Yeah, Write

Softening Into Joy

2017 has been very, very good to me.

This is not easy for me to say out loud, because I know it's been THE WORST year for so many people. I won't even list all the tragedies and natural disasters that have befallen our nation in 2017, let alone the world, because I think we're all a little too well acquainted with them.

But even when turmoil and misery abound, there are pockets of sunshine and hope.

Someone, somewhere is falling in love. Achieving a goal. Healing a relationship. Creating something beautiful. Overcoming a health challenge. Finding God. Discovering their worth. Welcoming a baby. Lifting a lonely heart. Laughing until they cry. 

I'm living in my own little pocket of joy. And I'm terrified.

Researcher and writer Dr. Brene Brown has said, "There is no emotion harder to feel than joy." And here I am, having reached the end of the two biggest, most heart-wrenching challenges of my life, plus the realization of a lifelong dream, and I'm so stunned that it's all real that I keep envisioning something terrible lurking around the corner. I'm half-afraid that the moment I publish this post, a meteor might smash through the roof of my home, obliterating everything in sight. 

Brene calls this "foreboding joy." You look at your sleeping children and feel overwhelmed with a love you never knew was possible. Then the very next second, you picture a car crash or a kidnapping or a cancer diagnosis.

We do this to protect ourselves from future pain, but all it does is deflect the joy of the present, which is the very thing we'll need to draw upon if any of those unlikely scenarios were to occur. Here's the perfect explanation of foreboding joy:

 

 

As Newt Scamander says, "My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice." (I'm sure I heard this concept before the film was released, but when I looked it up, all the attributions went to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. So J.K. Rowling gets the credit!)

This is a mantra I had to repeat to myself ad nauseam during my last pregnancy: Don't let my fears of another bad outcome rob me of the joy of this moment. If everything goes well, I'll regret that I didn't revel in this once-in-a-lifetime chance to see a pregnancy to term. If things don't go well, my attempt at "preventative suffering" won't lessen that future pain. In fact, it might make it worse, since I won't have reserves of peace and joy to draw upon. Even if the suffering were inevitable, I could still control how long it lasts by, you know, waiting until the bad thing actually happens before I start suffering over it.

It makes sense, but it's still easier said than done. 

Luckily, there's a tried-and-true antidote to foreboding joy, and this is the perfect time of year to talk about it.

The antidote is gratitude, according to Brene's newest book, Braving the Wilderness, which I devoured in a couple of sittings earlier this month. My heart soared when I encountered this concept in her book. Now I have something concrete to do. Whenever I find myself cutting feelings of joy short with imagined future calamities, I stop and practice gratitude. When I can feel gratitude first, it's much easier to soften into feelings of joy.

Not only does this help me ward off my mental tragedy reel, it serves another purpose. As I revel in these happy moments, as I swim around in them and soak them up, I'm building up my resilience. Pain and challenge are a part of life, and I know I haven't reached my life limit yet. When the next big trial comes, I need reserves of joy to draw upon. I need memories of light and laughter to see me through. 

We tend to think "the bigger they are, the harder they fall." The bigger our joy, the bigger our crash? No, it's actually worse to spend our days wading around in low-grade misery, only to sink further when things REALLY get bad. 

So here I am, doing my best to soften into the joy of three wonderful, miraculous events that I thought might never come to pass:

#1. After 12 years of infertility (yes, you read that right, 12 YEARS...144 months...4,380 days), I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy in July. He is perfect. He is my second miracle baby, 6 1/2 years after the gift of adoption first made me a mother. My kids are my everything. The fact that I had to fight so hard for them makes the victory all the sweeter.

#2. After 14 challenging years with all of the typical blended family problems, plus a few more, my stepson is doing AWESOME. We faced some incredibly tumultuous years with this kiddo, and it was all happening right on top of the worst of our infertility struggles. But time can work wonders. He's now a senior in college, studying wildlife biology, and getting great grades. He's a healthy, responsible, contributing adult. He has a darling girlfriend who is great for him and whom we adore. Our relationship with him is better than ever. There were times we weren't sure we'd ever see this day, and it feels amazing.

#3. After a lifetime of dreaming, I signed a book contract for my first children's picture book earlier this year! I've nourished a secret wish of becoming an author from 3rd grade on. I wasn't brave enough to directly pursue the dream, so I got here in a circuitous way. I've always taken the practical path with my education and career, choosing common-sense fields and industries that would pay the bills. None of this chasing rainbows business for me! (Although I secretly wished I had the courage.) I thoroughly enjoyed the decade I spent writing and editing in the memory keeping/crafting industry, which was so fulfilling—and creatively draining—that my children's book writing pursuits were always sidelined. But now that I'm earning my keep with a part-time freelance marketing gig, I have enough time and creative energy for kid lit, too. 

Each of these gifts, miracles, blessings, whatever you want to call them, could fill a post of their own. They could fill volumes. And there will be volumes to come, I hope, as I figure out how to fit blogging into my life again.

I want to tell you my son's birth story, because I'm so proud of that accomplishment. It was truly a crowning event of my life. (And not in the way you think, wink wink, since this little man arrived via C-section after 20 hours of unproductive labor.) And I'm dying to share the serendipitous path that led to my book contract. I may not share much about my stepson's journey, since it's not my story to tell, but it's a good one...and getting better all the time.

For now, I'm practicing gratitude* so I can fully sink into this overwhelming, all-encompassing joy that I've been hoping, dreaming, praying for—all these years.

*What do I mean by "practicing gratitude"? More on that in a future post. But it's more than just feeling or acknowledging gratitude. It's an actual practice, and it works wonders.

Falling and Rising

Despite my intentions to make this year my blogging comeback, I'm still not very consistent. But I haven't lost hope.

I've found that holding on to hope against the odds is one of my gifts. 

An almost obsessive concern with authenticity is another gift, but also a curse.

In the last couple of months, I've found it hard to blog because the one thing that's been on my mind the most is the one thing I wasn't ready to share just yet. And blogging about anything else seemed somehow false and trivial. But I think I'm ready now. 

Right around the end of September, I had been planning to share some wonderful news that I had been keeping to myself until I was more certain. I alluded to this pending announcement a couple of times, but I had to get through one final hurdle before the big reveal. 

I was pregnant, for the very first time EVER at age 39, after a 10-year struggle with infertility.

 

7 week ultrasound

My due date was April 2, which was perfect in so many ways, especially as news trickled in that others we care deeply about were expecting too. All the stars had finally aligned for me. I was exhausted and hormonal, but otherwise perfectly healthy. No morning sickness at all. My blood tests looked wonderful, and my ultrasounds with my fertility doctor at 7 weeks and 9 weeks looked perfect. I heard my baby's strong, steady heartbeat twice. And once I saw her wiggling around like crazy, even though I couldn't feel her yet.

At my 9-week appointment, when I was about to graduate to my regular OB, my fertility doctor calmed my anxiety and disbelief that this was really happening after a decade of hoping and praying. She told me that when things look this good at this point, and considering the particular IVF protocols we had followed, my chances of miscarriage were less than 5%. And I reminded myself of that fact often.

I had told just a few people, and of course my family all knew and were absolutely ecstatic for me, but I was waiting until after my first official OB appointment before making the big announcement on Facebook or here on my poor, neglected blog.

My doctor's earliest available appointment was when I was just shy of 13 weeks along, on the cusp of my second trimester. When that day finally arrived, Travis and I headed in to the office, list of questions in hand, excited to finally get the self-imposed stamp of approval I felt we needed before going public.

 

9-week ultrasound

As we sat in my new doctor's office, going over our list of questions and feeling thrilled that A) he assumed I was in my early 30s, and B) he never once uttered the words "advanced maternal age," he was paged for an imminent delivery. He apologized and said, "Let's do a quick ultrasound before I head down there, and then we can continue our conversation after I return. I'm sorry for the interruption." I didn't mind. The high prioritization of baby delivery is precisely what I'm looking for in an OB/GYN. 

I lay on the table, and he pressed the wand into my abdomen and paused. He readjusted, pressed harder, and paused again. And again.

He said some very direct but very kind words that I couldn't hear or accept in the moment.

On the monitor, I saw a perfectly still baby in profile, but that didn't sink in either. I just waited calmly for the second opinion with the more advanced ultrasound equipment. 

"I'm not going to panic yet," I said to Trav when we were alone in the room.

When the second ultrasound confirmed the first, and we heard the silent sonogram, I still didn't panic.

Instead, the truth sank into my chest like a terrible, dark weight. 

My first instinct was to run. I wanted to escape the grief, to leap over it and land in that place of acceptance and understanding that I hoped would be on the other side of this chasm. I ached for it all to make sense, right away. 

But there were things to get through first.

In the last weeks, which have now turned into months, there have been countless tears and countless prayers—some painful and pleading, some peaceful and grateful (much to my own surprise). There have been a lot of questions and a few answers. 

We did genetic testing on our baby, who was somewhere between the size of a Brussels sprout and a lemon, and everything came back normal. They can't test for everything, of course, but all of the most common things were ruled out. We were having a baby girl, just like Keira and I both thought. 

My fertility doctor also ordered an array of tests on me, because this is just so uncommon considering the particular facts of my situation. Everything came back normal. I don't have a blood clotting disorder. I don't have a "hostile uterus," whatever that means. I don't appear to have an incompetent cervix; even a couple of weeks after my baby died, my body was not ready to let go of this pregnancy.

The answers are: we just don't know. It may only happen 5% of the time after a picture-perfect 9-week ultrasound, but it still happens. To me, so far, it happens 100% of the time.

 ***

The day we got the news about our baby, I felt restless and impatient, on top of all of the other, weightier emotions. 

Trav would have done anything to ease my pain, and in hindsight I should have requested a red-eye to Hawaii. But instead I asked him to drive me up Little Cottonwood canyon to see the beautiful fall leaves and fill my lungs with fresh mountain air. 

The heaviness in my chest pressed harder the higher we climbed on the winding canyon road. I looked out my window at the dormant, barren trees, and the scattered remnants of glorious reds, oranges and yellows littering the ground. We had just missed Utah's very short window of brilliant canyon color, probably by no more than a few days. 

Of course, I thought bitterly. Of course.

We wondered if we should just turn around. We made it this far, I said, so we might as well complete the journey. We drove to the top, and then took the sharp left toward Guardsman's Pass, leaving the bleak, faded landscape behind us--all the more depressing considering how fiery and alive it must have been just days before.

We drove higher as the sun sank lower. And there, at the crest of the pass, were dozens of cars and dozens of cameras on tripods. They were trained east, toward the scenery in front of us, instead of west, the landscape we had just left. 

Ahead there was beauty.

Small patches of trees that seemed to be lit from within were still belting out the song of fall, still fighting off the encroaching grays and browns of winter.

I stood and stared, pulling deep breaths of solace into my soul. 

It was enough, in that moment, to carry me on for a few more hours. 

 ***

I wanted to wait and tell this story when I had a happy ending to share.

That's kind of how I approached it when Keira was born. I didn't share much publicly about my infertility journey until we were pretty darn close to having a successful adoption. I know how I crave a nice lovely bow wrapped around the end of a story. 

But I'm realizing it's important to tell our sad stories too, and to speak up when we're in the middle of the struggle. That small piece of wisdom came from Brene Brown's new book, Rising Strong, which could not have been released at a more perfect time. Next to my faith in my Savior, my caring family and my friends, and several addresses from the October LDS General Conference—which have brought me waves of peace and perspective that are still ebbing and flowing—this book has been a lifeline.

No one likes to talk about the messy middle of a story, even though that's where all the strength and growth happens that eventually carries you to the finish line. We only hear about the initial falling down and the eventual rising up, and we sweep that painful, scary, uncertain stuff under the rug. 

This is my messy middle. I'm glad I could keep it to myself for a little while, shared only with a small circle of family, friends and neighbors—many of whom were first tipped off by a very excited 5-year-old. But now that I've lived with it for a while, I'm okay to talk about it, even though I'm still waffling between grief and anger and denial and hope. 

Maybe seeing me be brave, fall flat on my face, and then pick myself back up, maybe that will give someone else courage too. 

It has taken incredible courage for me to grind away at this dream of growing my family, after so many years—to continue to put my heart and my hope on the line. I had to decide what kind of person I wanted to be. Did I want to resign myself to disappointment, take the safe path, and maybe always wonder "What if..."? Or did I want to risk big, throw that Hail Mary pass, and know that whatever happens, I gave it my all?

In the lives we imagine for ourselves, we all pick the second option. In reality, it's not so easy. I'm now finding out how much it hurts when the risk doesn't pay off.

But you know what? I'm still glad I tried. 

I liked being pregnant. 

I liked finding out that I can get pregnant. 

I liked the camaraderie I felt with other pregnant women.

I loved seeing the nurturing side of my husband, as he sheltered and cradled me in my despair.

I loved recognizing tender mercies from Heaven and sacred, undeniable answers to my prayers.

I loved the outpouring of kindness and compassion from those who knew of my loss. 

I loved liked didn't mind finding out that I'm stronger than I thought I was.

***

I desperately wish things had turned out differently. In that parallel timeline where I'm still pregnant, we would have just announced our baby's gender, a few weeks before my brother and his wife did (they're having a boy). I would be showing now, like my neighbor is (they're having a girl). I would be posting pictures of baby clothes to Facebook, like Keira's birthmom is (they're having a girl). 

Instead, I'm trying to figure out what "rising strong" looks like for me. Trying to choose courage over comfort. Trying to feel grateful for the opportunity I have to choose and chase my dreams at all.

Trying, still, to hope.

Lullaby for My Little One

Tonight, as my sweet little one snuggled into me tighter than usual, afflicted by a 102-degree fever, I sang her favorite lullaby to her. And she joined in.

She knows every word, and tonight she sang some of them, interrupted by yawns and attempts to doze off, and it melted me. So we sang it again, this time recording it with the Voice Memos app on my iPhone. 

She should know every word of this song, as it's the only one she usually allows me to sing when I'm rocking her at night. Ever since she was TINY, if I attempted to hum or sing any other song, she would interrupt me and hum the first three notes of this lullaby, over and over, until I gave in.

I love that this is her favorite, because it's completely unique to her. I made up most of the words and even altered the tune a little. 

While we were visiting my grandma Neva, who was thrilled for a calm baby she could actually hold onto for a while, grandma held Keira and sang the words to a tune that was so deeply familiar to me.

As I sat there watching the sweet scene, the tune resonated so deeply that I knew my mom had sung it to me, and probably that her mom sang it to her.  I even remember my other grandma, Mona, singing a variation of this, too. But I had forgotten all about it until that moment. I don't know if the song is local to southeastern Idaho, where both of my parents grew up, but no one around here has ever heard of it.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry.
We will go to grandma's
Over the hill, behind the mill,
To see the ducks and lambies. 

That's all there was to it. And with Keira insisting on no other song, I simply needed more verses in order to avoid singing those 21 words in an endless loop every night for 2 years. 

Here's our duet. Please overlook (overhear?) my tired, late-night voice and focus instead on the vocal stylings of Keira Jane, age 2 3/4, who is half-asleep.

Hush a Bye with Keira 071613

 

And here are the lyrics, in case we're mumbling unintelligably to the unfamiliar ear.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry.
We will go to grandma's
Over the hill, behind the mill,
To see the ducks and lambies. 

Once we're there, we'll find some chairs
And sit out under the apple tree
We'll feed the ducks and pet the lambs
And have a picnic party

Later that day, we'll gather to play
Out in the backyard meadow
We'll kick the ball, play hide-and-seek
And stay out 'til it's time to sleep

When we go in, you'll have a swim
In grandma's great big bathtub
With suds in your hair and bubbles to spare
I'll scrub you 'til you're clean, my love

When it's night, I'll snuggle you tight
And rock you 'til you're fast asleep
While mama sings, you'll start to dream
Of ducks and lambs and apple trees 

Alone in the Boat

Today I realized again just how important it is to write. And to write in the moment.

I just stumbled across a post I wrote exactly one year ago today, The End of Infertility? And yes, those words are as true as ever. After 19 months of being in the "honeymoon phase" of being a new mom, I was suddenly, out of the blue, struck with some of that old infertility grief this past weekend.

Yes, my childlessness has certainly been cured. I will not ever be able to adequately express my gratitude for that. And yet, the infertility is still there, an ever present thing. By acknowledging it, and naming it, and putting words around it, I can at least attempt to frame it and understand it. Which does help, a little.

I can't help thinking that there must be some reason I'm dragging this up at this moment, that maybe there's someone who needs to hear these words. Because today I stumbled across yet another blog post, one that I didn't ever publish, for whatever reason, that was just sitting in my drafts folder.

Here's what I wrote in August 2010 and did not publish:

Alone in the Boat

Last week, I opened up to you all about the fact that I am infertile. Wow, it gets a little bit easier every time I say it. I have to remind myself frequently that I'm not ashamed of it. It is a fact, and it is part of my life.

I have to tell you a sad and then sweet story.

When you're infertile, you tend to gather around you a handful of friends who are in the same boat as you, who know what you're going through and can relate to your pain.

This last April, each of my infertile friends became pregnant, one by one.

How could I begrudge my sweet cousin, who has an 8 year-old son and has been trying to get him a sibling ever since, when she became pregnant with a little girl? How could I be upset when another friend, who had been dealing with horrendous medical issues for 2 years and had a very difficult time becoming pregnant the first time (5 years ago), had an unexpected miracle pregnancy? And when another friend, who had been right there with me for 4 of my 6 years of infertility, told us she was pregnant that very same week, how could I not be happy for her?

I had a very hard week that week. And I kept those feelings to myself until I could congratulate each friend with true sincerity. Each responded with such grace and sweet sympathy, knowing exactly how I felt.  It wasn't that I wanted them back on the raft with me, of course not. Instead, I wanted to be swimming to motherhood shore with them. 

That week, I said to my husband, "Looks like I'm rowing the infertility boat alone now."

"No you're not," he said. "I'm rowing with you."

He said the perfect thing at the perfect time. And I'll never forget it.

But there's also a truly amazing, miraculous, nearly unbelievable thing about this, a side to this story that reminds me again why I believe so strongly that there's a master plan at work for each of us. And here it is:

While my three closest infertile friends all came to be expecting babies at the same time, and I felt so utterly alone and left behind, it turns out that I also had a baby on the way. I just didn't know it yet. (And here's the story of how she arrived.)

Keira Jane Lucas is 2 days older than my infertile cousin's daughter. She's 2.5 weeks older than my infertile friend's son. And she's 2.5 months older than my other infertile friend's daughter. How miraculous is that?

Maybe the person who most needed to hear these words today was me.

Breaking the Baby Stereotype

She'll mingle with goats.

And ride on a pony that's 50 times her size.

But she won't go near a baby bunny. Or a baby lamb. Or a baby duck, turkey, or chick. No way. Not a chance. And the look of terror that crosses her face when she's coaxed to reach out and pet one of these tiny creatures cannot be described.

Hmmm. Big animals = climb aboard! No big deal. Tiny animals = climb the nearest adult's pant leg, whether or not you know the adult to whom the leg belongs.

Other Ways Keira Breaks the Baby Mold
She barely tolerates milk, but she loves imported French mineral water. LOVES it.

She never developed stranger anxiety. She has always let almost anyone hold her, at least for a second or two.

She'd rather drink water than juice.

She likes low-fat Mozzarella much better than higher-fat Cheddar. In general, she automatically dislikes anything with calories in it, which is unfortunate since we're doing everything we can to help her bust out of that 5th percentile in height and weight.

She doesn't mind taking naps. You mention "nap" or "bedtime," and she starts humming her favorite lullaby. (If you hum something other than her favorite lullaby while rocking her to sleep, she will interrupt you.)

But there's one way that Keira is a very sterotypical 18-month-old toddler: she was petrified of the Easter Bunny at the mall. She temporarily sprouted kitten claws just so she could cling to my sweater for dear life.

New Things I've Learned Lately

1. Once your baby learns to crawl, you learn to shower in 1/10th the time it used to take.

2. To get fresh cherry stains out of clothing, simply stretch the fabric over a bowl and pour boiling water over the stain. It disappears like magic!

3. Car repairs happen in twos. It seems that whenever one vehicle goes in for an expensive repair, the other vehicle inevitably gets jealous and starts developing symptoms as well.

4. The 35-year-old, female, human body can no longer handle getting less than 5 hours of total sleep two nights in a row.

5. Sometimes movies ARE just as good as the book.

6. A hanging basket of geraniums will survive a hot Utah summer even if it's only watered once a week; a hanging pot of zinnias will not.

7. When it comes to broken storm doors and barbecue grills, it is huge money saver to call the company to inquire after replacement parts. $25 or $50 later and some light labor (thanks Travis!), and both are as good as new.

8. It's nearly impossible to ruin Malt-o-Meal. And (recent epiphany!) you do not have to precisely measure the two ingredients. (Duh!) It turns out exactly the same if you just eyeball the water-meal ratio.

9. Daily affirmations really do work. ("I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darnit, people like me!")

10. The cutest age for a baby is whatever age the baby is at the moment. Just when you think she couldn't possibly be one smidgeon more adorable, she proves you wrong.

What new things have you learned lately?

The End of Infertility?

As I've reflected about mothers and motherhood, I've had other thoughts swirling in my head as well. Among them is compassion and sorrow for so many who are still in the throes of infertility. It's a grueling place to be.

There's the guilt that perhaps you're not relaxed enough, not trying hard enough, not in impeccable health, not young enough, not being aggressive enough with your doctor, and not confident about whether medical intervention or adoption is the path you should pursue.

For me, the guilt and self-doubt has been the worst part.

And I have to acknowledge that the struggle isn't necessarily over for me yet.

I attended an adoption conference last summer, which was a mandatory step to get qualified through our agency. I was skeptical about the title of one class I attended, called "The Joy of Infertility." But so much of what was shared has lodged permanently in my soul.

I needed that class more than I knew. The instructor was named Laurieann Thorpe, and as soon as she started speaking, sharing quotes from author Anna Quindlen and poems that I found unbearably beautiful, I wished she lived next door to me. This is someone I would be friends with for sure.

From her, a woman with one son via adoption, I learned that adoption does not cure infertility. It cures childlessness. This was a revelation.

Don't get me wrong; having my childnessess cured was certainly wonderful. For so many years, I just knew deep down that I was meant to be a mom, but I was terrified of how long I'd have to wait. I did try (and succeed) to live a happy and fulfilled life in the meantime, but there were some things I was putting on hold—certain projects I wouldn't commit to "just in case." The would-be nursery just sat there as an extra room that we never did anything with, because I couldn't bear to devote it to another purpose. And I couldn't bear to turn it into an official nursery quite yet either. And there were other things too. I was perpetually trying not to plan vacations or other things too far in advance, just in case. It's an unsettling spot to be in.

And then, when Keira Jane came along, I finally felt complete, like this is the life I was supposed to be living all along. Yes, I can most assuredly say that having my childlessness cured has been wonderful.

But in that class, I was warned (or prepared, I should say) that sorrow over infertility will rear its ugly head again at some point in the future. For me, it might be sorrow about not being able to give Keira another sibling, or the sorrow of never passing my genes on to another person, of being a genetic dead end.

I learned that infertility can be grouped in with miscarraige and even the loss birthmoms feel in something called "disenfranchised grief" or "ambiguous loss" or "the continuous presence of an absence."(That last phrase was from Anna Quindlen, and it's the perfect description.) You're not mourning for a loved one you had grown to love over years and years. You're mourning the loss of the dream you had of someone. And it's still real grief, although it's not publicly acknowledged or widely understood.

For the last couple of years before Keira arrived, I'd been waiting to "get over" infertility and make my peace with it before I pursued adoption. But I've realized that I'll never be over it all the way. It's a sadness that will hit me now and then, all throughout my life. Now that I know to expect that, I can stop thinking there's something wrong with me for still being sad sometimes, and I'm more prepared for what will come.

Laurieann Thorpe shared a hilarious video that I think many of us, whether infertile or not, can relate to. Feeling sad about not being able to start your family? Well stop it! Get over it! Isn't that what you feel like the world is telling you to do? It's not that simple.

For those of you going through this right now, I want to share two more quotes that were shared that day that helped me so much. I hope they help you.

A quote by Anna Quindlen, from her essay collection, Loud and Clear:

"Grief remains one of the few things that has the power to silence us. It is a whisper in the world and a clamor within. More than sex, more than faith, even more than its usher death, grief is unspoken, publicly ignored except for those moments at the funeral that are over too quickly, or the conversations among the cognoscenti, those of us who recognize in one another a kindred chasm deep in the center of who we are.

"Maybe we do not speak of it because death will mark all of us, sooner or later. Or maybe it is unspoken because grief is only the first part of it. After a time it becomes something less sharp but larger, too, a more enduring thing called loss.

"Perhaps that is why this is the least explored passage: because it has no end. The world loves closure, loves a thing that can, as they say, be gotten through. This is why it comes as a great surprise to find that loss is forever, that two decades after the event there are those occasions when something in you cries out at the continuous presence of an absence, 'An awful leisure,' Emily Dickinson once called what the living have after death."

And a poem by Billy Collins:

"She stopped at a page of clouds aloft in a pale sky, tinged with red and gold. This one is my favorite, she said, even though it was only a detail, a corner of a larger painting which she had never seen. Nor did she want to see the countryside below or the portrayal of some myth in order for the billowing clouds to seem complete.

''This was enough, this fraction of the whole, just as the leafy scene in the windows was enough now that the light was growing dim, as was she enough, perfectly by herself somewhere in the enormous mural of the world.''

You are enough. Perfectly by yourself. As I am. As we all are. And you're not alone.

p.s. Just now, I found a note written in the adoption conference program, while I was trying to decide if adoption was really truly right for us. It says "Something I need to get over: the feeling that I don't want to share." After what I wrote on Saturday, I'm happy to say that I have.

Happiness in Hindsight

I have tons to do today (who doesn't?) but I had to pause and capture some thoughts that have been coursing through my head.

I've always been puzzled by the quote: "Happiness isn't something you experience; it's something you remember." ~Oscar Levant

I wasn't always sure I agreed with that. I know I've experienced happiness, joy, or delight and recognized the feeling at the time. But the truth of this phrase is becoming more and more clear to me.

Recently, after a 6-mile training run for an upcoming half-marathon, I included the following as my Facebook update: "It's all coming back to me now: long runs are only fun in hindsight."

Because, once the run is over, the side aches and swollen fingers and mind games (just run to that red car, okay you can make it to that tall tree, okay now just one more block...) melt completely away, and I'm left with the distance my legs carried me. And feelings of power and pride. Looking back, that run was a good time.

And that somehow reminds me of that Baz Luhrman "talk-song" from the '90s, which was based on a graduation speech by Mary Schmich. It started, "Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth."

I loved that. I'd turn it up and soak it in whenever it played on the radio of my gold Mazda 626. And I made this phrase my mantra. I said to myself again and again, "Enjoy this. Appreciate this." But how?

Part of me wanted to prove wrong the next part of the song: "Oh, nevermind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked."

And now that the years have passed, I get it. I'm hardly old and decrepit. I'm not quite ready for the rest home. But I get it. It's true.

I couldn't appreciate the power and beauty of youth, not really, not until after the fact. (Which is something I try to tell my 24-year-old sister all the time.) Because along with the power and beauty, there was angst, there was insecurity and uncertainty, there were heartbreaks and hurdles.

But, oh, I tried to appreciate being young. I'd look in the mirror and tell myself to be happy about my lack of wrinkles, the youthful glow of my skin. And I was as happy as I could be about it. But without the context of age and experience, how could I appreciate it, really? At the moment, I was who I was and couldn't imagine being anyone else.

"The question before me...is how to be alive,...as this mere singing wren, who thinks he's alive forever, this instant, and may be." ~Wendell Barry

And all that looking in the mirror would do was make me afraid for the time when those things would no longer be true. If I love my smooth, clear skin now (which, let's face it, was never as clear and smooth as I'm now remembering it), won't I hate it when the dreaded crow's feet and smile lines carve their way into my features? Won't I be desperate to go back?

This has all arisen because of an inescapable fact: babies accelerate time. They do. And this is coming from a person who is NOT unacquainted with the phrase "they grow up too fast." I have a 6 ft. 3 in. guitar-playing teenager living in my house who was a 7-year-old, blond, Harry Potter lookalike just moments ago. (He looked like the original book cover art, not Daniel Radcliffe, mind you.)

So now, with Keira Jane playing at my feet while I type, I tell myself, "this goes so fast, enjoy every moment."And I do focus a lot of energy on watching, listening, cuddling, and trying to memorize everything about her. Remember this, remember this, remember this.

But try as I may, there's no way I can appreciate her enough right now. I'll only be able to see her clearly when I look back. And appreciating her now will not keep her small. The more I tell myself "appreciate, appreciate, appreciate," the more I feel like I'm just watching sand slither through an hourglass.

When I hold my friend's sweet baby, Audrey Claire, almost three months younger than Keira Jane, I find I've already forgotten what it feels like to hold an infant so delicate. My little one has five months of baby chub, dimpled fists that can grab necklaces and hair, fingers that have found their way into her mouth. She's alert and exploring her world, no longer sleeping off the disorienting ordeal of birth. And I'm stunned at how quickly I've forgotten how it feels to hold one so young.

When Keira was teeny tiny, almost every visitor who came to hold her would say, "Oh, I can't remember how to hold them when they're this small." They'd reach out so gingerly, afraid they'd shatter her. "Oh, come on. Here," I'd say and just hand her over. I got used to her tininess so quickly. Yes, she was delicate, but she was strong, hardy, not as breakable as we think.

But that moment of being an experienced mother of a 2-week-old baby is already gone. Now I know how to hold a 4 1/2 month old. And soon, that will be a memory, too.

So I take photos. And I write things down the moment I feel them--doing my best to hang on to things that are so very fleeting. And I'm already grateful that I'm trying to stem the tide of time, that impossible task.

On Sunday, January 23, 2011, at 5:09 a.m., I wrote this in my iPhone Momento app:
"I want to memorize the smell, the feel of her cheek, perfect, plump and smooth, when she's heavy with sleep. I nuzzle the folds of her neck and drink her in."

And then it comes back to me.

One Reason Not to Space Your Children 16 Years Apart

You might change your baby's diaper one morning to find that she has been mysteriously tattoed overnight.

And of course you'll have a mini heart attack, because at first it looks like an enormous bruise. And then you'll (rightly) realize that your husband probably had something to do with it, too. And then you'll be grateful that, if your teen is going to temporarily tattoo your baby with a rock-band icon,  he at least has decent taste in music.

(Speaking of baby tattoos, did you hear about the misguided young man who permanently tattooed a baby he was watching for the day? Even worse, it wasn't even his own baby! Terrible.)

My First Week as a Mom

Keira is now 10 days new. And she just hit her one-week anniversary as a Lucas. My heart is full.

 

I am a mother. I've yearned for this for 11 years, ever since I fell in love with my tiny newborn niece, Haylee, on April 22, 1999. Five years later, I was married, and another six years later, I finally brought home my own bundle of joy. And now, at least a dozen times a day, I look at the darling in my arms and say to myself in wonder, "I'm holding a baby right now! And I get to keep her!"

Expected: How fun it would be to hear people say "your baby."
Unexpected: The jolt I felt the first time someone said "your daughter."

Expected: That being a new mother feels something like falling in love for the first time.
Unexpected: The euphoria I feel every minute. The whole world looks brighter, newer. I'm full of creative ideas and overflowing with inspiration (if only I had a spare minute to follow through on any of them). I half expect to see little cartoon birds lifting the bed covers each morning while singing mice lay out our outfits for the day.

Expected: That I'd be very, very tired from the feedings every two hours.
Unexpected: How little I care about being tired. I'd rather be tired. I love being tired. After six years of being well rested but empty handed, I'm ready to be physically exhausted with a cuddly infant in my arms.

Expected: That Travis would be a wonderful dad all over again, just like he's been to Jeremy.
Unexpected: How quickly he fell in love with Keira Jane. "I had no idea," he said to me the other day. "About what? How cute she'd be?" I asked. "About all of it," he said.


Expected: That there'd be lots and lots of laundry.
Unexpected: How much I love folding baby clothes. (Just don't ask if any of the grown-up clothes around here have been laundered in the last two weeks.)

Expected: That there'd be a learning curve as I adjust to being a new mom. I'm not the fastest diaper changer in the West, not by  long shot. (I've been known to go through three new diapers during one changing session, thanks to Keira's air-exposure-pee-reflex. But Travis has the record with four.) Nor do I have the onesie wrestling down quite yet. (Slipping a wriggling, floppy newborn into a tiny, form-fitting, fabric tube should be an Olympic sport.)
Unexpected: How much I already know from years of watching sisters and sisters-in-law, friends, and neighbors with their children. It appears I've been a sponge for the last 10 years, quietly gathering everyone else's best ideas and learning from their experiences.

Expected: That I'd be grateful to my baby's birth parents.
Unexpected: How deeply I love, admire, and respect my baby's birthmom. How fervently I pray that she will have absolutely everything she wants and needs out of life, that she will be happy, that she will be treasured and loved by all who know her. How I hope for every happiness for her birthdad, too.

Expected: That being jolted awake every two hours by a crying infant would wreak havoc with my sleep habits.
Unexpected: How vividly I remember all of my dreams. I usually remember dreams only occasionally, but now I enjoy the pleasure of clearly recalling three or four weird dreams every night! (Only one so far has involved misplacing the baby.)

Expected: That new babies bring joy and wonder with them right from the start.
Unexpected: The outpouring of gifts, visitors, well-wishes, and more from friends, family, and even strangers who are sharing in our happiness. (For just one wonderful example, visit The Daily Trumpet to see what Wendy and her cohorts put together for baby Keira.) I wish every baby born on this earth could be greeted with such a celebration.

Expected: That being a new mother would change my life entirely.
Unexpected: That I still feel exactly like me. I think, all this time, I was imagining an enormous, transformative change to come over me—that a pillar of light would rain down from heaven, and I'd be endowed with motherly wisdom, power, and instant immunity to all disgusting bodily liquids.

Yes, the change is and will be total, but it hasn't been an overwhelming or sudden shift in the fabric of my very existence. It's been quiet and gradual. It feels as comfortable as slipping into a soft, fluffy robe that fits like a dream and that I never, ever want to take off.

Photos taken by Travis with his dad's vintage Polaroid Land Camera and then scanned.