God works in mysterious ways

I hated my dad. Loathed him. Anyone who knew me well knew this. And I grew up with 100% certainty that he hated me,too. During my early teen years I would cry to my mother that I knew I was an awful person because I didn't just hate him...I wished he would die. What kind of horrible child wishes that? Clearly, his hatred was warranted-even well deserved. Clearly, I was somehow defective and undeserving of love. At least love from a father because my mother and grandmother loved me and I knew it. I felt it. But my biological father, whom I never met-wanted nothing to do with me. The only dad I knew didn't want or love me either. So, it had to be me.
This could be incredibly long and drawn out, filled with many details and memories of fights, hurtful words and hateful thoughts. But there's no need. Suffice it to say that I was NOT my father's daughter, I knew I wasn't and I was thankful. Because I hated him.
Through the years I found ways to "cope" with the lack of fatherly love, affection, approval, interest, etc. Things that have actually become almost comical now. For instance my favorite sports teams across the board have always been the ones my father hated. And anything he loved I vowed to loathe for all eternity. Golf? I would rather poke my eyes out. The Redskins? Gag. The Reds? Hell no. My favorite was probably our Celtics/Lakers battle. He ADORED the Celtics. So it stands to reason I was REQUIRED to hate them and adore the Lakers- who he hated more than anything. To this day many of my choices stand.
Other ways of coping were much less healthy. Again, no real need to go into great detail because it just doesn't matter anymore nor is it necessary for the point of this blog post. What actually is the point? I'm glad you asked......
The relationship (or lack thereof) with my dad came to a head the year my baby sister got married. We were having some get together at my parents' house and for whatever reason my dad and I started exchanging words. It continued to his sitting on the couch, smirking and seeming to enjoy my pain as usual. Suddenly, I was standing in front of him in real physical pain letting 30 plus years of never being "enough" and of feeling "less than" just pour out through heated tears. I can't even remember most of what I said. But it was raw and it was real and it was necessary. When I was done, as I walked away I saw tears well up in his eyes and he had no expression on his face. It was the first time I saw my dad as a person with emotions. It was the first time I can ever recall seeing his eyes well with tears. Had I possibly gotten to him?
That day ended with my telling him that he was dead to me. He was not to include me in ANY conversation when asked about his family because he was not now, had never been and would NEVER be my father and I was certainly (thank God) NOT his daughter.
We didn't speak or acknowledge each other for at least 2 or 3 years after that. And it was fine with me. I was content with that. I thought.
In December of 2004 my family and I drove to Ohio for Christmas with my parents, siblings and children. It was crazy and chaotic as all my family functions are and I loved it. And my dad was actually pleasant. Which was definitely new. He's never been super social and typically ends up grouchy and not really participating in family things for long. This was different. He socialized a bit with all of us, interacted some with all the kids and seemed overall in a good mood. When it was time for us to head back to Maryland something pushed me to be "the bigger person" and go speak to him. So, I walked into his room in the basement and told him we were going. I thanked him for the gifts for my family and everything and said we would see him when we made it home next time. He replied accordingly to each, stood when I came in and we hugged goodbye. I'm not sure why but I heard myself saying "love you,dad". And this voice said "I love you,too Jean. Be careful going home".
This man.....this person who I had blamed for nearly every single pain of my existence....this person who had NEVER EVER - not once EVER in my life uttered those words or anything resembling them to me.....just said he loved me. WHAT?!!
From that point on our relationship was different. No, I wasn't suddenly "daddy's little girl". But we spoke. The underlying anger and hatred didn't permeate our every meeting. The hard feelings didn't weigh down my shoulders when I walked in the door. Now it was two adults who were able to be human to each other. It was a nice change. I still didn't "feel" affection or real daughterly love toward him but I didn't hate him either.
In June of 2017 my mom called. That call literally changed everything. My dad was not well. He had been hearing voices, become depressed and was having thoughts of harming himself and my mom. I was scared and sobbing and feeling all the feelings all at once. Somehow I managed to drive the 8 hours to their home without really knowing I was driving at all. (Scary) The short version is we got my dad to the ER, fully evaluated and then admitted to a care facility for two weeks for treatment. For the next two plus years we watched him improve and come out of the fog of the severe depression and mental break he had gone through. It was scary. It was hard. And man was it inconvenient.
Something I said then has resonated with me lately........I told my mom and sisters that it was pretty inconvenient to suddenly be slapped in the face with the reality that not only do I not hate my father but it's likely I never TRULY hated him to begin with. It was just a little bit of an interference in my life to suddenly have these feelings overwhelm me and realize that I actually love the jerk.
Our relationship changed again after that and we became closer. We had conversations. He listened to things I talked about. And he asked my advice about his diabetes. (He was diagnosed and I have had it for years.) One day, we sat at the dining room table...just my dad and I. And we spent about two hours looking through photo albums of his childhood, his family, etc. It was the first time I had ever heard him really talk about his childhood and what life was like then. And it was the first time I think I truly SAW him.
You see, years before I had realized that my dad did the best he could do with the tools he was given. And he wasn't given much. Don't get me wrong, my grandparents were not hateful people. They weren't physically abusive. They just weren't loving and affectionate "huggy feely" parents. They were affectionate toward each other in the photos. There are letters written by my grandmother that reflect her love and personality. When it came to my dad and his brother though.....love was shown to your children by providing for them. If you spent money on things for them (even if it was just socks and underwear) that was showing love. The hugs, the words, the human touch....weren't necessary. In all honesty my father wasn't given ANY tools and should never have been a parent. BUT-having said that......my father did his best. He provided. For ALL of us. We had a roof. We had food. We had what we needed to live and grow. The love (at least outwardly) wasn't there but in his way, the only way he knew- he was showing us he loved us.
So-here we are. My dad is currently in a nursing home. Thanks to my own winter illnesses and COVID I haven't seen him since late January. He hasn't been home since he left Christmas Eve for the ER after suffering a massive stroke. Once again-I found myself "inconvenienced" by all the feelings. I was scared. Would he recover? Did he lose memories? Does he know....anything/anyone? Will he still be DAD?! And I prayed. Hard.
Prayer is a funny thing. My prayers consist of a conversation with God. I talk to Him often,about much (everything) in a casual way. It's not formal. I don't kneel at my bedside, close my eyes and fold my hands. I don't think God minds. I just talk to Him. Wherever I am. Whenever I need to. For years I prayed for the relationship with my father. My mom would tell me that all we can do is pray that God soften his heart because He is the only one who can. So I asked. Repeatedly. Ironic that through all those years praying for God to soften the heart of the man I "hated" He was actually softening mine.

The Mess

I am an emotionally exhausted, physically spent, battered bundle of a hot mess. Have been for weeks, longer if I am honest. This past week-ish (two) has been exceptionally overwhelming. I drove to SC to retrieve one of my offspring who had just completed her last final exam putting the period on her freshman year as a college student. She had an amazing year. Were there hiccups? Sure. The homesickness never became debilitating, the roomies were a PERFECT fit for her, she made the Dean's List, got invited to the Honor's College and her anxiety was fairly well controlled. (Apparently attitude and stubbornness aren't the only things momma handed down). As her friends helped her carry her every worldly possession from the dorm to the van I reflected on how quickly her year went and how on Earth could this baby girl already be done with her first year at college. I shook my head as I realized she will turn 20 at the end of this year. And then I cried a little. 20. How did THAT happen?? How could it be that I am mother to not one but FOUR grown humans who by the end of this year will ALL have lived two decades on this planet?!! No. Impossible. We spent the night with the first of my offspring that night. I got a little misty as I sat there watching this grown man-child relax on the couch next to his soon to be wife, in their beautiful new home, laughing at the antics of their precious little boy. The contentment with his life....the happiness in his eyes.......*sniff sniff*. The one who made me a mother is a father. Where did those years go?? Watching my second born and other member of the "Original Two" as they call themselves chase his dream.....not just chase but grab it and make it his own! Two years ago we didn't know what the next day would look like. A stroke tried to stop him. Today he is a new business owner working for himself.....teaching others how to be their personal best. He advocates for stroke awareness and has surrounded himself with some pretty amazing individuals. I choked up thinking how different life might have been if that stroke had won. There is a hint of sadness when I listen to my oldest daughter excitedly talk about moving out.....to her own apartment soon as she searches listings. Of course I am ecstatic that she is strong, independent and goal driven so there's no question she'll be fine. Yes I am proud and thankful that she is in a position with an incredible (reliable) company that offers her the income (and benefits) that will afford her the ability to live on her own. But I'll miss knowing this is her full time home. I'll miss her habit of leaving her water bottles on the counter no matter how many times I remind her. And that little boy. That sweet child she is raising......I will miss his laughter as he goes to bed at night and shouts up the stairs "night GRAMS" an thinks he's hysterical. (He is). But she's a better mother than I was at her age and she will do amazingly well. Then.....oh and then.........those two young ones who have simultaneously chosen (more like conspired) to test every patience nerve I possess by simply deciding school is not important and they have better things to do than all that stupid homework. That 14 year old girl who.....wait. She's 14. Is there really any need to say more?? But- she's 14. OMG. She will start high school in September. That tiny, fragile, weak little thing with the broken heart and lack of blood that scared me to death upon her entry into this world is going to high school. My brain just can't allow for that. And the boy. The boy who can be the funniest, sweetest young man.......who used to be those things. But that boy has gone into hiding over the last several years and I see him less often as each day passes. That boy who tests every limit of every ounce of patience I have ever had. We have struggled for so long with all the issues......and I fought for him. It took me years but I fought for him and we finally have a diagnosis and an initial plan. It's odd though. I believed that statement would somehow bring relief -- make me feel "better". Instead.....I sobbed. Relief, yes. I wasn't crazy (well, I am.....clearly- but that's not THIS post). It wasn't all in my head and his issues weren't the result of my failure as a parent. Except I DID fail as a parent. I failed to acknowledge the initial signs when maybe doing so could have minimized his struggle. I failed my own expectations of being some ridiculously unobtainable supermom. So----- I'm a mess. A hot one. All the time lately. And believe it or not I couldn't really put my finger on why! (Stop laughing). Yeah....all that stuff is a lot. Sure it can be overwhelming. But moms.....women in general....isn't that sort of what we do? Overwhelming. We overcome that crap with our eyes closed most of the time. (A happy pill or adult beverage are usually great assistants. Just saying). But really---I have a kid who's 30. Why should overwhelming have me in such a state when I've been doing this for sooooo many years. Wait. That's it. Years. Time. It's time. It's THAT time. Again. Dammit. It's Spring. Again. And with Spring comes..........

The ache. The knowledge of time passing. Missed milestones. Upcoming anniversaries.

It's funny- I end up writing something almost every Spring about how it snuck up on me again and how it affected my mood, etc. I write about how Spring means Summer isn't far behind......and with that comes August which will mean another birthday celebrated ......remembered ...... without them. Each year I talk about how it surprises me that my mood changes as the time nears. And it does. Every year. Every time it's a surprise. Yes, I know it's coming. Yes I am fully aware of the dates all year long. But I think every year when we mark the day they were born I somehow think next year won't be "as bad". That somehow time and its passage will soften that blow when the next season rolls around. It doesn't. It never will.

It's been over a decade. More than ten years. Quickly approaching eleven. That's ten birthdays already marked and this....the eleventh Spring. Soon summer will follow along and bring with it the eleventh birthday...........

And so I am a huge bundle of twisted messiness. Because it's Spring. And for as much as I spend all winter craving the sunshine I desperately wish we could somehow skip over August. As if that would clean up the mess.

Grief is My Badge

Grief. It's a big word. Enormous. It has enormous meaning and brings with it depth of emotion you never knew existed. We're taught to contain it (as if we could). We're told to keep it inside....to hide the emotions that come with it. Grief makes others uncomfortable. Grief is awkward. It's messy. It's not normal.
Except it is. For many of us....grief becomes our normal. It's a constant companion. It's the weight on our shoulders, the heaviness in our chest, the weariness in our eyes and the hollow in our heart. We learn how to carry it, to carry on.....in spite of the grief.  But no matter how adept we become at carrying that pain with us and wearing the mask of actual normalcy in public so as not to upset "the others" or make them cringe at hearing about our losses grief is always there.....just under the surface. Swirling slowly like a funnel cloud....twisting and churning......growing in strength until that moment you least expect it and suddenly- control is lost. The F5 cuts its path through your seemingly tidy life and upsets everything in it's way. You're left to survey the damage, pick up the pieces and wonder if you'll be able to put your life back together.....again.....for the millionth time.
There's another side to grief. To this luggage I carry. To the pain I walk hand in hand with every step of every moment of every day. There's a sense of security. There's a feeling of ...... honor. It's a badge.
There was a time when I prayed the grief would end. That I'd wake up just once and not feel the pain and emptiness that comes from the loss of them. That there'd be a finish line to this journey of constant sorrow. Somewhere along the way....I changed my mind.
I don't want the grief to end. I welcome it's presence in my life because as unpredictable and painful as it may be (is) the grief....the pain.....means they lived. They existed. No matter how briefly. For a moment----they WERE. I was (am) their mother. Dear God how I welcome and revel in that knowledge. They WERE. The grief means that I remember. An end to the hollow place in my soul.....a stop to the tears......would mean I've forgotten their tiny, perfect, beautiful faces. That I can no longer close my eyes and breathe in the memory of their scent. The end to the emptiness means I no longer feel their tiny bodies in my arms as I clutched them to me wishing.....BEGGING to be able to love them awake. Oh how I never want to forget.
And so.....I carry this grief. Willingly. Openly. Proudly. I wear it. And I will keep wearing it as long a there is breath in my lungs. I will wear with honor. Honored to have been chosen to be their mother. Honored to remember every moment they were with me. Honored to still feel the inexplicable mix of soul shattering pain and overwhelming joy in the moments they were born. Honored that even now......ten years later......an entire decade of missed memories and milestones.....even now- they are my daugters. Grief is my badge.

Permission to Miss Them

The time is coming....again....too quickly. I looked at the date on my computer and noticed, of course...it's the 20th. **sigh** So, I counted. Not that I had to. I never have to. We just don't....
Parents who have had to say their absolute final farewells to their children never have to count. We always know. We know how long it's been since and how long until the next milestone/anniversary. We just know. 
Eight weeks. Exactly. Eight weeks from today will mark a decade. It will mark ten years since the very last time I felt my daughters move within my ever expanding abdomen. Ten years since I walked into a doctor's office and heard those words that have echoed in my ears so many times since....." I'm so sorry." A decade without them. Eight weeks. Five days after that I will mark the ten year mark for the day I delivered my daughters. So incredibly tiny, perfect and beautiful....and silent. How is it possible? Have I really survived ten years since that day? Ten years ago I wasn't sure I would survive the moment, the next day, the week.....and yet-I have. 
Sunday was father's day....and I read and smiled at so many posts and comments about fathers both living and no longer with us. And it struck me as it often does that while we (the loss community) have made incredible strides in raising awareness and helping some to understand just what our loss entails-we still have major mountains to move. 
How many postings did you see expressing love and longing for fathers long passed? People who genuinely wish they had more time with their father to create just one more memory, give one more hug, express one last I love you. Many I am sure and you likely expressed your loving thoughts to them on such a difficult day to be without their father. You held out some supportive comment on how lucky they were to have had time with their father and how you're certain daddy is watching over them and proud, etc. And not once did you (no matter how much time has passed since their loss) question their state of mind, their sanity, their ability to function in life or suggest they seek help, stop living in the past or move on because sweet Lord this "hanging on" just isn't healthy or normal. (I loathe that word almost as much as the other n word, BTW). 
And yet.....here I sit....almost ten years after giving birth to two children whose every moment I had planned in my head. Two little girls whose siblings had already determined who would wear which color and what their likes/dislikes and personalities would be. Two little girls who I instead held against me, lifeless as I drank in every detail of their appearance, inhaled their scent and kissed their little faces and fingers over and over wishing desperately to awake from this nightmare. Two little girls whose siblings have grown/aged and become ten years older without them. Two little girls who instead of having toys shoved under couches and clothes strewn around the house have two tiny urns on a shelf. 
Ten years of pain and daily grief that I am not supposed to talk about. It's not normal. It just isn't healthy to relive it. It's funny.....there was a time ten years ago when I couldn't get through a thought of them without losing any semblance of emotional strength or control. I cried. Daily. I sobbed every night. And I prayed often to join them because the pain of living without them outweighed every single other emotion/feeling I possessed. But now...a decade later....I am able to smile. To think of them and remember how amazing it felt when they would toss and turn and kick inside of me. To revel in the joy of those weekly appointments when I could listen to the music of their heartbeats and stare in awe at their growing bodies and beautiful faces on the ultrasound machine. If I close my eyes I can see them. I can feel them. And I can still smell the scent of their bodies as I clung to them. 
But...it never fails....people don't see my loss as a true/real loss. When I talk about my daughters I get messages. People are concerned for my well being. They question my state of mind and whether or not I need to seek help. Should I maybe consider medicating to level out my emotional state? Is it really healthy for my OTHER children (who I really should be thankful for) to see me "this way" ALL the time?? **sigh**
Would you ask your best friend whose father died 30 years ago if she needs help because she STILL misses him? No. Of course you wouldn't. Because their is absolutely nothing abnormal/wrong/unhealthy with the fact that someone misses their father once they are gone from this life. Guess what? There is EQUALLY nothing abnormal/wrong/unhealthy with my STILL missing my CHILDREN who DIED. Why can we not seem to balance those two situations in our minds? 
So....please consider this a REALLY long disclaimer for the posts that will no doubt start popping up on my social media. Because I miss them. Every moment of every second of every hour of every single day. I think of them all the time. And in eight weeks I will be marking a very big passage of time that has been spent missing them. But it doesn't mean I am unhealthy. It doesn't mean I am depressed, suicidal or holding onto the past. It simply means....I miss my children. 

The Finish Line

Life moves so quickly....sometimes too much so. There's always some deadline, some time limit or some destination we simply MUST beat/make/arrive at in the least amount of time possible. We talk all the time about slowing down, taking a break, enjoying the moment........we just don't seem to actually do any of those things.
I, however.....am about to slow down, take a break and absolutely savor the moment that is kicking in my front door with urgency. It's almost here. Time is almost up. The finish line is right there....almost.....almost.
There were times when I worried if this moment would ever come. Would we make it there together? Would we be a team, crossing that end point in unity or would I be chasing behind them, trying to get them across the finish and into their next race? Would the journey to this destination be smooth, would it be bumpy, would it be nearly impassible? Would our path be blocked or would we see our way clear to the end? I worried. I prayed. I hoped. I imagined. And now......
We've made it. We're there. Together. Unified. Whole. We did it....the road was bumpy at times but it was unencumbered by the evil of the past. We've made it......and for the first time in a decade I feel as if I am almost able to breathe.
When that man walked into that school all those years ago disappearing with my children the very breath left my lungs. The sound of my heart pounding in my throat was deafening. The fear that I might never find them....never see them again.....well....
It took two years. Two years filled with so much pain, confusion,frustration, anger, desperation....and just about every other emotion there is. Two years of having the gears of the legal system grind painfully slow and having courtroom doors slammed in my face. Two years. He stole two years of my life....their lives....OUR life together. But there was a destination even then. And we reached that one. They came home. We made it. The journey was incredibly rocky with obstacles at every turn. The finish wasn't pretty. It was traumatic. But we made it.
We drove away from that apartment, that life, the lies, the coercion, the mental/emotional abuse (and borderline physical) and embarked on a new journey. There wasn't a map for this one. This was all going to be unexplored territory. And my children were scared. They were confused. And I was terrified. Terrified they'd run. Terrified he'd track us down and take them again. Terrified they might never love me again or think of me as their mother.
But guess what? We made it.
There have been ups, downs and in betweens along this leg of the trip. It's been almost a decade. Ten years. Ten years since they left that life. Ten years since they said goodbye to him without knowing it would be the very last time they would see him. Ten years since we started the job of moving forward. I have spent ten years watching with awe as my children have learned, loved, lost.....as they've fallen and pulled themselves back up.....as they went from scared, confused, untrusting little girls with huge chips on their shoulders to confident, loving, compassionate young women with hope, dreams and goals for the future and the drive to get there. I have been blessed to be a participant in all of it. Not a spectator. And here we are....together.....days away from walking across the finish line together. The three of us.
The relief is overwhelming. The knowledge that I no longer have to worry "What if he ....." is empowering. I can't lie-I still feel myself tensing just a bit anytime I see a license plate from Ohio, My subconscious still wonders....could it be him? Has he come to get them? But now-it passes almost as soon as it arrives. Because we've made it. We made it. Together. Unified. Whole.

The Purge

Cidney is 18 years old now. She's grown. How did that happen? WHEN did that happen? My two little girls, my oldest daughters - both now adult women. I know this. And yet as with most mothers I try to hang onto small pieces and parts of the little girls I used to know. Favorite books, sloppy drawings, jibberish scribbled on slips of paper.........tiny scraps of when they were so small and relied on me to love, nurture, teach and protect them. They are grown now and while I will always love, nurture and hopefully teach them whenever possible they no longer need or rely on me to protect them. And so........it's time to let go.
I emptied a section of my filing cabinet. It was there in the bottom drawer, tucked away in the back.....just in case. It has been there for over a decade now......just in case. Just in case......in case I needed to prove once again what really happened, what was really said, what was really done. Just in case.....in case "he" decided to show up, unannounced and try it again. Just in case......
To anyone else it looked like random papers, old shipping labels, used up agendas, piles of old emails and file folders. Nothing special. Nothing extraordinary. Typical things we shove in a drawer and forget about. Except I never forgot. I couldn't. The random papers and used up agendas were special. The emails and file folders were extraordinary. Even if for all the wrong reasons.
But it is time to let go........
Out they all came. Every email. Every paper. Every file. Every agenda. And into the shredder. Two years of searching for my daughters, being denied access to them, accounts of their lives with their kidnapper and his accomplices, ignored orders from the courts, countless contempt charges, statements from neighbors and teachers. There were depositions, continuance notices....so many continuance notices. And emails. Tons of emails. Emails from an often distraught and desperate mother begging for help to rescue her daughters. Emails from attorneys making false allegations and excuses for their client. Emails filled with hatred, anger, lies and disgusting things being slung from the accused. And I let them all go......
We did it. We made it. We survived. And they are grown now. I did my job. I rescued them. I brought them home and loved---oh how I loved those fragile, broken girls. I nurtured them. I taught them that they were innocent and that it was still ok to love him, to miss him, to remember him in happier times. And I protected them. From every word in that drawer. Every lie. Every accusation. And they made it. And they are grown. Amazing......beautiful....brilliant and incredible grown women. So now...now I can let go.

The Year of The Decades

It's funny what you reflect on sometimes. Even funnier when you are struck with something in the midst of that reflection. These little "epiphanies" make us smile, laugh, cry....bring us joy, make us wistful...and somtimes- they can suck the breath right from our lungs.
As I sit here reflecting on my "big" birthday coming later this year and imagining how it will feel to turn another decade older.....I am suddenly struck by all the other decades that are being marked this year.
You see, I'll be 50 in October. Five decades. Half a century. I've walked this planet (well, existed on it anyway) for almost 50 years. I look back through those decades and remember just how much things, times, people and myself have changed. How far I've come and how far I still have to go. I think about the milestones in those five decades and can't help but acknowledge them.
40- four decades. Four decades ago my baby brother was born. He just celebrated his 40th birthday in Vegas. Forty years and yet I can still remember the day he was born quite clearly. Waking up to bath towels on the kitchen floor and my Aunt Denise getting me off to school. Sitting in Miss Chiles' third grade classroom watching the clock and waiting for "the call" and being shocked (and confused) at how nice she was to me that day. Miss Chiles was NEVER nice to me.
30-three decades. In July three decades will have passed since I found out there was a tiny little person growing inside of me. It seems like yesterday that I sat there, crying and terrifed at the news and unable to register a single thing the nurse on the other end of the phone said to me once she uttered that word. Three decades of the scariest, most joyous roller coaster ride a person could ever take.
20-two decades. My daughter....my very first baby girl will turn two decades old in May. How? How can this even be real? Wasn't it just last week that she was playing with her dolls and wearing those adorably uneven pigtails? Now she is all grown up into a beautiful mother. Where did those decades go?
And then......the breath sucker. That proverbial punch in the stomach. 10.
Ten years.
Ten years ago I sat at my desk thinking something just felt off. Ten years ago I went home from work and peed on a stick. And saw the lines. Positive. Three weeks later I stared at a screen in disbelief at not one but two tiny little people nestled in my womb. I spent the next months fluctuating between ridiculous JOY as I imagined, planned for and (im)patiently waited to meet my baby girls and sheer TERROR at the prospect of having not one but four children aged 3 and under to care for AT THE SAME TIME as well as an eight and ten year old and two newly graduated college kids. And then.....
Ten years ago I walked into a doctor's office and watched that screen, searching for some sign of life no matter how small. There were no signs. No life. Just instant, overwhelming, raw grief and an excruciating and soul shattering agony. In August- a decade will have passed since the last time my daughters took a breath. A decade of missed milestones in the midst of so many others being marked and remembered.
Yes, the breathing will be labored this year.....this year of the decades.

The number nine

Today was incredibly hard for me. Much harder than the last couple have been. And, I fear-not nearly as difficult as next year will be. I can't fathom marking a decade without my babies. It just doesn't seem .....real/fair/natural/normal. How can it be? How can it be nine years now? How can it be that nine years have passed since I touched them? Since I got to kiss those tiny, beautiful and oh so perfect faces? Has it really been nine years since I tenderly wiped the blood dripping from Zoe's nose with hands that would not stop shaking? Was it really nine years ago that I clung to their tiny bodies as the chaplain baptised them and formally "gave them to God"? Gave them to God.....ironic, don't you think? Because He already had them. They were already gone.

Today was dark although no one else noticed. It was 90 degrees. The sky was a brilliant blue. The sun was wickedly and brutally intense. And I didn't notice any of it. Not really.
I didn't fall asleep until well after 3am. And I slept until almost 10am. I had purposefully finished all the laundry and other household chores on Thursday and Friday because I knew......I didn't want to feel obligated to do anything if I wasn't able to. And I wasn't. I wasn't able. I couldn't.
I woke at a couple minutes before ten....and my face was already wet from tears. I had apparently begun silently crying at some point in my sleep. It's funny how the body, the spirit, the mind, the soul all KNOW without you even needing to be conscious. No reminders necessary. That's because the loss is there. Always. It never leaves. It doesn't fade. It is there. Every moment. Of every day. Of every year. Forever.
I tried several times to stop the tears. I of course failed. They came off and on and without real provocation for hours. At some point I left the house and decided to drive around to try and pull myself together so I could at least appear somewhat normal. Another failure. Not only did I fail to get it together, I have very few clear memories of even leaving the house, driving, where I went or returning home. I was absent.
But I did come back home. I sat and had lunch with Cidney and Georgie. Lily had spent the night at a friend's and Ceara was already at work. I ate and then sat on the couch. In a fog. Oblivious to - everything. The tears were still coming and going. I was just so unaware of ...... life.....and so unable to function that I didn't even recognize my own child when he walked into the room and leaned down to hug me. I heard the front door open. I watched him walk up the entry stairs. I heard his voice calling me mom and saying he had come to surprise me. Telling me that he and his brother wanted to be with me and since they couldn't both be here they had decided together that he would come. That they both wanted me to know they love me. That they both wanted me to have flowers.......bright, sunny, beautiful flowers which he held out for me. But I didn't recognize him for several moments. It didn't register. My mind was so incredibly...I don't know....empty of rational thought or filled with painful memories or both? And once the recognition clicked-the tears came. Again.
Ricky and I released the two pink balloons he brought with him. We stood there, holding on to each other, watching them float up in that brilliant blue sky until we could no longer see them. And they made the entire trip together. Never parting by more than a foot. As it should be- since Chloe and Zoe took every single step of their journey on this Earth, in this life and in their departure from it together. Never separating for more than a moment when Chloe took her very last breath, followed by Zoe just seconds later. Hand in hand. Heart to heart. Every step. Together.
Time elapsed today. But I didn't feel it or notice it passing. Not really. Time, for me- stood still today. Again. Just like it did nine years ago. Time for me-today-was nothing more than a cruel reminder that there are two little girls missing. Two voices that don't call out to me. Two sets of feet that aren't climbing trees. Two sets of arms that aren't reaching for me or squeezing me until breathing becomes a problem. Two faces that aren't being washed after ice cream. Two lives that....aren't.
For most of the year, each year....I function. I carry on. I live. I love. I laugh. I experience great joy. I watch six of my children and now two precious grandbabies grow and thrive and love life. I celebrate every single blessing that is each one of them....their successes, their failures, their hopes, their dreams and am thankful for all of it. Good. Bad. Ugly. For most of the year I am "normal". Or at least....as normal as any woman who has ever had to sit in a funeral home for her child or children can be. I miss them. I think of them. I carry them with me. I have my moments. But all in all, I am ok.
And then.....there is the month of August. The pain. The sadness. The sorrow.....they are all there. In August. August 7th....the last time I saw my daughters alive, bouncing and kicking on the ultrasound. Pushing each other and competing for what little space was left. August 15th.....the day my daughters took their last breaths. The day my daughters died. The day I had to pretend everything was ok-nothing was wrong so my oldest daughters would be able to focus and do well on their placement tests for their new school. They had only been home, in Maryland for 15 days. They had had just two weeks to be told I was pregnant, to get used to the news and to become incredibly excited that they would soon be big sisters, again......and this time to twins. And now...they were never going to meet them. August 20th. The day my daughters, silent and still, perfect and beautiful entered this world and every single thing I had ever known, felt, thought, believed was forever altered. August 21st. The day my daughters were baptised in my arms. The day I kissed them for the very last time and sent them away with a funeral director while every fiber of my being was screaming to please just let me keep them a little while longer. Knowing that a little while longer was never going to be long enough. Nothing would be. August 22nd. The day I left the hospital- empty. Empty handed. Arms empty. Heart shattered. Soul broken. Empty. August 31st. The day I walked into a funeral home and walked out with two tiny porcelain urns that now held my daughters inside. Two jars. Small containers that sit on a shelf as a reminder that nine years ago there were two little girls who.....were. I hate August. And I love it. IT is a battle. It will always be a battle.
This August was no different. But it was at the same time. I made it through almost every one of those dates without the anxiety and tears that typically ensue. And then...I didn't. Then I fell apart. The control was no more. Then- August 20th happened. Again. Nine years. And I wondered the same thing I wonder every August 20th. Will this ever get any easier? Will the pain ever lessen? Will there ever be an August 20th that doesn't send me right back to that hospital room? To the all encompassing and excruciating rawness? I know the answer. My heart knows. My head knows. My soul knows.....it has always known. No. Simply. There will never be a time without the pain. There will never be a birthday celebrated without the tears and longing. The ache will never dull.
And so- I will continue to function as normally as a mother who has said goodbye to her children can. On most days. For most of the year. And I won't for the rest.

Back to School #67

That's right. I said number 67. That's because that's what this was for me. Today. This afternoon as I led my son into his elementary school to meet his fifth grade teacher I walked in to my 67th back to school meet and greet. My son, my little boy-who is now all grown up (or so he thinks) and will spend his final year in elementary school will be the last time I walk into an elementary school to meet a teacher for one of my babies. Not because he's the last baby I have.....because he's the last baby I have that's alive. 
When your child/children die "they" tell you lots of things. They tell you it will be hard (it's impossible). They tell  you there will be sadness and tears (try full blown depression and soul shattering sobs) at first (for years). They tell you the pain will get better with time and that your wounds will heal (the pain does NOT get better....ever.....the wounds are reopened with EVERY SINGLE missed milestone. We simply get better at carrying our scars with us.) But there are many more things they don't tell you. 
They don't tell you that one day you will wake up and it will be what SHOULD have been their first day of kindergarten. And you will cry. You will be reduced to a heap of tears. You will lost your ability to form full sentences and to function in any real capacity as a human being. And you will-as you have so many MANY times before pick yourself up, dust yourself off and force yourself to continue....foward....to care for the children you have with you,relying on you for their care. Because you have to. 
They also don't tell you that one day, you will walk into fifth grade with your child feeling all sorts of sentimental because this is your "last" baby. Your "youngest". Your "last" fifth grader meeting his last elementary teacher. Ever. Except....it's not. He is not your last baby. He is not your youngest. He shouldn't be your last fifth grader. There were two little girls born after him. They were your last babies. They are your youngest. They should be your silly, smart and rambunctious third graders. They should be your last fifth graders. But they died. 
They don't tell you that this knowledge will cause your brain to count. How many first days? How many back to school nights? How many open houses, award ceremonies, concerts, science fairs, Christmas plays, winter festivals, school carnivals, book fairs, field trips and graduations have you attended? How many have you missed because your babies never got to be in them? How many years have you sent your children off to school and how many more years will you miss out on because your babies will never go?
67 . Sixty-seven back to school nights and first days of school since 1993 when I sent my very first baby off to his very first elementary school teacher. Lily will give me five more. Georgie will give me seven. And there should be two more little girls with nine more first days of school. But they aren't here. 

Disclaimers

When you have a baby there are endless amounts of advice, tips, suggestions and "how to's" given freely by anyone and everyone. Even strangers. You're instructed on all things parental from how to diaper your baby to when to potty train to how to love but not spoil your child. Most of this will be useless information but is well intended so you smile, nod accordingly and thank them for the guidance all the while knowing you'll never need that homemade remedy for all that ails your baby.
When you become a parent you already know that this will be the hardest thing you ever embark on. This will be your toughest job, longest journey and most difficult experience you will ever willingly take part in. But it will also be the most precious, most rewarding and joy-filled time of your entire existence.
But they forget the disclaimers. There is no fine print alerting you to what lies ahead. There are no quiet whispers of warning. No one tells you......the hardest part....the REAL work.....will come when your babies are grown ups.
You see-we all operate under the delusion that we have a baby and for the next 18 years we are parents. We are expected to love, nurture, teach, guide, discipline and rear this little person into a big person we can then kiss on the cheek, pat on the back and send out into the world to continue the cycle. Our job is then complete. We have accomplished our task. Life is good, calm and serene.
No. It isn't.. You see, when you have little children who become big children--and let's face it, they ARE our children regardless of age......there is not calm. Life is still tenuous. It is still chaotic. And real. And SCARY. The only thing that has changed is that you now will feel a total and complete sense of helplessness most if not all of the time.
Sure it's hard watching your little boy fall and require stitches. Or seeing your little girl get her feelings hurt by the mean girls at school. But nothing can prepare you for the real hurts.....the cuts that stitches won't heal and hugs won't take away. The pain that grows behind your child's eyes when the girl he loves suddenly drops him for another guy. The fear you live with when he stops living for three months and you wonder each morning if this will be the day you find the unthinkable. Those skinned knees are nothing next to the pit in your stomach when the phone rings at 5am and it's your adult child telling you that "I'm ok, so try not to freak out but some guy just tried to kill me. He pointed a gun at my face and pulled the trigger but missed". Or the 3am phone call to rescue your adult child from jail where some power hungry police officer has thrown him, refusing him medical care after he was assaulted and has blood coming from both ears, his nose and mouth.
You will almost long for those mean girl days when several years later you watch your little girl, now a mother herself.....make the hard decision to end her relationship with the man she loves for the good of her child. When you would rather go back to wiping away the tears of your child after being bullied for her looks because it's graduated to the so called grown up girl who was your daughter's best friend,  jealous of your daughter's grown up looks accusing her of any number of infractions and sending her nasty messages and instructing her to die, kill herself and hoping her anxiety gets the best of her.
It's watching your adult child struggle to reclaim his life after not one but two strokes have stolen his independence, his confidence, his stability and his calm all the while recalling your little invincible Superman falling off the monkey bars and breaking a bone-----thinking that would be the hardest thing you'd ever have to go through.
No. No one tells you that the broken bones, the stitches, the close calls, the skinned knees, broken hearts and the bloody noses will be the easiest part of parenting your child. No one warns you the the hurts, the scrapes, the injuries of childhood become moments of fear, uncertainty and heartbreak of adulthood. No one warns you that this, the parenting of the grown people you once snuggled to your chest will by far be the hardest, most emotionally exhausting and sometimes physically painful thing you will ever do.
Because there's no need to. The disclaimer would be useless. Because what we already know is....that this job....this thing we call parenting.....is beyond a doubt- WORTH EVERY SINGLE SECOND. And even if they did warn us.......even if there WAS a disclaimer-
We'd do it anyway. Because those moments are nothing, they are minute, they pale when compared to the moments when you watch your adult children experience the pride of making it on their own. The exhuberance of landing their dream job and feeling they can make a difference. The sheer joy the moment they become a parent. Those moments. They are--------well, they are everything.

Happy New Year

Another New Year. This means two things. First it means the end of another year. Twelve months of activities, ups, downs, milestones and memories made. Another year tucked away into the scrapbook of my mind where it's pages will eventually bend and yellow, where many of the snapshots will become unrecognizable and fade into the distance. Second it means the start of another year. Another clean slate waiting to be written on. A free pass to forget yesterday's mistakes and look forward to tomorrow's accomplishments. The anticipation of resolutions kept, goals achieved, milestones reached and new memories to be made. But that's not all the New Year brings........
The New Year means that we've (myself and other loss parents) made it through another twelve months of loss. Another year of that ever present void where our children used to be, should still be.......but aren't. Another year of holidays meant for family gatherings that we attend with a smile plastered across our faces and laugh loudly as if that will somehow mask our constant awareness that this family gathering as well as every.single.other.one is missing someone. Another birthday survived without the birthday boy or girl. Yet another prom/homecoming/graduation season wondering what that might have been like for.......... The New Year means we will again have to endure those moments in the twelve months to come. It means more missed milestones. More unmade memories. More empty frames and blank scrapbooks.
But it's a new year. And this year we will make resolutions. Like other parents do. Like we do every year since......
We will once again resolve to be stronger this year. To handle our pain better. To fall apart less. We will resolve to smile on their birthday, remain calm when asked if we're "still" sad and maintain composure in the face of each and every reminder - of them. And, much like most other parents who make resolutions we will fall short on many (if not all) of them. We will be weak. We will buckle under the burden of this pain. We will fall apart almost always when we least expect it. We will smile on their birthday- through a bevy of tears wishing another birthday wasn't here WITHOUT them. We will lose our cool when asked stupid questions or subjected to ridiculous (and often thoughtless) comments and our self control will absolutely falter when we don't need a reminder because we never forget, not for a moment that they aren't here. We will break our resolutions. And we will do as we have done and will continue to do until our dying breath...we will survive yet another new year. And another. And another. Without them.

I wonder....

It's her birthday today. Again. It's the eigth birthday she's had since she left your house. Since you left her life. Since she came home. It's her day. I wonder.....did you remember? Did you wake this morning to even the most fleeting thoughts of her? Did you find yourself at some point....any point....realizing the date and wondering about her? I wonder.....do you remember?
It was seventeen years ago. Today. It was such a long night and we thought she'd never arrive. And then she did. I was starving. You were exhausted. She was perfect. I wonder.......do you remember?
You've missed so much of her life, so much of her growth, so much of HER. You've missed her milestones, her accomplishments, her disapointments, her triumphs.....HER. I wonder.....do you wonder? About.....HER?
She is beautiful. She is brilliant. She is funny. She is sometimes pensive and introverted. She is sometimes obnoxious and raucous. She is always loving, always kind, always emotional. She is surrounded by countless friends who adore her. She is a people magnet. She is audacious. She is mature, amibitious, motivated and driven. And she is your daughter. I wonder.....did you forget?
It's been eight years and two months since she heard your voice. It's been longer since she's seen your face. I wonder....did you tell her you loved her that morning before you walked out the door? Because you haven't told her since that day. I can't help but wonder.......if you do.
We were married. We had two beautiful little girls. You adored them. We got divorced. We still had two beautiful little girls. You still adored them. And we actually liked each other. Until you met her. And then......well......
Your daughters...our daughters.....walked out of your front door eight years and four months ago today. They were terrified. They were confused. They were angry. They walked out your door wishing their daddy- you- would suddenly appear and make everything ok again. Explain things to them. Calm their fears. Ease their rage. They walked into my front door two days later. Still our little girls. Still confused. Still leary of the changes around them. Still worried. About you. Still hoping their daddy......you......would call to say it was all ok. To tell them you love them. To say it was all going to work out. I wonder........why didn't you?
Your daughters......our daughters.......became my daughters very quickly. They felt betrayed. They felt abandoned. They felt destroyed. By their daddy. You. They turned to me. I was there. I wonder.......why weren't you?
For eight years I have watched these little girls grow. Into teenagers. Into young women. Into a mother. Into a driven high schooler. I have celebrated with them. I have cried for them. I have wiped tears. I have given hugs. I have listened. I have advised. I have been their staunchest advocate, their loudest cheerleader, their stongest supporter and their safe place to land. I have shared their pain and beamed with pride in their victories. I have never left their side. I wonder........why did you?
Those little girls have grown up. No longer children. No longer afraid. No longer angry. No longer confused. They have become incredible people. They have acheived goals. They have made plans for their futures. They have dreams. Hopes. Wishes. They are strong, independent, vivacious young women. They will succeed and exceed my greatest hopes for their lives. And I consider myself blessed. I consider myself lucky beyond what anyone could deserve. They will include me in that future. They want me beside them. They willingly share themselves with me. I wouldn't miss it for the world. I wonder......will you?
I pray each day that someday, their daddy....the man who used to be their father.......who used to adore them, love them, participate in their lives......will experience an awakening. Have an epiphany. Come to the realization that he needs to make things right. That he'll tell them he's sorry. That he'll own his mistakes. That he'll ask, beg if need be- to be forgiven. Included. Reconnected. That he will reach out as many times as it takes for those two little girls he turned his back on to forgive that pain and rebuild a relationship with the man who used to be their daddy. I wonder......are you man enough?
And.......
I wonder......
Will they remember him?

Another child, another poem

I've posted twice before about poems written by my daughters for their English classes. I love them. It's a very cool assignment that I wish we had done as kids. Well, the tradition continues. Lily brought home the same poem the first week of school. Since she wrote hers as a sixth grader and the other girls were well into high school before writing theirs, I think it would be interesting to have Lily rewrite hers in a few years to see how much her self-awareness might change. In any case-I am reposting the older two girls' poems here along with Lily's. Enjoy!! 

(Ceara-Sept 2011)
Where I'm From

I am from the resevoirs
The winter snow and summer sun
I am from the happy laughing
I am from the dragonflies
The gladiolas in the yard.

I am from The Pumpkin Show and getting out of school
From Grandma Houston and Grandma Lutz
I am from the bedtime songs and simple lullabies
From you look just like your mom and look at those blue eyes
I am from the church songs
The puppet shows and Bible coloring pages

I am from the backs and forths
The ups and downs the all arounds
From the family gatherings
The holidays

I am from my family
Unique in every way
Never one quite like another
but all somewhat the same. 

(Cidney-Jan 2014)
Where I'm From

I am from the camera
from glasses and hair bows
I am from the little blue box on Bryn Mawr
I am from the purple impatiens
and bright pink lilies

I am from blue eyes and attitude
from Susie and Jean
I am from the new Brady Bunch
and childrens' shrieking voices
from know your worth and strive for better
I am from chaos
too busy for everything

I'm from Lima and Corrinne
potato soup and older brothers
from the angel babies born with wings
to "I was here and now I ain't"

I am from fear of the past
wonder for the future
From too many snapshots
and so many keepsakes
From curly hair
and a hospital food basket
This is who I am


(Lily-Aug. 26,2015)
I am from Sponge Bob
from bleach and febreeze
I am from the board games on the floor
Messy,Unorganized
It looked cluttered

I am from the roses
The hummingbird
Tiny but Strong

I'm from the athletes and blue eyes
From mom,dad and Grandpa Gene

I'm from the craziness and humor
From "You're beautiful"
And stories of mermaids

I'm from Jesus dying
for me
I'm from Maryland, Germany and Ireland
from Streudel and Soda bread
From The Pilgrim Edward Doty
who helped settle the land
To the 30th President to lead it
The closet
And binders

I'm from siblings
And soccer
Dancing
And fun


I am so blessed......what incredible girls I have. <3

Thank you for NOT understanding

In just a little more than a week it will be here. The day. Their day. How is it possible that another 365 days have passed without them? Eight years. Many people think that we bereaved moms are "stuck" in the past or lingering in the moment when we should simply move past it. Here is my challenge for those of you who have never had to sit in a funeral home and make final arrangements for your baby, or in my case-babies. Do you have children? Yes? Reflect on the first eight years of their life. Let yourself recall the elation you felt when they were first placed in your arms, that first touch, the first inhalation of their precious baby scent. Think about each and EVERY first from that moment on.....first bath, first smile, the first time they recognized YOU and it showed on their whole face, the first word, first steps, first boo boo (which you promptly kissed away), their first day of kindergarten when you probably cried like a baby and then cried again when they graduated kindergarten, their first day of first grade and then second......and then imagine that you were absent from EVERY.SINGLE.ONE of those moments. That you didn't get to experience any of those firsts and that there were no photos to help you remember. Because none of those moments happened. Because your precious baby was born without a single breath of life outside of you. Eight years ago. I am not stuck. I walk, each moment of every day with the incredible blessing of six amazing living children, a gorgeous grandbaby and the anticipation of a new grandson in the coming months. I live my life as a mother and grandmother thanking God for every moment of the last 27 years since being handed my very first baby and wondering how I would EVER be the mother he and my other children deserved. And I carry with me every single second of every single day for the last almost eight years the absolute knowledge that two of my children are missing. That I will never get to be the mother either of them deserved. That I will never experience a single solitary first for either of them but I experienced their lasts. The last time they moved inside of me, the last time I heard their heartbeats, the last time I saw their faces, kissed their fingers, touched their tiny baby feet and the last time I placed them into the hands of someone else to take them away.....forever. No. I am not stuck. I am grieving the loss of children, my children and I will grieve that loss until my final breath. If you cannot understand or comprehend that......then you are blessed. Because that means you've never endured the all encompassing loss of your own child. And for your inability to understand my grief-I am grateful. <3 

Why Xavier Wurth didn't have to die and why his mother shoulders blame

On Friday morning at approximately 11:57 a 911 call was made from an apartment in Spencerville, Ohio. The caller stated (rather calmly) that "we just woke up and I think our baby is dead". He tells the operator that he believes the baby choked on his own vomit and is dead. The operator asks if he knows how to do CPR at which point the caller says "do you know how to do CPR,babe?" Again, calmly. No distress in his voice. No anguish. Calm and even as though he were asking if his girlfriend would like fries or salad with her burger. In the background the woman can be heard shrieking that she knows CPR. When help arrived at 229 Wurster Drive they found that baby. In a hallway. Dead.

Here are the facts that have been reported so far. The baby was 17 month old Xavier Wurth. He lived with his mother, 20 year old Alexis Long and her boyfriend (not his father) Christopher Clayton, also 20 years old. First responders found little Xavier in an upstairs hallway, dead from obvious and apparent trauma. His autopsy determined the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of his head. Christopher has lived with Xavier and his mother for less than a year. He was arrested, charged with murder and his being held on 5 million dollars bond and on suicide watch in Allen County.
Apparently the details as reported by Christopher are that they had put the baby to bed Thursday evening at 8pm. He stated he was watching Xavier. When he made the 911 call he stated they had just awakened to find the baby dead. This all raises some questions:
If you put the baby to bed at 8pm the night before, why were you just waking up at almost noon and who was caring for this baby while you slept all morning?
If you had just awakened as you stated in the call yet the mother is heard screaming in the 911 call, when did she arrive at home? Was she present the entire time?
The answers aren't necessary for this particular blog post. They are irrelevant in fact. Christopher Clayton is believed to be the person who killed precious little Xavier. He may be to blame for the act of killing this child but Alexis Long shoulders the blame for putting a killer in her child's path. And here is why.

I'm a mother. I have been a mother for 27 years. There was a time when I, like so many other moms out there- was a single mother trying my best to be a good mother to my baby boy. And just like many if not most of those single moms, I was lonely. I was alone. I wanted someone to love me, love my son, be a father. All of that. But,unlike so many of the moms who find themselves burying their children at the hands of their lovers I was NOT willing to sacrifice my child for my own needs,wants or desires.
Now,I've read several articles about this case. Most of them include public comments. The majority of those comments indicate the belief that the mother, Alexis Long should be charged with her son's death right alongside her boyfriend. I couldn't agree more. Of course, there are those who chime in and defend her and claim to know the family intimately. They say that this mother is an excellent mother who loves her son and would never do anything.....ANYTHING to harm him. They're wrong.
I am not doubting her love for Xavier. She might have even been a good,devoted and loving mother to him. BUT.......she absolutely did something to put her son in harm's way. She moved a man into her home and into her son's life without truly knowing who that man was or what he might be capable of.
Ladies.......single moms......Listen up. STOP!!!!! Life stops being about you,your needs,your wants or your desires the SECOND that you become a mother. From that instant on-life and all of your choices and decisions should absolutely revolve around what is best FOR YOUR CHILD. Period. Did you hear me? Let me simplify it for you. YOUR CHILD'S NEEDS AND WELL BEING COME FIRST. Did you get it that time?
So many single moms, especially young single moms are so all consumed with the need to have a man in their life that they completely forget the most important person in their life.....their child. They date on a revolving door basis, often times hooking up with or moving onto the next warm body before the current one is even packed and out the door. Make no mistake,that's what they are.....warm bodies. STOP parading man after man after man into and out of your child's life. STOP entrusting your child's life to these strangers,because they ARE strangers. You do not know them. And they should therefore NOT know your child.
If you want to date. Fine. Date. Find a trustworthy babysitter and go out occasionally to socialize,make friends and possible explore a potential relationship with an upstanding man of high values and morals. (FYI-you won't find him in a drunken stupor at the local club cat-calling you about how hot you are or what a nice rack you have.) If  you hit it off.....date. DATE. Do you know what that means? Go out with him. OUT. Dinner. Movies. Church. The park. Hiking. The possibilities are endless. None of them involve spreading your legs because "there's chemistry" or "we have sooooooo much in common". None of them....NONE of them involve bringing that man home with you and NONE-hear me clearly....NONE of them include introducing that man to your child. Date. For awhile. Not a week. Not a month. Maybe not even six months. DATE!!!! Find out who this man is OUTSIDE of the bedroom. Find out what he believes in. Have deep,meaningful conversations. Think with your brain (that's what God put it there for,you know) and NOT with the warm and fuzzy feelings you get in your stomach or any other southern region. And THEN.....slowly introduce him to your child. Small doses. Public places. Let them get to know each other the same way you did.....slowly. If you're looking for a true life partner and someone worthy of being a father or father figure to your child this is the only real way to do that. A man doesn't become your child's father after a weekend of hot sex following a chance meeting at a bar. He doesn't become your life partner because he's so cute and makes you feel so giddy that you give him a drawer and he "suddenly seems to always be there anyway so you might as well move in".
Does this method require a lot of time? Yes. Does it take an incredible amount of patience? Sure. Will you need to resist physical urges? Probably. You're human. But you can do it. And in the end.....not only will you reap the benefits - because even if the first time doesn't lead to your "soulmate" it is a step in your own self awareness and will only help you know that much more clearly what it is you want and what it is you won't settle for in a partner........but-you are also much, MUCH less likely to have to bury your child at the hands of  this week's love of your life.
Alexis Long did not protect her child. She did not put Xavier's needs before her own need to have a man in her life. Alexis Long allowed a man she couldn't possibly have known well enough into her home and into the life of her precious little boy. Alexis Long entrusted the care (and therefore the life) of her innocent child to the hands of Christopher Clayton and in doing so delivered her child into the hands of his killer.
Now, I am well aware that my opinion will be wildly unpopular with a lot of people. I anticipate the comments about not knowing what I am talking about.....not knowing what horrible grief this mom must be experiencing......and much more. And that's ok. I can take it. Because as unpopular as my statements might be.....they are true and accurate. How many children have been murdered in the last five years at the hands of the live in boyfriend?? How many more have to die before women wake up and start respecting themselves enough not to be just another hookup for the next hot guy that whistles their way? How many more babies have to be sacrificed before mothers understand that they are delivering their children to slaughter for the sake of a warm spot to sleep next to? It's time to end this horrific cycle of murder and choose your children.
Rest in peace, precious Xavier. I am so sorry that your last moments on this Earth were filled with fear and pain. God Bless you,precious boy.

And for Alexis and Christopher.......you both deserve to be charged with and convicted of murder and sentenced accordingly.

Moments

I had a moment tonight. Loss moms and dads know exactly what that means. It means that one moment I was fine. Normal. Sane. And in an instant.....without warning or preparation.....I wasn't. In less time than it takes to blink I was reduced to tears and stood there-sobbing in the shower. Unable to control the emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed my spirit and removed all semblances of the normal me. The sane me. The in control me.
I had a moment.
The thing about child loss is that you are permanently prone to these moments. Times when life seems to be going along in a calm manner. Most things make sense. Most things are routine. And then-out of nowhere-BAM! It slaps you. Full force. Right across the face and there is nothing......not a single thing you can do. You succumb. Until it passes. But it never passes -not completely.
Tonight I stood there thinking of things I want to accomplish. Goals I want to set for myself. Milestones I hope to reach. I contemplated which number to set as my first goal. The amount of weight I would like to lose. And the timeframe I want to allow myself to reach that first goal. My daughter's graduation from high school. June 5th. I want to feel better, look better, weigh less by the time my daughter walks across the stage. I had wanted the same thing when my sons graduated high school. But I was.....oh. Wait. I wasn't.
The moment.
BAM!
Through the body wracking sobs my brain reminded my soul that no....I wasn't heavy when my sons graduated. I wasn't fat. I was pregnant. With THEM. The twins. My daughters. And then they died.
The last time I watched one of my children graduate from high school I was pregnant with two tiny,perfect, healthy baby girls. They were already running out of room and making me uncomfortable. I was already huge by my accounts. And they were already active......kicking me constantly as they wrestled inside of me.
The moment intensified.
They were there. With me. Alive. They were at the graduation ceremonies for both of their oldest brothers. But they won't be attending this graduation with me. They won't ever attend another graduation........not even their own. They've already missed the preschool and kindergarten graduations for Lily, Georgie and themselves. There aren't any cute photos of them at any of those events. There aren't any photos of them at all......at least....not while they were alive. Except the two photos- the ONLY two photos I have of myself pregnant with them. Both taken at the graduations of their brothers.
My moment.
Some people will read this and shake their head. They'll say to themselves in that tone that we loss parents hear so often that I need to stop dwelling on the past. They'll whisper that it isn't healthy to continue dredging up things best left in the past. They'll wonder why I can't just be thankful for the children I have.
They won't understand.
Nor do I want them to. To understand would require them to endure the most excruciatingly painful thing a parent can ever experience. The death of a child. Or in my case, children. I prefer they NEVER understand. But in not being able to understand there is misunderstanding. When we lose a child people mistakenly think that loss is just a moment. It's something that happened to us. Once. It's an event that is short termed and temporary. When you lose a child they think you lose that child at whatever age  the child happens to be and nothing past that.
They're wrong.
The death of a child isn't something that happens to us. It's something we live with every single day. It's not a single moment. It's a lifetime of moments. It's not temporary-it's permanent. It's with us every moment of every day of every year that we continue to live without our child. And I didn't just lose babies. I lost so much more than that. I lost two lives. Two futures. Two chances at all of the moments, all of the hopes, all of the dreams and goals that we as parents establish almost instantly for our children the moment we find out they exist. I lost a lifetime of moments.
And gained a lifetime of MOMENTS instead.

Voices from the past

When I was a little girl I used to dream about hearing my father's voice. I dreamt of what it would sound like when he would pick up the phone and how happy he would sound to talk to me. I was a little girl. Innocent. Naive. Silly. Unknowing.
On my tenth birthday my mom asked me what I wanted and I told her that what I really, truly wanted was to talk to my daddy on the phone. I had never met him. Never seen his face. Never heard him say my name. And I longed so much to speak to him. So she took me in the kitchen, handed me the receiver and dialed the number. I remember being so nervous- in a happy, excited way. It played out in my head and all the possible endings were happy. I was wrong.
"Hello". It was him.
"Gene? Is this Gene?" I asked sheepishly. I was so nervous. So scared.
" Who is this?" There was something in his voice immediately. It was noticeable and it tied me in knots right away.
" Hi dad. This is your daughter. This is Jeanie."
Long pause.
" Who is this?" He demanded this time. His voice was even and very quiet now.
 I was nearly in tears when I answered again.
"Dad. Gene. This is your daughter. This is Jeanie."
Long pause.
"You have the wrong number. Don't ever call here again."
And then the line went dead.
I'm not really sure how long I stood there. How long I cried or if I really cried or just felt like crying. I just remember feeling more pain than a ten year old should feel or was equipped to process. I never heard my father's voice again after that day. He would never agree to speak to me or meet with me and even when the doctors told him several years later that he had only weeks to live, he wasn't brave enough to face me and allow me the chance to get to know him. He died when I was 17 and with him went any chance of my ever getting to hear my daddy's voice.
Or so I thought.
Last year after many years of searching family records and researching my biological father's history I "met" a wonderful lady named Katie. She lives in Ohio and her husband just happens to play and sing in a band with this incredible man named Kenny. Kenny, as it turns out was a bandmate and former best friend of my father. Katie put me in touch with Kenny and his lovely wife and through several hours of conversation I now "know" my father. Kenny's wife even dug up an old OLD promo shot of my father and allowed me to have it copied so I have a photograph of him.What an incredible gift these people have given this total stranger who just popped up into their lives one day!! And it gets even better.
During one of those conversations with Kenny and his wife they mentioned something about records. It turns out my father had recorded and released two 45's in 1960. Who knew?! Through months of research and digging I found two different eclectic record collectors who actually had copies of them and they sold them to me. So I became the proud owner of my father's records. Of course...without a record player-I STILL couldn't hear his voice!!!
In May we travelled home to Ohio for the weekend. In my mother's sunroom we sat with her record player and my father's records. And there....in that room.....that sad, broken ten year old little girl got to hear her daddy's voice. And it was wonderful.
Today......that little girl is listening again. Katie sent me a message a couple days ago and asked if I would call her. It seems that she hasn't stopped looking for people who knew my dad. (I love that woman!) Seems there is a man named Sammy and his wife who knew my father and played music with him sometimes. Katie had talked to him and Sammy seemed to recall having an old cassette tape somewhere that they recorded sitting around the kitchen table one night. Well, turns out he dug it out....gave it to her and Katie's husband Perry made a CD and they needed my address so they could send it off to me.
So ...... here sits that little girl.......with tears rolling down her cheeks......listening to her daddy play his guitar as he sings 29 songs in such a beautiful voice. There's no anger in his voice. There's no secrecy. And there's no pain. And I don't think I can ever possibly thank Sammy, his wife, Katie, Perry, Kenny or his wife enough for the gift they have all given me. They gave me something that I thought died when I was 17. They gave me the chance to know and hear my daddy.

Five Days

Five days. It's five days from now that will mark the sixth anniversary of the day my daughters were born. Six years ago on THIS date I was told they had died. And I waited......five days. For five days life for everyone else continued........but for me-it stopped. In that five days I cried, I sobbed, I begged and pleaded and even negotiated with God and I all but refused to leave my house. For five days I pretended that the doctor was wrong and imagined that on the fifth day I would arrive at the hospital and they would all discover their mistake. I dreamt I would bring home two precious and perfect little girls in spite of what they said,what I knew and what was real. For those five nights I lie awake willing my stomach to move indicating life within.......but it didn't.
In five days my living children will do as we have each year.....we will sing, we will laugh, I will cry and we will all remember. My oldest sons will remember the siblings they never met, they will call their mother and let her know they are thinking of her and love her and they will again be reminded of the fear and helplessness they felt watching their broken mother lie in her bed,curled in a ball and unable to move. My oldest two daughters will talk of how tall their sisters might be now, which one would be the "leader" and will remember how briefly they knew the excitement of knowing they would have twin sisters to love on. (They girls didn't know I was pregnant until two weeks before the twins died. They had been kidnapped by their father and only returned two weeks before Chloe and Zoe died.) Lily will ask again why Chloe and Zoe had to die and remember how much she was looking forward to playing mother hen to them both until they were taken from all of us. Georgie,who was not yet two at the time-will again ask why he was never able to meet his baby sisters, tearily remind us all how badly he wants to be a big brother and how it isn't the same being a big brother to sisters you can't actually touch and will remind us all that someday-we WILL get to see them. In Heaven.
Five days from now we will endure another birthday-without them......but there are things that will happen before we reach that day. There will be tears shed on the first day of school when, instead of walking four children to school and leaving in tears as I say "have a great day" to my new kindergartners I will only be sending two children and will watch wistfully as the other kindergarten moms and dads tear up at the pending day long separation. There will be moments of wonder at what they would look like, how tall they would be, what their personalities would be and how incredibly loud and chaotic this house might be.....if they were here.
And there will be days like today. Days when I sit down to watch a movie that has a little meaning for us and realize it has even more meaning than I knew. There have been a couple times on their birthday when movies are released that sort of "jump out" at us and make us want to go and spend "their day" with that movie. On their third birthday,which we spent in Ohio, "Nanny McPhee Returns" was released. The day of their birthday. We went. We laughed and cried a little and enjoyed spending part of our time "with them" watching a whimsical,funny,loving movie about a mom and her children and a magical nanny. Then last year, on their fifth birthday the movie "The Odd Life of Timothy Green" was released. Watching the trailers weeks before we KNEW we had to see that movie on their birthday. It's a wonderful movie with the same elements as our prior choice.....magical,whimsical,loving and funny. And it's about a family,too. We loved it. And then I watched it this morning.
This morning as I sat enjoying the cool breeze coming through the open windows I watched Timothy teach his family and his town about love and many other things. The first time I watched this movie I noticed that the daughter these parents adopt in the end is named Lily. Of course I found that touching and ironic since the movie came out ON Chloe and Zoe's birthday and I happen to have a daughter named Lily. But today there was a moment when I completely fell apart,in tears and realized so much more. There is a moment in the movie after Timothy leaves and moves on. His parents are heartbroken and read a letter left by him explaining who he gave his leaves to and why. Timothy met a girl who became his best friend while he was there. She got two leaves. As he was explaining this and the camera moves to her smiling face my eyes caught the image of her necklace. A dragonfly. I hadn't noticed it before. I instantly began to sob. In THAT moment the irony of all of it came to me.
Both movies center around a character who comes to a family in need. They become beloved members of those families only to leave unexpectedly just when the families grow to love them the most. Both movies were released on August 20th. And there'e the dragonfly and Lily. To most people these things - even grouped together-would mean nothing. They would be mere coincidence and dismissed as nothing more than that. But to my fellow baby loss mommas out there......you get it. You understand how it only takes one of those things to trigger emotion and how several combined can invoke a full on meltdown.  And I had one.
And now....I wait. Five more days. To have another meltdown. To celebrate another missed milestone. Another missed birthday. Another missed year.

Time for some kindness

http://www.smilebox.com/playBlog/4d7a63314e5449774e54673d0d0a&blogview=true


That's it. Simple. Click the link,follow it to the invite and join!! Share the invitation with all of your friends and then come back here or email me with your photos and stories at jwatts67 at yahoo. Help me celebrate the short time we had together here and the eternity we will share later.

Jeanie

Reading

So-I did some reading this morning. Yes,I know...this is nothing extraordinary. Except this morning it sort of was. This reading was nearly five years in the making. This reading was different. 

      Almost six years ago I gave birth to two tiny, beautifully perfect baby girls. They were breathtaking. Chloe came first.....destined to forever be the "big sister" of the two. Zoe followed exactly one minute later.......the youngest of eight siblings......truly the baby of the family. The day should have been filled with tears of joy, squeals of happiness and endless talk of which one would walk first or who would be most like which sibling and even some bickering over which older sibling would take which twin under their wing and teach them the ropes. But there was none of that. 

     There were constant tears but they held no joy. They were the tears of a shattered and broken mother saying good-bye to her babies. The squeals were not happy-they were the sounds that can only come from the kind of pain felt deep within a person's soul. And there was no talk....there were no words spoken as none could have conveyed the myriad of emotions contained in that moment. My daughters died. They were silent. They were and would forever be.......still. 

     It took me a year to heal enough to summon the courage to request the medical records of my pregnancy. I wanted them. I wanted---no, I NEEDED them, to hold on to ANYTHING that contained even a piece of my daughters. I took the big yellow envelope out of the mailbox and held it tightly to my chest as if they would somehow hug me back. And then I put it inside "their" box and closed the lid. I never opened it, never removed its contents. Until today. 

      It has been nearly six years since they died. In that six years there has been a plethora of emotions, thoughts and even questions. I have endured the grief and each of its mind-numbing steps. I have suffered through the excruciating physical aspects that come along with the loss of one's children. I am still enduring. I am still suffering. And I always will. But there are two facets to this process that I have never really delved into. Being angry with God for seemingly "allowing" this to happen to me and asking "what if?". 

      Anger toward God for His perceived role in their death would be understandable. It actually is one of those cursed steps in the process of grief. But it never presented itself as a viable option for me. I wasn't angry at Him. I'm still not. I was and am thankful. Thankful for His presence at all times, especially in my loneliest moments. Thankful for His choice to bless me with these tiny lives-even if only temporarily. Thankful He hand picked me to personally deliver two perfect angels, pure and untainted by the sins of this life into His loving arms. Thankful for the knowledge, belief and faith that He did NOT do this TO ME......that He endures my pain with me. Thankful that He carried me until I was able to walk on my own and that He still and always will continue to walk alongside me and hold my hand to guide my steps. 

       And I just never allowed myself to ask "what if"? What if I had subjected myself and my children to the endless barrage of genetic and biophysical testing the doctors and geneticists were trying to cram down my throat due to my "advanced maternal age"? What if I had spent hours thoroughly researching each and every possible thing that could go wrong in an identical twin pregnancy? What if..........

      Would the tests have revealed some malformation or dysfunction that would have led to some sort of life saving treatment? Would it.....could it have saved my daughters? Would my research have yielded some information triggering an "aha" moment which would have caused me to ask the right question of the right doctor at the right time? Could the hours of pouring over medical websites somehow have made it possible for my daughters to be here with me now? What if.........

     The truth is-as I have always known...... no. No testing would have saved them. Research would not have prevented their death. Both would only have succeeded in robbing me of the precious moments I was able to spend with my daughters while they were still alive....inside of me...kicking, breathing, moving and LIVING. Instead of being poked and prodded with needles I watched the movements inside of my growing belly-discovering the developing and unique personalities of these two precious lives. Instead of sitting at a computer I took walks,  read and listened to all kinds of music. And I shared it all with them. I told my daughters how incredibly beautiful the sunset was over the mountains and that I couldn't wait to show it to them. I described the flowers along the park path and told them which ones we would plant together (and pick) when they got older. I taught them nursery rhymes, read them bedtime stories and recited funny anecdotes. I shared my love of music....all kinds..... and learned they were acquiring their own taste in it. We listened together as Chloe seemed to calm to the sounds of Classical while Zoe leaned more towards the beats in Adult Alternative and Folk.  

    And I "introduced" them to their siblings. I told them every amazing aspect of their three sisters and three brothers and how they were already hopelessly in love with them and anxious for their arrival in our daily chaotic lives. No moment was wasted. Every moment was treasured. 

      But something changed recently. Time passed. I now found myself wondering, just a little.....what if? What if I were actually nervously awaiting their first day of kindergarten instead of marking the sixth year since they've been gone? What if? That voice became louder until I could no longer ignore it. And so....I reached into "their box" and pulled out that yellow envelope. I opened it and removed its stack of papers from inside. Terrified of what I might find- it took me an hour to bring myself to read its contents. What if? What if they told me there WAS something I could have done? What if I did something WRONG? What if? 

     The papers didn't say that at all. They didn't say anything. I was pregnant. My daughters died. Period. There were no answers, no reasons, no explanations. The papers offered no revelation into the death of my daughters at all. But they offered something better......something unexpected. They offered a look back...a reflection of every moment of the time they were alive. A glimpse into every precious and brief moment of their short lives. 

     There were weekly ultrasounds. The first one at five weeks to simply confirm a pregnancy-before we knew anything beyond the news that we were in fact pregnant. Another at eight weeks when the confirmation of pregnancy became a confirmation of "them"! There was the scan at about fifteen weeks when "they" became (officially) Chloe Danielle and Zoe Grace. And there was the final scan....the one a week before they died. The last scan that showed my daughters still moving with strong heartbeats playing hide and seek with each other as well as with the scope. With every scan there were notes....lots of notes. Notes that dictated every aspect of their lives.......heart rate, measurements, weight, growth, health and expected dates of delivery. And so....this morning....I read. 

      I read every detail of every moment of the time my daughters were still alive. I poured over each scan as if drinking in , once again-every curve of their tiny bodies and every wrinkle in their faces so that I might never forget what they looked like. And it wasn't painful. I wasn't sad or tearful. It was peaceful and joyful and I felt.....blessed. Blessed to have carried those two tiny lives inside of my body. Blessed to have been given six glorious months of their lives...fully reliant on me for their every need just as I am fully reliant on God for mine. And I was.....am......and always will be-thankful. For them.