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If you give a mom a…

“Tomorrow,” I tell myself, snuggling into bed, “I am gonna have a heck of a day off.” I pick up my Kindle and read until my eyes cross, as is my custom. As I surrender to sleep, I remember R2 has summer school starting this week. “Siri,” I say sadly, “set my alarm for 7 am.”

7 am: I hop out of bed (I apologize for being a morning person) and go through R2’s morning routine. If you’re not the parent of an incontinent adult man, may you never have to know what we go through as part of that routine. Eventually the house is hosed down and the washing machine and dryer and running and he is dressed and waiting impatiently for the bus. “When he’s gone, the house will be quiet,” I tell myself. “Kindle and tea, here I come.” But the bus is very late and by the time he leaves there are small people watching youtube and eating off-brand Cap’n Crunch. (Fruity Berries? Crunch Berries? Crunchy Fruit? Fruity Crunches? Berry Fruity?) I can’t remember, but it comes in a jumbo bag.

“That’s okay,” I think, “I will just take some tea up to my room and sit quietly,” but the sink is full of dishes and I can’t find a coffee cup. So I do the dishes as the house gradually comes to life around me.

Finally I take my cup of tea and catch up on my Youtube subscriptions (JUDGE AWAY) and start to pick at my to-do-unofficially-because-it’s-my-day-off-but-pastors-don’t-quit lists.

Later, I think I could really use a drink of water. My new tumbler is downstairs in the dishwasher. I know, because I put it there a little while ago. “I’ll just grab it,” I think, naively. “And while I’m at it,” I think, “I’ll put this load of dishes away,” but the dishwasher left a lot of water on the dishes and I can’t find any hand towels. “I’ll grab one out of the dryer,” I think, but there aren’t any in there so I empty the washer and dryer and throw in another load. “Maybe in Laundry Mountain in my room,” I think, but I end up having to sort all the laundry because the hand towels are super buried. Eventually I find one, and so I dry off all the dishes and the sink is full again so I throw in another load while I’m at it.

Some time later, I settle in my room with a glass of water. “Now,” I think, “I will write a blog entry.” But then my co-pastor comes in with big ideas about cardio and life adventures and eventually he tells me I should go on a solo roadtrip to the thrift store and the taqueria. I heartily approve of this plan so I’m gonna get out of here really quick before I notice none of the laundry is put away and maybe the cat needs a bath.



It’s my laundry and I’ll cry if I want to

I have a lot of banes of my existence. People who tell me I can’t say sentences like that are a bane of my existence. I do what I want. But also, people who honk at me at the red light, bane. Stale Oreos, bane. Etc. The primary bane of my existence I will be referencing today is the re-washing of clothes that have not been worn. Is it an actual problem, in the midst of actual actual problems like world hunger? Yes. It is still a problem. An infinitesimal problem is still a problem.

Obviously I am very good at blogging. I take 6 month breaks and then I spend my first 200 words not saying anything. You should take notes.

So today, I was scooping massive piles of laundry and probably shoes, toys and petrified squirrels into the washing machine, and I noticed a little white angel costume. “She hasn’t worn this in forever,” I thought to myself, and probably I said it out loud, because I like to keep Richy on his toes re: my sanity. “She hasn’t worn this in forever and I have washed it like 150 times.”

“And when was the last time she worn the unicorn suit?” I thought. “Or this German housewife getup? Or the lion suit…” A terrible realization washed over me. She’s too old for costumes. No one is wearing the costumes because everyone is growing up. ALL MY CHILDREN ARE GOING TO LEAVE ME. Briefly, I considered clutching a pile of strangely pre-teen smelling clothes to my bosom for dramatic effect, but the smell, you know? I’m not that sentimental, yet.

I remember the day I wept over a pair of white cowgirl boots, because they were too small for her and she’d never wear them again. I have a box of things she has outgrown, at least one box. I have several boxes. I’m gonna be fine.


“You’re gonna miss this” they used to tell me when the kids would poop on the floor and then drive the stroller through it or eat ice off the movie theater floor or eat food from under the thrift store shelf… (I’m starting to wonder if my kids are hungry) “You’re gonna miss this” and I don’t. I don’t miss that. I don’t miss the diapers or just trying not to cry and sweating all the time because little people are fast and smart and dangerous and no mom on earth can keep up. I don’t miss that. And I’m not hugely emotional. I don’t cry much or easily. But if you needed to incapacitate me, those little boots could do it.

I’m not gonna miss the laundry. Probably. I’m fine.

the night before Toby

Let’s turn the pages of my story back 11 years. Are you there? It was 2005. I’m sure there were all kinds of world events happening and significant political and pop culture figures, acting heroic or nuts, making headlines. I don’t remember any of it. I was engaged in the battle of my life at the time. The challenge: staying pregnant long enough to have a baby too big for doll clothes.

It had been over 4 months since we figured out I needed to stop walking around. It must have been July when I took to my bed, right at about 4-5 months of pregnancy. If you haven’t followed my story, I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes to this point. My first baby was born at 24 weeks and survived with severe disabilities. (He’s great) My twin sons were born 4 years later, also at 24 weeks gestation and only lived for 2 days. When we took the leap of faith to try for another baby, I knew I was going to give everything I had to keep that baby in utero for as long as possible. The next baby was my Toby. Now you’re caught up.


My change of venue: the hammock with R2

Sidenote: this blog was started at the start of that bedrest, in attempts to a) tell everyone my updates at once and avoid phone calls and b) amuse myself, because watching Fear Factor was causing contractions.

That Christmas of 2005, I was just wrapping up 17 weeks of strict bedrest and buckets of medicine and various spiritual treatments. Now, if you’ve never done bedrest, you might be thinking, “that must have been nice” or “I wish I could lie down for 4+months…” Trust me, it wasn’t and you don’t. It’s a special kind of hell, bedrest. There’s a myriad of physical aches and pains and complications, especially when you have another child, but the real trick is in your thoughts. Bedrest is almost exclusively a mind game.

You know that feeling when you’re standing on a ledge and you worry that if you think about it too long, your thoughts will make you fall over? (I don’t think I’m the only one who does that). It’s kind of like that. You are lying down and, for me, trying not to go into labor. Imagine trying not to think about what might be but definitely is happening in your body while you are not allowed to move. For months at a time. “Don’t make it happen,” you think, like that’s something you can even control.

If you made it this far, congrats. I’ll cheer it up now that I’ve convinced you it was bleak. 11 years ago tonight, I was wrapping up 17 weeks of bedrest, including a Christmas that I spent on my side, couching it whilst my family members ran snacks to me and tried not to stomp too hard and make me go into labor. I was a glorious 34 weeks pregnant, my personal record (to this day) when I decided it would probably be okay to go to the movies and get some post-Christmas joy. So off we went. I walked from my house to the car and then from the car to the theatre to watch Lion Witch and the Wardrobe and then the next day I had Toby in my arms. Oops.

Tomorrow he will be 11 years old, my gorgeous genius of a rainbow baby that I begged God for and then worked desperately to keep. It’s been the best 11 years of my life.


my children and their OTHER life

I’ve got this sinking suspicion that my children have a life beyond me. The other day, my 9 year old told me,”You don’t know everything about me,” and I immediately replied, “Yes I do,” but guys, I think maybe I’m wrong.

You know that thing, now that we’re grownups, when we tell our funny story in front of our aged parents and they’re like, “you did WHAT now?” Well, depending on how aged they are, there might be more questions. I’m pretty sure I’ve told about the time we shot bottle rockets into traffic multiple times but every time my mom is freshly shocked. That might be a different thing.

But in general, when you say, “this one time, (chortle, chortle), we tied the cat to a whole bunch of balloons and threw him out the window*” or, “that time that we sat through 4 movies in a row at the dollar theater” and then we always follow up with, “where were our PARENTS?”, real judgy-like, like we are currently doing better.

In reality, while we are telling funny stories and drinking adult beverages**, our children are somewhere nearby, having a life without us. Mine are still pretty open with me. “Mom, read my journal,” they say, like I didn’t read it the night before while they were drooling on a library copy of Wizard Cats. “Today we went to school,” it reads. “It was fun.” 6 weeks from now I will discover that on “fun day” my child covered another child in leaves and pine needles in what might have been a school escape experiment. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll find that out when I’m 70, sitting calmly in the midst of my grandchildren and their parents, asking “Where were YOU, grandma?” And I won’t know, because my children have a secret life.

In reality, I was right there. I was on the couch when they swung from the staircase on a scarf. I was sitting outside the bathroom when they poured nail polish remover in the bath. I was at the table with them when they put eggnog in their cereal instead of milk. I’m right here, all the time, close enough to get sneezed on and somehow they still have surprises.

I found this apology note a few days ago, about an incident I am unaware of. I’m mostly pleased, because, 1. apology 2. I didn’t have to referee and 3. forgiveness


Sometimes, my children think they are having a secret life, programming the piano to play their song instead of actually playing it, or hiding under the counter and eating all the grapes or poking giant holes in the front yard with a stake they might have pulled out of someone else’s yard- but I do know and I just weighed the options and decided to stay out of it. The trouble is, I think I’m gonna forget which incidences were willful ignorance and which ones were actual ignorance.

But someday, I hope I am sitting on the couch, listening to my kids tell about a full, funny childhood and all the adventures they had while their children have a secret life RIGHT THERE IN THE MIDDLE OF US. Someday, babies. Until then, I’ll just read your journals.


*this story for illustration purposes only
** coffee and name-brand soda

to mothers of miscarriage

I gained entrance to an awful club about a decade ago. Before I joined, I thought the membership was pretty exclusive, but now I know there are way too many of us.

Statistically, 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in miscarriage. That’s a staggering number, and it doesn’t even factor in late losses, stillbirths and the rest.

When I said goodbye to my twins, I had no idea of the sisterhood surrounding me. Now I see us, in the grocery store, in the elevator, sitting in churches, mothers without our children. Even when there are more children, our hearts know who is missing.

“I don’t know what to do,” they tell me, “I am so sad but I was barely even pregnant…”

“I shouldn’t be so sad,” they say, “my mom/husband/doctor/friends say something was wrong with it/the baby is in heaven/we weren’t ready for kids/it wasn’t really a baby…”


Listen, mamas… you should be so sad. In a perfect world, no mother would ever have to live in a world without their child. You, however briefly, carried the soul of your child in your body. You are connected forever. You are their mother. Name your baby, mourn your baby, remember your baby. If someone can’t empathize with you or understand that, then thank God they have not had to experience that kind of loss, but don’t let their comprehension control your emotion. You know, we always know, deep down inside, who we carried.

Someday, on the other side, we will sit by a river with the children we always knew, always loved. We will know them and they will know us. In that reality, we will finally be complete. Until then, we remember them, and we offer the hand of sisterhood, the grace to weep and remember.