A Safe Place To Fall

I tried something new at my daughter's gymnastics class this morning. Instead of joining her 3-year-old class on the floor, I stayed back to watch her from a distance.  In previous sessions, I had stayed by her side, guiding her through the motions and encouraging her along the way. This morning, though, felt different. She seemed more confident, more ready to conquer the class on her own. Off she ran, ponytail bouncing, to take on the world.

At one point during the morning, I stood watching her struggle on the balance beam. Even though the beam was no more than two feet off the floor, the fear on her face was clear.  Twice, she fell off, and twice she climbed back on. It took all I had to stay put. I wanted to run and rescue her, to save her from the angst of having to do it all on her own.

As I watched, I realized what an incredible gift it is for us, as parents, to let our children fall. To let them fail.  Because when we learn to tolerate failure, we also learn to push ourselves towards success.  And if we can't tolerate the thought of failure? If we are paralyzed by the fear of falling? Then we don't even climb up onto the beam. 

Then my little girl got stuck.  She reached the end of the beam, and she didn't know what to do. Her little face crumpled and she started to cry.  My mother bear instincts took over and I was at her side in a flash, pulling her into my arms and telling her that she was brave and strong and amazing for having gotten as far as she did. 

Those moments on the beam seemed to capture the careful balancing act that we all maneuver as parents.  The hardest part of parenting isn't the long hours or the laundry or the doctor's visits or the PTA meetings.  Not at all.  The most challenging part of parenting, at least for me, is the constant struggle between stepping up and stepping back; between pushing our children toward independence and giving them the support they need; between letting them fall, and catching them when they do.

There's more though. This dichtomy doesn't just shape my mothering.  It also forms the shadow that is the loss of my own mother. It exists at the very heart of what it's like to live without her here.

On many levels, my life without my mom is so much more than I thought it would be. Losing her was like getting shoved onto that balance beam and left there all alone.  At first, I didn't want to take a step. For a long time, I remained frozen in place. The hand that had always been on the small of my back, guiding me across the beam was suddenly gone. It was terrifying.

When I did take a step, though, what a marvelous step it was. I gained courage and trust in myself. I learned I could wobble, and not fall. I learned I could fall and get back up. Without a safety net, I thrived in ways I could never have imagined. I grew up.  I am who I am because my mother is not here.

But. There is still a little girl inside of me. One who sometimes gets stuck on the end of the beam.  Whose little face crumples and whose arms reach out to be gathered up and swept into that place of love and safety and all things good again. Except it's no longer there.

Don't get me wrong.  I have many people in my life who love me. I am lucky that way.  I have an ever-present source of support and encouragement from the people who believe in me.  I am not without.

Still, there will always be an ache for that which I have lost. In all that comes with losing a mother, the most profound is this: There is no longer a safe place to fall.

"You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
― Anne Lamott

Just Another Day In Paradise

My Mother’s Day wasn’t perfect. The weekend brought rain and snot. At one point, I found myself huddled in a car with a crying, snotty Baby Girl and a crying, cold Joseph, watching the soccer game that Joseph was supposed to be playing in (I kind of deserved this, since I had completely underestimated how cold it was—it is NOT supposed to be 35 degrees in May—and had forgotten to bring gloves or a hat for Joseph). I didn’t get to sleep in on Mother’s Day, as I’ve learned that me sleeping in only leads to a grumpy husband who didn’t get enough sleep, and then no-one is happy. So I got up with the kids, bright and early. I didn’t get the tulips I wanted, even though I sent my husband an e-mail that said, “FYI, I like tulips.” Apparently the message was too subtle. I changed my outfit twice before going to church and still had massive amounts of snot on my shirt when we arrived. We ate out at restaurant for lunch, but between a squirmy baby who had missed her nap and a hyper 5 year old who literally *jumped* out of his chair four times, I didn’t get to eat my food until it was cold. There was laundry to be done, a house to be cleaned, and dinner to be made. And nobody else volunteered to take over those duties.

So, my Mother’s Day wasn’t perfect. But I chose to love it anyway.

I chose to love it because I know full well that there are too many women who ache to be mothers and are struggling on their journey to get there. Woman who will spend Mother’s day trying desperately to forget that the one thing they want—to have a baby to snuggle and kiss and rock to sleep at night—seems to be only a distant dream that will never become a reality. Women who have lost babies who were part of them, if only for the briefest moment in time. I know this because I was one of those women. And so I chose to love the snot and the tears and the laundry and the chaos because they are part and parcel of this amazing gift called motherhood.

I chose to love it because my son has another mother, his Ethiopian first mother, who didn’t get to see him jump off of chairs today. As grateful as I am for the joy that this amazing little boy brings into my life and as much as it physically takes my breath away when I think about the prospect of not having him here, I will never forget that my joy comes at the expense of another mother’s loss. I wish I could reach out to his first mother to tell her that Joseph is safe, and he is happy, and he is loved. Oh, how he is loved. But I can’t. And so I chose to love the day and this boy and all his energy to honor the sacrifice his birthmother made. And I chose to love the day because I am heartbreakingly aware of how, with just the smallest twist of fate, I would not have had the chance to hug this little boy and watch him jump off chairs, and see him grow up before my eyes.

I chose to love it because, all over the world, there are mothers who can’t feed their children or keep them warm or keep them sheltered from the rain. On my Mother’s Day, I got to give my children food without thinking twice about how I would make this happen. I got to clothe them, and when they were cold, we got to snuggle in a car, protected from the rain. And when they were sick, I got to wipe their noses with a clean cloth and give them medicine to ease their pain and tuck them into warm beds. I got to give them warm bathes and clean clothes. I got to keep them safe. So I chose to love the day because I know how extraordinarily lucky I am to be able to give those gifts to my children and how many mothers would do anything to be able to do these simple things for theirs.

I chose to love the day anyway because behind the joys of motherhood, there is a sadness that always lingers in the shadows. I miss my mom. I miss her smile and oh, how I miss her voice. Her voice, the one that had the ability to make me feel safe and warm and loved all over. I miss that feeling, the one of complete and utter unconditional love that only a mom can evoke. I miss her profoundly and deeply and achingly. And yet the grief is bittersweet. The bitterness is obvious. The sweetness is the clarity that such a loss brings about the brevity of life. That clarity shapes my days. I chose to love the day because I truly understand, down to my very core, that these moments with my children are excruciatingly, breathtakingly brief.

I chose to love my Mother’s Day. Though it wasn't perfect, it was full of moments that were oh-so-sweet. I woke up to Joseph spontaneously shouting, “Happy Mothers’ Day!” with no one to remind him to do so (remember, my husband was still sleeping). My baby girl woke up and smiled at me with her two new teeth peeking out. My husband presented me with a Dairy Queen cake which I had also requested (okay, so truth be told, my e-mail actually read: “FYI I like tulips and Dairy Queen cake.” He just went for the cake part instead of the tulips part). I felt my mom’s presence in church. At dinner that night, Joseph insisted I get the first piece of cake and crawled over into my lap to give me a kiss. I got to hug my children and watch them play and to put them to bed with full bellies, clean pajamas, and warm blankets. My day wasn’t perfect. But it was more than I deserved. And it was more than enough.

An Open Letter To My Mom

Hi Mom,

I've been thinking a lot about you again.

It's funny how grief runs in seasons like that. At first, losing you was so overwhelming I could barely breathe. Your loss turned me inside out and nothing felt the same. Then, time marched on and, as it did, the sharp edges of grief fell off. A new normal arose from within.

Now...now there are entire weeks that go by where I don't think about what life would be like if you were here. My life is full of joy, and peace, and hope for the future. I'm the happiest I've ever been. I immerse myself in my days and live them for what they are, because that's really all any of us can do. And I know that you'd want me to do this very thing; I know that your greatest hope for me would be this very life that I am living.

But then there are the moments when something makes me stop and remember. Remember you. Remember your smile and your voice and your laugh. Remember how much I have lost by not having you here to see this life as it unfolds miraculously in front of me.

I'm not sure why I've had more of those moments lately. Perhaps it's because we had to say good-bye to your sister a couple weeks ago. Although I didn't know her well when I was a child, she tried so hard to establish a relationship with me as a grown-up. She loved to read my blog, and she encouraged me. Sometimes she shared stories about you, or about me when I was young. I didn't even realize it then, but it was nice to have that piece of you, that connection to you, through her. And now that is gone, too.

Or perhaps it's because my baby girl is growing up. She's not a baby anymore, she's a toddler, and she is marvelous. Sometimes I see you cross over her face, like a shadow...and then it's gone. Right now, she's at the very age I was when you took it upon yourself to write down the things that I was doing that made you smile. Every once in a while, I pull out that yellow lined paper where memories of my childhood are documented in your careful teacher's penmenship, and I smile along with you as I imagine myself doing those things. Then I see my baby girl do them, and suddenly I am you, smiling at her, like you were smiling at me. And although those moments help me remember that I am connected to you through her, I still feel your loss most profoundly inside of them.

So today, I was thinking about all the things I'd do if you were here with me.

First, of course, I'd grab you by the hand and introduce you to my babies. I'd tell you all about Joseph and how he's learning to read and write and how amazed and thrilled I am to be able to share our love of the written word with him. And then I'd let you hold my baby girl, and we'd marvel together in the memories of me as we talked about her.

Then we'd head to the kitchen where you'd insist on making me my favorite dinner, just like you always used to do when I came home to visit. Nobody makes me that dinner anymore, but even if someone did, even if the ingredients were measured carefully and the food was prepared as precisely as it had been by you, even then it wouldn't be the same, because the dinner was never really about the food. It was about the love with which the food was made. And I'd tell you how, in your absence, I've realized that the unconditional love that flows from a mother to her daughter can simply not be replaced. And when I lost that source of love, I suddenly felt very alone. And sometimes I still do.

After dinner, we'd grab a cup of coffee and I'd ask you how you survived when Kate and I were young. I'd tell you that motherhood is way harder than I ever imagined it to be. I'd tell you how much I've learned about myself, and how many mistakes I have made...and how much I regret them. I'd tell you that I'm sorry for not appreciating you, for not recognizing all the sacrifices you made for me, for not understanding how lucky I was to have you in my life. For taking you for granted.

After a while, we'd have to look for your cup of coffee, which you'd have lost somewhere along the way when you went to warm it up. We'd find it, still in the microwave, needing to be warmed up yet again. I'd log you onto facebook and show you around. You'd love it, but it would take quite a while for you to figure out how to make it work. We'd talk about our love of books and bemoan the likelihood that my grandchildren will probably never know the pleasure that comes from cracking open a new book and feeling the weight of that book in their hands as they read. We'd go shopping together and you'd find a way to convince me that if *you* bought me something new to wear, I wouldn't be breaking my current promise to not buy new clothes, especially if you used some of your magic $20s to pay for them. And then we'd play a game of Scrabble.

And I'd win.

I still remember the day the world took

you back & there was never enough time to thank

you for the thousand scattered moments

you left behind to watch us while we slept.

-Brian Andreas, Thousand Moments

Way Back When: The Journey Through Infertility

Although I haven’t been blogging for long, I have always loved writing. One of the reasons I wanted to start this blog was to have a place to collect the things I write about, past, present, and future. With that in mind, I’m going to share some of the essays that I wrote before I started this blog.

This one is about infertility and loss. Some people may think it’s too personal of an essay to share, but I would quietly disagree. Too many people are affected by infertility, pregnancy loss, and just loss in general. And yet we talk about it too little.

I wrote this essay way back in 2004, right after I lost my mom and less than a year before we adopted Joseph. Although it was not a hard decision for us to choose to adopt (I had always dreamed of adopting at least one of my children and Anders and both thought it silly to waste time and emotional energy on treatment for infertility when there were so many children who needed homes), it *was* extraordinarily hard to come to terms with the fact that I might not also get to carry and give birth to a child.

I know now that things unfolded exactly as they were meant to. I wouldn’t change a thing, even if it meant experiencing every single broken heart all over again. Without a doubt, this is the family I was meant to have and it brings tears to my eyes to envision a world without my Joseph in it. And yet. The grief I experienced way back then was real, and grueling, and pervasive. To ignore or deny that would be to discredit the pain of all those who continue to struggle on their journey to parenthood. With that in mind, here’s what I had to say back then:

I have read the impact of infertility can be compared to losing a loved one. When I first read this, I thought it was a hyperbole; that infertility could never bring as much pain as losing someone you love with all your heart. I was wrong. I know, because in the past year, I lost my 53 year old mom to cancer and, in the same year, have realized that my dreams of conceiving a child will likely never be realized.

To those who have never experienced the emotions of infertility, it may be hard to see the comparison. It became crystal clear to me one night as I was sitting at a football game, surrounded by a new mom and an expectant mom. The game was spent reveling in the miracle of childbirth, chatting about where the best place to give birth might be, comparing the best buys for strollers and baby gates.

To many, this may not seem like a hard situation. For me, it was tough.

I was at the beginning of a new treatment cycle, and was still working through the fact that my last attempt to conceive a child, like the thirty before it, had not worked. With only one treatment cycle to go before we officially stopped trying to conceive, I was in mourning. Mourning for the little baby that I had always dreamed of growing inside me. Mourning for the infant that would have had my husband's eyes and my nose. Mourning the feeling of a tiny newborn, one that I had helped create, sleeping in my arms.

If it is still hard to imagine how difficult this situation might be, maybe I can compare it to losing my mom. Except, instead of the huge outpouring of love and support I got when I lost my mom, imagine if nobody acknowledged her death. Imagine that every day was Mother's Day, and everywhere I turned, someone was talking about what he was going to buy his mom. Imagine that I was sitting at that football game, a few days after my mom died, and my two friends spent the entire game talking about their moms; what they were going to do with their moms the next day, how much joy their moms brought to their life, how they couldn't imagine their lives without their moms. Tough situation, right? That's what infertility is like.

When I lost my mom, I couldn't imagine how life could go on. I had so many dreams for our future together. My mom taught me everything I know about life, and I needed her desperately for all I had yet to learn. As time passes, I am slowly learning that life does go on; that there is happiness here. It's not a bad life...it’s just a different one than I had imagined.

Grieving a loved one is a process of sorting through all your hopes for the future, and slowly untangling that person from those dreams. In the same way, experiencing infertility requires a slow release of the dreams that you had of conceiving, carrying, and giving birth to a child. It doesn't mean you can't have a child. It just means that you may have to untangle your hopes of conceiving from your dreams of being a parent.

As my husband and I let go of our plans to conceive a child, we are pulled in the direction of adoption. I can't help but feel that my son or daughter is out there, waiting patiently for us to help him or her find the way home.

Infertility *is* losing someone you love. I have loved my unborn biological child for as long as I can remember. It is heart-breaking that I will never get to meet her. But mourning also requires moving past the "should be" and learning to live in "what is". Should I get to have my mom as my guide for many more years to come? Yes. Should she have gotten to meet her grandchildren? Absolutely. Should I be able to experience the wonder of a child growing inside of me? You bet. But there is no "should be". Grieving is a process of letting go of the "should bes" to make room for what is.

There are good things here, too. I am a much stronger person than I was a year ago. I have learned the value of my amazing husband, my beautiful friends, and my supportive family. I see with amazing clarity how precious life truly is. I have very little fear left, for the things I feared the most are coming true, and I am still standing. My compassion for those who are suffering has deepened, and I am no longer afraid to comfort them. I have patience for the small trials we go through each day, because I know how hard life can be. I can see God's fingerprints everywhere. I have met many angels in my journey, most them disguised as people here on earth. I am grateful for the truths that have been revealed to me.


Yet, through it all, I grieve.

"There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning."

-- Louis L'Amour