We did it!

We survived the first go round of elementary school! (*HIGH FIVE*)

It was touch and go there more than a few times...but we managed to kick ass effectively parent an A/B student who tested for advanced placement in middle school. Sam refers to himself as our "test subject." No doubt this poor kid is going to need therapy at some point in his life.

Holy crap...middle school!

And before anyone rains on my little one-person parade and reminds me that my baby starts kindergarten in the fall, let me warn you that I WILL hurt you.

And yes, I'm well aware that I probably need therapy too.

Happy summer!

Socially unacceptable

Eight years later, I'm still the woman who wants to stand on the conference room table and stomp my feet and scream at people, "My babies are DEAD! Stop bickering about NONSENSE!"

Alex Gerard - 8

Travis Leo - 7

On this day, I think of him and I wonder who he might have been...

Dear Coach

I was at every practice…every game. Yes, his fathered worked at an office and wasn’t able to attend…but I was there and I saw it all. I watched as my son learned the fundamentals and started to love the artistry of the game. We were there to try our best. We were there to have fun. And then he was assigned to your team…where yelling and insults were the language of every day. Where the encouragement was always secondary to the overwhelming pressure you put on the shoulders of nine and ten year old boys. Yes, they ARE just boys…and this IS just a game.

He knew he was never going to be a superstar, but he still tried SO hard. He spent the days managing his asthma so he wouldn't have an attack at practice and be seen as “weak” (your words). He practiced with his dad whenever he could find the free time. He never once complained that you played him the minimum number of innings required by Little League rules. He never once complained that your kid got more playing time. And until the very end, he never complained about your constant criticism of his dugout behavior as he sat there...inning after inning after inning. He only ever expressed self-doubt over his inability to meet your standards…and confusion over your anger that he wasn't “getting it.” During every lap you made him run, he talked to himself, using words like "stupid" and "idiot" and "sucky." He pondered how he could teach himself, even consulting YouTube for pointers…because you surely weren't going to put in the time on a kid “like him” (he's not stupid, he fully understood your attitude toward him).

On that final play, when he failed to heed your screams to “slide SLIDE SLIIIIIDE!” he ran through the tag and smiled at his own shortcomings. Your response was to scream, “What do YOU have to smile about?” That’s right…his mere smile irritated you. More than that, his ability to find humor in his screw-ups made you angry and we were all treated to your very loud diatribe about how YOU felt unappreciated and YOU felt disrespected.

Guess what, coach? It isn't about you. But you clearly think it is...since you never called, or asked to meet, or even spoke to my son again. You didn't care that he quit. Based on your lack of interest in discussing his feelings, I almost think that was your goal all along...to make him quit. You're relieved he's off your team...maybe even happy. That might make you a good coach to some...but we think you're a lousy coach and we're not going to remain silent about it any longer.

My son had one more year before baseball would get competitive. He had one more year to play ball with his friends before his inabilities would no longer be tolerated on the field. I trusted you to use this time to teach my child to have fun, be healthy, and learn new things. Instead, you ruined baseball for him. He quit because he was no longer having any fun. He doesn't want to play. He doesn't even want to watch. You did that. Are you proud?

I suppose I should thank you for teaching him one very valuable lesson though. MOST PEOPLE ARE ONLY CONCERNED ABOUT THEMSELVES…EVEN PEOPLE WHO ARE CHARGED WITH CARING FOR OTHERS. Yep…he learned that one well…from you.

Good job, coach.

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My post was inspired by this post making the rounds on Facebook. While my son's experience wasn't part of Dynamite Cal Ripken Youth Baseball, I strenuously object to that program using its public platform to attempt to demonize parents who care about how their children are being treated by "volunteer coaches" (as if the volunteer status somehow makes them above reproach). I was wrong for not speaking up sooner for my son...and I certainly won't apologize for speaking up now.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow

Yesterday marks three years since my last baby silently left my body.

Today marks the day my five-year-old very loudly registered for kindergarten.

I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

3

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had.

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than you should remember and be sad.

~ Christina Rossetti

Grown up choices

So I'm still here. Still have three dead babies and two living boys (who are TEN and FIVE now!). And I'm feeling like maybe I want to write again. Aren't you thrilled?  I have all these things I need therapy for want to say...and my husband and my facebook friends are tired of hearing them. I'm not sure when/where the mood to write might take me. I've never been good at putting any sort of structure to this thing. So...yeah...anyway...
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Sam has always chosen his own clothes to wear to school...as long as the clothes are clean and neat.

During that first year of school when we were adjusting to the new roles life had imposed upon us, and trying to navigate the insanity of elementary school rules, I remember the kindergarten teacher saying, "Samuel is making some poor choices in who to imitate in class." Aside from the obvious I-really-don't-want-my-kid-IMITATING-anyone thought that ran through my head, in that moment there opened up an entire world of letting go. My kid was going to make choices...on...his...own.

In the first grade there was the book fair. Where I gave him $20 and he bought pencils and a bookmark...but no actual books. We talked about choices then. But the truth of the matter is that the rule became, "you can choose from the BOOKS." There was still some limitation...some structure imposed by me.

A week ago, Sam was feeling that horrible fifth-grade pressure to get all the homework done the other night and I said, "Life's about choices. If you feel like you want to make the choice to turn in the homework late and take a lower grade, then that is on you. Nobody will die. We will still have food to eat and a house to live in. Just so you know the consequences and you don't try to explain it away as anything other than your choice."
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A little over a year ago, 2/27/12, something awful happened in my hometown. A young man took a gun to my high school alma mater and shot up the cafeteria full of students, killing three and wounding three. He pled guilty on the last possible day the prosecutor was to hold the option open.

Yesterday, the young man responsible was sentenced to three consecutive life sentences in prison (plus some for the non-lethal injuries/attempted murders). His behavior at sentencing is the stuff of TMZ or Dateline. I won't say his name here or describe his behavior because I refuse to perpetuate his fifteen minutes of fame. He is not worth it. But it got me to thinking about this boy...so obviously broken. By what? That will be the subject of professional analysis for years to come, I'm sure.
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I feel like the process of letting go has really ramped up here during this school year. And I don't mind telling you that I'm terrified unprepared. Everyone has all the answers when it comes to the boy who killed. It was the parents...the grandparents...the lack of God...the friends...mental illness...pure evil. I am not so sure. I no longer believe that life hands you one singular thing that will determine who you will be. Even in the darkest times, you have choices. They may not be the choices you want...but if you search hard enough you will see the options and make the choices that will get you through (one way or another).

And so I wonder...if I told my son the right thing about the book fair...what clothes to wear...or his ability to choose to not do his homework.
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Why am I nervous to hit "publish?"
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A good day seven years in the making

Today I choose to celebrate...
...the husband who lets the dogs out every morning so I don't have to roll out of our nice warm bed
...the sunshine
...the little arms that hugged me tight and wished me a good day
...the perfect cup of coffee
...the pink tractor contest (known only to me and Sam)
...the free evening to "do something fun"
...the mystery of my Mother's Day gift
...the mortgage is paid
...the professional satisfaction of a job well done
...the chance of maybe getting the lawn mowed this week (it's scary out there)
...the freaks/pets and their never-ending devotion
...the love of my parents
...the happy memories
...the kindness of my friends
...the good things that come out of bad things
...the noise and dirt and chaos
...the dreams

So I take a deep breath and take another step forward. I no longer wish for what might have been. I no longer search for answers. Instead, I look around me and just feel.

I choose...

...love...

...and peace.

"I am thankful for small mercies. I compared notes with one of my friends who expect everything of the universe, and is disappointed when anything is less than the best, and I found that I begin at the other extreme, expecting nothing, and am always full of thanks for moderate good...If we will take the good we find...we shall have heaping measures." ---Ralph Waldo Emerson

Perspective

I hate Mother's Day for a lot of reasons.

I LOVE Mother's Day for a lot more reasons.

Please click the button and make a donation to help mamas and babies around the globe avoid reasons to hate Mother's Day. Donate because you hate Mother's Day. Donate because you love Mother's Day. Donate to honor your own children or your own mother. Donate because you REALLY have nothing better to spend your money on than saving a life (or two).

Leave a comment here that you have made a donation (share your reason, if you like), and I will draw one lucky name to send something special.

Thanks!

IRL

I was talking this weekend with some friends "from the computer" (that one's for Shanna's dad). Truth is, these particular friends...this group of women...saved my life. I don't say that to be melodramatic. I say it because it is the truth. When I felt like I couldn't take one more step, they were there with the words I needed to hear..."It WILL get better. I don't know when or how...but it WILL get better." 

During our conversation, however, I made a mistake. And today, as I was processing it all, I remembered. I remembered how I first came to know this amazing world of the blog people. 

The day I came home from the hospital, I scoured the internet and searched for an answer. Why did this happen to us? to our Baby Alex? And then I found this post. 

"Orson was born in room 15 of MacDonald Women's Hospital, Second floor. Zelda was born in 16. And Calvin in 17. A trifecta." Just a few days after Alex was stillborn in room 17 at MacDonald Women's Hospital...and just four years after Calvin was stillborn in room 17 at MacDonald Women's Hospital...this stranger was welcoming a living son to the world. I greedily soaked up his words and followed the links of the people who commented on his posts. 

I fell down the rabbit hole. 

I was crazed and unkempt...and I didn't care. 

The people I encountered as a result of my rabid googling could have turned me away. But they didn't. 

And once a year, round about this time, I feel like I should thank them for that...thank YOU for everything. 

So...

Thank you to all the people who have come out of my computer and made such a difference in my life. I love you and I can never ever ever repay you for all that you have done for me.

Well, that was a fun few days.

It's "easier" than it used to be. But it ain't easy. There are moments when I literally wish April 8 - May 11 could simply be erased from the calendar.

Come on summertime! I am SO ready!

I couldn't even come up with a title for this post because I don't even know how to mark these entries anymore. Verbal diarrhea post #967572?

I took a pinwheel to the other two at the cemetery. I hadn't been for a long time before my friend lost her baby. Now I want to go every day. But I know it's not good for me.

I wandered over to her baby's grave. Rainwater beaded on the outside of a pack of baseball cards left for him. Indians Opening Day saw the longest game in opening day history. Seemingly appropriate for a dad missing his baby boy...his toddler...his big boy...his elementary schooler...his teenager...

I still have a brick filled with baby ashes sitting on a shelf.

Nobody else remembered April 8th...

...except me.

But, hey, at least it's "easier" now.

Little Bug - 3

Springtime voices

I'm revisiting this place because a good friend lost her baby. I'm revisiting this place because it is spring and I feel the oncoming freight train of the might-have-been's and what-actually-happened's headed straight for me. I'm revisiting this place because I read this entry by Bon and this entry by Julia and I realized I need to revisit this place to sort it all out.

For a while, I felt like I needed to be quiet...to sort things out in my head. But the truth is, it's not getting sorted out in my head. Babies die. Loved, wanted, precious babies. And friends speak the words you yourself spoke a million years ago. And all I can do is cry and shake my head yes...YES...THAT IS EXACTLY IT!

There has always been power here. Almost a magic. Found in not being alone. In speaking out loud all those things that run through my mind when I am alone (or standing in the middle of a crowd and simply FEELING alone). 

WHY?!?! 

I remember sitting there in the springtime sunshine yelling up at the bluest of skies. So many times I visited that place and asked...begged...

WHY?!?!

At first I strained to hear some message of love...some kindness passed through the universe to soothe my broken heart. And then I was there a year later and "F*** you...you don't get an answer," was what I heard in the silence. 

But these other voices came to me. These voices from amazing women who didn't know me...but recognized the pain. They didn't answer why. They showed me that it didn't really matter why. That I had strength in me I had no idea I had. That there is beauty in the pain. And that friendship can grow in the midst of the worst pain imaginable.

So now I will go to that place again for another funeral service for another loved baby boy named John Edmund. And I will mourn for all my friend has lost...and all that she doesn't yet realize she has lost. I will remember that raw pain and hold her up like you all did for me when I was too weak to hold myself up. I will offer my voice in the silence and hope that it soothes and strengthens. 

Because I know she will ask why.

And I know she won't get an answer.

Catching up

Happy Halloween!Happy Thanksgiving!
Merry Christmas!
Happy Hanukkah!
Happy New Year!

Oh my goodness...LOTS to catch up on!

And lots to look forward to!

In fifteen days I will be FORTY YEARS OLD!

I could wax poetic about my thirties...a decade of the highest highs and lowest lows I have experienced in my life so far. But...well...I am not interested in rehashing all that junk.

A photographer I follow (stalk) on facebook posted this the other day..."A year from now you will have wished you started today. What goals are you pursuing today?" So that's what I'm doing. Instead of focusing on all the things that could possibly stand in my way, I am doing anything and everything I can to just make life work. I can't control it all...but that doesn't mean I can't use my energy to try to make things happen...to squeeze out some bit of happiness from the here and now.

Uh Oh...I think I'm waxing poetic...

I'm really excited to be taking positive steps toward becoming a real-life photographer. I've been researching and reading and looking all around for inspiration. And now I'm actually doing it. I have clients...who want ME. It is truly exciting. And I am loving every minute of it.

Christmas is...

My dad has this album on vinyl. I remember every year we would play that thing on his turntable, the scratches and bumps coming through the stereo speakers along with Frank and Tony. It wasn't Christmas until that album was played.

But I wonder...

Putting up OUR tree is a nightmare of spilled ornament hooks, insane cats climbing the tree, and me yelling, "I just want ONE NORMAL PICTURE," as my two boys wrestle each other in the glow of the tree lights. Nobody listens and the music we turned-on-in-order-to-be-festive gets turned off because I can not deal with ANYMORE NOISE. Definitely not the warm and cozy holiday memories of my childhood.

Was I delusional? Have I supplanted real memories with invented ones I've seen/heard somewhere else (most likely television)? (Is supplant even the right word?)

Sure, we have our moments. We snuggle as a family and watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas...until Myles decides he NEEDS to whack his brother in the face with his dirty underwear.

Steve and I laugh at their silliness as they shovel the quarter inch of snow (that lasted one day before melting in what seems to be the never-ending rain of 2011)...until they start to use their shovels as light sabers and we have to take them away.

Christmas cards don't get sent out on time (New Year's cards, anyone?).

Fresh baked cookies come courtesy of the Pillsbury Dough Boy and last about ten seconds.

And the stockings...will be hung probably just in time for Santa to fill them on Christmas Eve.

Myles asked me why the Grinch was mean in the beginning. I have no idea. I have clearly missed a step somewhere in this whole Christmas thing.

Christmas is...different from how I remember it.

But that doesn't mean it is bad.

It's a simple rule

Don't tell someone how they SHOULD feel.

Making a difference

I struggle with what to say here when so many people I know are facing serious life issues. All at once, the belly-button gazing that was at one time so fun (and then became therapeutic) all seems silly now.

Cancer, mental illness, death, divorce, grief...if you're lucky only one of these will grab you by the hair and throw you down on the ground and stomp all over you at a time. And, if you're really unlucky, more than one (or the same one multiple times) will gang up and beat the living snot out of you until you have no choice but to surrender and ride it out until whatever happens...happens.

So what can I talk about that makes a bit of difference? Nothing. Today I wrote a shopping list that includes candy corn, light bulbs and paper towels. And it seems that's about all the "important" writing I will do today.

So I will instead encourage my foster dog to be sweet and snuggle...or crochet caps for cancer patients...or make memorial bracelets for deadbabymamas. Something to make me feel like I am making a difference to someone. Something to compensate for the navel gazing done here.

Later, I will eat macaroni and cheese and decorate pumpkins with my children. And hope (however unrealistically) that the bad stuff stays away from them forever.

New Blogger and me

OK...so I wrote a couple posts and thought I had posted them. But I guess Blogger has moved things around and I never actually hit PUBLISH...only SAVE. oops.

I fully intend to write more. I do. I have all these things I want to say that aren't about dead babies. Like how I discovered Sally Hansen nail polish and I LOVE it. Or how local stores no longer carry Jane cosmetics and I can't buy my blush anymore (and how old it makes me feel to realize the last time I bought blush I also bought a pregnancy test). Or how the "feral" foster dog got loose the other day and I thought he'd run away...but he didn't. Or how I'm brainstorming ways to grow a little photography business but I don't have the slightest idea where or how to start. Or how my mom wants to have Thanksgiving at her house...which is great because then I don't have to clean my house...but is bad because then I won't have a reason to clean my house so I probably WON'T clean my house.

Yeah...bet you wish I hadn't figured out that PUBLISH button issue.

Today, tomorrow, and yesterday

Today, my son gave himself a slight concussion in gym class. The school called and I jumped into crisis mode and picked him up and took him to the ER to be checked out. He's fine. He'll probably have a headache for a few days.

Me? I'm usually on a pretty even keel. I haven't been one to fall apart or obsessive protective instincts. I can roll with the punches for the most part.

But I told someone about my dead babies on Friday...someone who didn't know. So maybe that's why today seemed...I don't know...more.

We had to drive past the cemetery on the way to the ER. How's that for a fun train of thought to jump on?

And then I used the restroom in the ER...and washed my hands. And now they smell like that soap. That smell takes me back to May 2006.

I could lose them. I know that intellectually. But today the past collided with the present and future in a VERY sensory way that I am not so sure I'm prepared to cope with.

And now he is downstairs explaining to his little brother how he wound up in the hospital today.

This brother, that brother, all the brothers...

I need to go wash my hands now. Time to put the past back where it belongs and find my balance again.

Somebody pass the wine.