big girl.  She is stubborn and shows sass.  Yet she will smother you with kisses and beg to be held and nursed.  She needs me so desperately still just as much as I need her.  Our relationship has been forever changed by the reality of our circumstances.  By infertility and loss, by joy and by pain.  Just as my mom so needed our Samuel when she lost her own baby years ago, she and I both needed our Lucy Kate when mourning the death of our precious Jerry.

I hate that this first year was so marred by heartache and tears.  But at the same time, I am so eternally grateful that I did have my sweet girl by my side to help me through the pain of our reality.  When all I want to do is to choose to lose myself in my grief, my baby forces me to choose joy.  When the pain of even opening up my eyes in the morning seems too much to bare, her cries of "Mama!  Hey guys!  Mama!" from her crib bring me to the reality of how much my presence is needed.  When people ask when I'll wean, when she'll walk, when when when will she become a big girl, I try not to get defensive and instead say a prayer of thanks.  Thank you Lord, for her need.  For even in my exhaustion and weariness, her needs fill my needs, too.  

Lucille Kate, you name means Pure Light.  How fitting, for a little person who, without even knowing, became my light over the past nine months.  Who filled my heart with joy, who caught the weight of my sorrow and felt every sob and shake, who needed me as desperately as I needed her.  Who gave me a reason to get up every day.  Who challenged me and changed me and has made me a stronger person and mother.

I adore you, so so much.  I ache with every passing day that you grow and change and become a sweet little toddler my brother never got to know.  But I also rejoice in the gift you are to me.  And I'm so so thankful that the Lord let me have you on this earth.  I don't know for how long, and I pray in his graciousness that I'll have you forever, but I know that no matter what, each day with you is a dream I never want to wake from.  

Thank you for loving me for the shattered mess of a mother I so often am.  I will never stop being thankful for the beautiful timing of the Lord giving you to me.

I love you, Lucy Kate.

Love,

Mama

on being seven.

my baby boy.
seven.
it baffles me and blows my mind that seven whole years have gone by since you were put into my arms.

every year on your birthday i think there is no way you can get bigger.  smarter.  wittier.
but you do.

i look back on our pictures from the past year and what seemed so big at six seems so sweet and little compared to seven.

there are a million thing i want to remember and share about you.  stories and memories.  quotes and comments.  all the things that so encapsulate who you are at the moment.  because every year i look back on the memories i've recorded from the previous years and i think, "wow.  that was him.  when did that change?   when did he grow out of that?  become who he is now?"

there are so many things i miss about your baby and toddler and little boy years.  but i adore and embrace every new thing that comes our way.  the truth is, i like who you are.  don't get me wrong.  i love you.  but even more than that, i like the person you are and the person you are becoming.

you are an amazing big brother.
you adore your sister.  and she adores you.
you are helpful and patient with her.  kind and comforting.
how in the world would i have had a baby without you?
you wanted a little baby brother so badly, but God knew just what he was doing when he gave us Lucille.
you are protective.  jealous for her affections and attentions.  smitten in a way i could have only prayed my children would love each other.
you two are the best of friends.  and even though nearly six years separate you, i pray this love and friendship continues to thrive.

you are independent.
you are self-reliant and self-motivated.
you can play in your room for hours.  i mean HOURS.
building legos.  creating worlds.  transforming piles of boxes.
you are a leader in some ways and an excited supporter in others.
you tend to make good decisions.
you like rules.  and order.
you are punctual.
but at the same time, methodical and s-l-o-w.
meal times are a challenge because you would think you were eating a five-course feast with how long it takes you to finish your plate.
school continues to be a joy, and i am so happy with our choice to continue to homeschool.
i am exhausted.  but still.  content.
your favorite subjects are science and history.
you like to save them for last.
so much like mama.
your writing has improved dramatically.
you are adding triple digit numbers.  regrouping in subtraction.
sometimes you'll make comments about something we've learned in medieval history or biology and it just blows my mind how much a little mind can store.
the highlight of your week is enrichment classes and church.
you LOVE church.
you love jesus.
you pray every day for some big things in our life.
you are so faithful.  so hopeful.  so full of courage and trust.

there are so many things about that remind myself of me.
you like to get up early.
"so i have more time for activities, mom!"
you remember everything.
you are extremely literal.
you prefer the company of a few close friends to large groups of acquaintances.
you always eat the stuff you don't like on your plate so you can save the best stuff for last.
you greatly dislike when things are not "fair."

there are so many things about you that remind me of your daddy.

the way you can create the most amazing things out of nothing.

your elaborate imagination.

your uncanny ability to make the shortest story into the most involved and complicated tale.

your cheery attitude even when things are the bleakest.

your charm and your sweet smile that melts me even when i'm at my wit's end.

you are always up for anything.

a twenty-eight day, 6,000 mile road trip?  no problem.

getting the baby out of her crib and feeding her breakfast so i can get ready for work?  piece of cake.

finishing a day's worth of intensive school work in just under three hours so you can have a play date?  child's play.

you adapt easily, you rarely complain, and although you may protest slightly when you would prefer not to do something, the only real discipline issues we have with you are when it comes time to eat your vegetables at dinner.

you have seen me at my worst, and still you love me.
you have sat terrified when i screamed on my knees after one ill-fated phone call in march.
you have taken care of me and your sister when i sobbed in bed with post-partum depression.
you have been patient when i have felt completely at loss with myself, let alone all the looming responsibilities that come with being a wife and a mother.
you remind me that all this... stuff... really just doesn't matter.
that Jesus loves us.  that he has saved us from our sins.  that he heals our hurts and mends our wounds.
and that a child's love is the most beautiful and accurate depiction of Christ's unrelenting forgiving love that i have ever witnessed on earth.

my swee'pea, you are a gift from heaven.
you make me smile, laugh, and jump for joy.
you complete this family and fill my heart with gratefulness.
God was so good when he gave you to me.
you have been what i was desperately needed this past year.
a sweet boy who sees the optimism when life looks bleak.  who prays nightly that his papa will get better and that his Uncle Jay in heaven will know how desperately we still love and miss him.
what i had with your uncle can never be replaced, but the joy i see in the budding relationship between you and your sister is such a sweet reminder that God knew my heart needed both a son and a daughter.

my mama heart is so proud to call you my own.
seven is going to be a beautiful year for you, my son.
Happy, happy birthday, to my most favorite little boy in the whole wide world.

A random picture update...

Life has gotten a little cray cray over here.

As if it wasn't already.

But more so in the past four weeks.

Here is just a sampling of what we have been up to...

We finished Fall Ball.  This was Swee'Pea's third season of baseball and he is iffy on the whole sport in general.  But he is signed up for Spring Ball and I'm really hoping it works out.  Because even though it is ridiculously hot and sometimes painful to watch, I really enjoy the game and want him to love it, too.

We finished our third season of soccer.  Swee'Pea likes soccer more than baseball.  And this makes Daddy happy.

We took a homeschool field trip to visit our favorite fireman.  We do this every year.  It is the best.

We visited the prettiest pumpkin patch for our yearly fall pics and pumpkin picking.  This is the only pic out of approximately one billion that turned out semi-decent.  I'll take it.

We celebrated the end of our African study with an African feast and craft day.  It has been such a treat homeschooling with other people this year... it is also a treat homeschooling with people who cook great and know how to teach art.  

We took two trips to Disneyland to check out the amazing fall decorations.

And while I was standing in line for Radiator Springs Racers fast passes, someone got his Grandma to let him get all dressed up as a pirate.

This little lady turned three months old.  Sob sob sob.

We celebrated Halloween with our closest friends and family members.

I mean.  Come one.

We took a trip down to the Getty.  It was amazing.  Swee'Pea's favorite part was listening to his iPod "stories" and running around on the grass like an airplane.  So.  You know.  Totally appreciated the art and all that.  Not.

We headed to Utah for five days of sledding and S'Mores and playing in the snow.

A good time was had by all.  

We stopped and had our traditional chicken and dumplings at Cracker Barrel.  

We celebrated the Indians by making mini apple pies and discussing the Mayflower.  Swee'Pea decided that if he had to go on the Mayflower he would bring sunscreen, a back scratcher, and a pencil and paper to do research.  He is my child.  

 

I went back to work.  And no one is thrilled about this.

I can't believe Thanksgiving is next week and just after that is Christmas.  This year is whooshing by in the blink of an eye.  A year ago tomorrow we announced our pregnancy to our family.  And now here I am with an almost 4 month old baby girl in my lap.  God is so good.  We have much to be thankful for this year and in this season of life.

A birth story.

The week before Lucy's birth was a hard one.  Physically I continued to enjoy the feeling of my huge baby belly and the sweet kicks of the wee one growing inside but emotionally... emotionally... I was being overtaken by fear.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of what could go wrong.

I had been warned, as with Swee'Pea, that if I didn't deliver by 39 weeks I would have to be medically induced.  Without going into too much detail, one of the side-effects and risks of my blood-clotting disorder is late-term miscarriages.

Still born babies.

Death.

The thought was too much for me to bear sometimes.

I went to multiple appointments during the final week before she arrived.  Several ultrasounds.  Non-Stress Tests.  Even a visit with a high-risk specialist.  He advised inducing no later than Friday.  I convinced my doctor to give me another week.  I knew the risks... but even as I felt the fear of an ever-growing chance of induction, I also felt a peace that this labor and delivery would be different. 

Anxious.  Terrified.  Worried.  But still... a peace.

By the middle of the week I was a broken mess.

I saw my sweet doctor, who verified that I was just at 2 centimeters dilated and not much effaced.  She stripped my membranes, and reassured me that I would be in the hospital by the next day in labor.  I did all the recommended "post stripping" rituals.  Spicy food.  Walking.  A massage.  A pedicure.  But nothing happened.

On Friday morning I returned.  Only a bit more dilated and 30% effaced.  I shuddered and sobbed as she stripped my membranes again.  "This time, it will work.  I expect to see you here by 5pm in labor."

That evening I met my in-laws for dinner, silently timing contractions that were 7 minutes apart throughout the meal, only to stop by the time we were ready to pay the check.

"Is there going to be a baby tonight?" my father-in-law excitedly asked.

"I don't think so... but this is the same restaurant I ate at with you guys the night I got a positive pregnancy test, so maybe it is good luck?!" I responded.

I texted my mother-in-law and mom throughout the evening until falling asleep around 9:30pm.  At some point in the night I woke on and off, feeling restless when Popeye got home from work before the sun rose and not being sure if the cramping I felt was in real life or only in my dreams.

At 5:00 on the dot I woke up and I knew.  Just as I had known with Swee'Pea. 

This was it.  It was time.

I tried not to wake up Popeye, knowing he had only gotten an hour or so of sleep and not wanting to worry him, but by 5:45 my tossing and turning was too much and he asked what was going on.  I told him I thought I was in labor, but to go back to sleep.  I got up, got a shower, and grabbed a cup of coffee.  He texted me from the bedroom... "I can't sleep!"  I replied from the couch... "Me neither!"

Swee'Pea woke up.  We cuddled.  Watched some TV.  

I decided to get ready for the day, timing contractions that were five and six and seven minutes apart.  Not unbearable but annoying enough that I couldn't fully rest.  By 10:00 am I was feeling restless and bothered and short with Swee'Pea and knew I just needed to get him out of the house so he didn't have to see me in that state and I could get to the "real" work of laboring at home.  I dropped him off at my in-laws and set about to run my errands and get the van washed.  My mom called and asked if I wanted to go shopping to get my mind off of things but at some point in that hour of taking Swee'Pea and taking care of the van something happened in me and I just needed to be home.  Home.  With my Popeye.  With the only person I felt like could help me through these uneven but increasingly more painful contractions.

We spent the afternoon doing nothing.  I soaked in a tub.  We got CPK to go.  We walked around Target.  My contractions were so uneven at times I feared this wasn't the real thing.  I cried... I begged... I prayed to God that this was it.  By 3pm I was hurting so badly that I didn't know if I could handle the disappointment if this was in fact false labor.  I didn't know if I could do this all again.  I didn't know if I could face another day of this kind of pain... of worse pain... if this was not the real deal.

I texted my mom that I was hungry, and desperately needed blueberry muffins with sugar crystals on top from Vons.  Also... bananas.  She arrived with a whole container of fresh muffins and a bunch of bananas and I laid on the bed eating.  Eating and laboring and moaning and resting.  When I was in labor with Swee'Pea, I desperately wanted her there by my side the whole time, but this... this was different.  I looked at Mark in between contractions and prayed he would ask her to leave.  I love you mom!  Dearly!  But after years of trying and hurting and losing there was something about this moment that was meant to be just Popeye and myself.  She finally left and Popeye promised to call.  

This is when I began bargaining with myself.

"Let's make it to 5pm.  I can make it to 5 and then we will go in!"

"Okay, it is 5pm.  I can make it to 6.  Let's just make it to 6."

"Well now it is 6, we might as well make it to 7.... but nurse change is at 7 so let's make it to 8."

Just after 8pm I got into the shower.  The warm water felt glorious until the contractions hit.  One after another.  Strong enough to bring me to my knees and bring up the previously devoured muffins and bananas.

I started sobbing.  Somehow Mark helped me to the bed and in between contractions I got dressed.  

"It's time!" I cried.  I couldn't do it at home anymore.  I needed a change.  Something different to stare at other than my own four walls.  At this point my contractions had been 2-3 minutes apart for over an hour.  And I wanted to go to the hospital NOW.

At 9:17 we were on the road.

We texted parents.  We parked the van.  I cried as I contracted in the parking lot.

We made it up to the delivery floor and Mark picked up the security phone to let them know we were there to check-in.  "We would like a room with an ocean view, please!" he told the nurse on the other end.

She was completely confused.  And we laughed even through my pain.

The checking in process was long.  They asked me questions, and I bent over the counter top contracting and prayed they would just leave me alone.

They got me in my room and went to check me.

"I want to be a six.  I bet I'm a five.  If I'm at a four I will cry..." I had told Mark in the car ride over.

I was a four.

I bawled and bawled.  I felt so defeated.  Sixteen hours of labor and I was only a four??  She said I was almost completely effaced, that the hard work had been done and now I could go quickly, but I still felt so lost.  My sweet friend Toni arrived and sat with me while Mark went back home to grab my birthing ball.  She had been a constant source of support through my pregnancy, encouraging me in my desire for a drug-free delivery and giving me advice based on her experiences along the way, and I don't know if I could have continued with my desire for a natural birth had she not come at that exact moment.

The next two hours we spent walking the halls.  Pacing by rooms with crying newborns and stopping every few moments to labor through a contraction and throw up in the little blue sack we carried around. 

At midnight they checked me again.  Six centimeters.  I cheered and cried with relief.  I was in full-blown labor, and I could stay.

I answered questions for the next thirty or so minutes, feeling in a much better mood and suddenly filled with the adrenaline of a thousand cups of coffee.  I rotated between laboring on my birthing ball and on my feet, remembering to use the restroom every 20 or so minutes and feeling unsure if I was burning hot one moment or freezing cold the next.  Popeye rubbed my back, encouraged me when I went through a contraction, and reminded me how close we really were to meeting our baby.

At 1:30 or so they checked me again and I was at a seven.  I cried for my mom.

Just after 3:30 they checked me again.  I was at an eight.  And I cried for an epidural.

The next hour was a haze.  I cried and moaned through the contractions and begged for drugs... for anything... that would ease my pain.  Popeye and my mom spoke quietly in my ear as the pain ripped through my back.  It was intense and it was hot and it was real.  My (double) epidurals had worn off while in labor with Swee'Pea but this... this was like nothing I had ever experienced.  I swore I could handle natural labor after having a horrible non-effective epidural but the pain I experienced this time was excruciating enough to literally take my breath away.  Between contractions I rested, unresponsive to everyone around me only to mutter that no, no I did not want an epidural and please do not let me get one.  

At 4:30 I begged for my bag of waters to be broken and I went back down to a seven.  

I cried.  I screamed.  The pain became more and more intense to the point that I literally thought my back was breaking.  Mark continued to speak quietly... but urgently... in my ear.  The baby would be here soon.  I was doing great.  I didn't want an epidural.  I could do this.

The next 20 minutes were insanely intense.  I could feel the baby's head push down with every contraction.  I could feel my water gushing with every movement.  I couldn't find relief.  I felt like my contractions were one right after another and there was no chance to breathe in between.

Mark promised he would get me help, and left the room.  Soon my angel of a nurse came back and said she was giving me something in my IV.  A narcotic... one I had sworn I didn't want but one in which she promised would not numb me but only allow me to breathe and rest in between contractions.  She finished filling my IV and then asked me to roll on my left side.  She said she was going to check me to see how I was doing.  I breathed through a contraction as she checked... a nine.  I had gone from a seven to a nine in less than 20 minutes.  She told me to keep breathing and to push through the next contraction as she felt for the baby's head.  The next contraction came and I pushed in a way I had never been able to while in labor with Swee'Pea.  

It felt glorious.

She popped up and said I was ready.  A full ten.  She was going to get everything ready and call for the doctor.

But I couldn't stop.

I rolled to the right and bore down as hard as I could.  Everyone kept telling me to hold off, to wait for the doctor, but I couldn't.  I screamed that the baby was coming and everything in me let go.

The next four minutes flew by.

The doctor rushed in.

The lights came on.

One push.

And then two.

And then she was there.

My daughter.

The precious gift I had waited so long for.  The miracle I had prayed God would bless us with.  The sweet song that healed years worth of sorrow.

For thirty-nine weeks I had carried her in my womb.

Felt every kick.  Every hiccup.  Every jostle of her tiny growing body.

I had labored for 24 hours.

And pushed for 4 minutes.

I felt every rip. tear. and stretching of my body as she worked her way into the world.

And she was here. 

In my arms.

Sweet and perfect and crying and breathing in her first sweet breaths of life.

My dream.

My miracle.

My precious Lucille Kate.