Where We Grew Up

They were the only ones to live there.  Single owner home, the Vaughans moved in when my dad was in elementary school.  

Home is not a place, I always told myself, having moved over a dozen times before I was in my mid-twenties.  Home can't be a place, because places change.  People move.  In, out.  We take home with us, wherever we go. 

So when it came time to move the Vaughans out of Severn Way, the pain was surprising.  

The word pain seems dramatic.  But it's the word I have.

In this home I learned how to make pasta, play Mario Kart, knead bread.  We performed countless plays to Elton John's Lion King soundtrack.  Dozens of holidays were spent with the kitchen steaming from boiling potatoes and beans you weren't allowed to stir.  I sat in bed with rollers in my hair.  We ate 3 Musketeer bars from the cabinet.  Were slipped $20 bills.  Sat on the back porch swing while she told us about herself - a bravery I wouldn't even recognize until I was an adult.  

Dad and I wrecked our bikes right outside the front doors in the cul-de-sac.  Marty took me down the street to drive for the first time in the Pathfinder.  We had movie nights in the basement with our friends.  I learned about dieting. I used a computer for the first time.

I used to dream I lived there all the time.  In the basement bedroom, which used to be my dad's.  What would it be like to live in Lexington, with that bedroom all to myself?  

Those same dozens of holidays, music was played.  On the piano, on the dulcimer.  Someone would start, probably dad, but it was not uncommon for a brother to join.  No one read sheet music there.  No one wrapped Christmas presents, the grandkids just received giant gift bags.  We had turkey on Thanksgiving, but steak at Christmas.  And regardless of the weather outside, dad and at least one of his brothers grilled for us.  The back sliding door fogging up from the heat inside and the cold outside.  We played botched versions of croquet in the back yard and grew those green beans and threw balls on to the roof.

When I was around 20, things started changing.  To this day, if someone were to ask me when I first started feeling like an adult, I would recount this phone call.  She had fallen.  They were headed to the hospital.  Could I go clean up the kitchen where she fell.  

I remember feeling trusted.  And getting to Severn Way, realizing Marty had beat me to the bulk of the clean up.  But still feeling as if suddenly I'd been folded in to the inner circle.  I could handle the not-so-perfect side of our family now.  I was sure.

We've spent the last fifteen years in a strange, imperfect space.  Less dinners together.  A divorce.  Infection. A rainy day, which caused my own mom to fall.  More babies.  A global pandemic.  The effects and impact of trauma and illness have taken what we once were and we are now close to unrecognizable.  

So this year when it became evident another move needed to take place, what came next felt inevitable and equally devastating.  He was supposed to be ok.  He would have been ok, I thought, if we hadn't created so much space.  My favorite person would still be my favorite person, if he hadn't put someone else first.  If I hadn't been afraid.  

But in the way he always had, he showed little to no attachment to his things.  And he waited patiently at the window for my other favorite person to take him to his new home.  Despite fifty years in one place.  Despite an entire lifetime in one house.  He's now settled in to simplicity.  Eating cinnamon rolls we bring him.  Having learned my lesson far sooner than I learned it.  

Still I tried to make it my own.  The home we all grew up in.  This felt like the right choice, the way to save the story.  Somehow, maybe, I could redeem it all. For my dad, especially.  And for myself.  

We cleared out literal tons from our home.  With every box, every load, every garbage bag, every prescription bottle, every Champion sweatshirt, every bread pan, I found myself easing closer to the lesson.  

~

Where we grew up will always hold some of my favorite and most formative memories.  

The gift of Severn Way will always be the reminder that where we are, the things we have are less important.  

The gift is I come from strong people.  From people who have tried their hardest, regardless of whether it has been enough.  People who are creative and intelligent and loving, in whatever way they can be.  

Later, the house on Severn would sell at a yard sale.  

Later, it was clear the lesson here was not the house, but the healing.  

Later, I'd walk into an empty house.  Leave a key on the counter.  And lock the door behind me.  

swimming lessons

This summer we've been learning how to swim.  Silas and Damir have taken a few lessons each , and every time we go to the local pool I have been working with them.  They call it "practicing without my floatie".  

Their progress is incredible.  My priority was Silas, and if you've ever met Silas you don't need me to really explain why.  Somehow, by proxy, Damir has also learned how.  Neither of them are quite ready to be too far from me in the pool.  But I feel so much safer than summers before.  We've learned to blow bubbles, scoop ice cream, swim like little froggies under the water.  Silas has even practiced swimming to retrieve toys from the bottom of the pool.  And above everything else, just get to the wall.  

Speaking of summers, ours is almost over already.  Ten more days and I head back to work.  Two weeks after that, five of the six of our kids will be headed back to school.  I am immensely grateful for the time I get to spend at home.  But these last two weeks of the break always prove to be harder than I'd like.  I have been sleep training, we have had medical emergencies, we have been pursuing career goals, navigating behavior changes, our oldest has had a job all summer, and the oldest three have all had sports.  

Today, while I was trying to self evaluate and solve a problem, I thought about Silas swimming.

Sometimes Silas will be in the water and his little arms and legs will thrash around trying to keep his head above water.  He will lift his eyes and chin up high and breathe rapidly, splash frantically.  His eyes get a wild look and he is rarely using his energy efficiently.  When he does this, I do one or two things.  First, I remind him to breathe.  He's over here swallowing water and wasting his energy.  Take a deep breath, Silas.  Get to the wall.  Then, if we are at the end of the pool where we usually are, I might also say, "Silas.  It's not over your head right here.  Put your feet down."  

He will stretch his little toes down to the pool floor and immediately relax, breathe.  

Not only is Silas a better swimmer this summer than he has ever been, he also is often not as far in over his head as he believes.  

Today I thought about Silas swimming, because I was feeling frantic.  Despite how we feel about Brent Brown, I often think about her content discussing the importance of the words we use.  Her story about "being in the weeds" at work and the gravity of the word "overwhelmed".  How we should only use the word "overwhelmed" in a scenario where we can shut down anything auxiliary and reset.  I was feeling frantic, but could not reset.  

It might be true that I am often not as in over my head as I might believe.  It gets loud, it gets hot, they're all hungry, I am lonely, stretched thin, overworked, exhausted, insecure, embarrassed.  And I am thrashing my arms and legs, swallowing water, and life feels a bit like it's trying to drown me.  Like I am unsafe and not going to make it. When in reality, I could probably take a deep breath and have the skill to get myself to the wall.  Or, more often than not, take a deep breath and easily reach for the bottom of the pool with room to spare.  

I am a solid enneagram 6 and an INFJ.  I am always, always seeking affirmation.  I am always prioritizing safety and security.  I am often focused on the importance of words, or the absence of them.  I often hope , in all the thrashing and treading water and gasping for air, someone will come along with a strong arm.  I hope for rescue or aid, when I'm feeling the most frenetic.  Someone, please, just throw me a life jacket. Someone please pick me up. Where is my floatie? 

As this summer starts to wind down and I do my evaluating, as I always do, I am realizing in those chaotic, fearful moments, someone is not usually coming.  Rarely is someone else the answer to the problem I am having.  Whether that's because it is so rare for someone to know what to say and when to say it, or because things are not frantic because I am bad.  They're frantic because life is really hard and I just need to breathe.  But things didn't go badly because I failed or because someone else could do it better.  And there are likely no words anyone could say, which would calm the frenzy anyway.

Usually, I just need to take a breath.  And either get to the wall, or put my feet down.  

progressive overload

It's the end of another school year and here I am, trying to collect all my thoughts.  It feels, at the moment, a bit like herding chickens or cats or whatever the common phrase is.  Regardless of the uncooperative animal, I don't fully have this situation under control.  And that is not a comfortable feeling for me.  

So much has changed, so much is going to continue to change over the next few months.  Our kids are starting jobs, starting sports teams, starting kindergarten, starting middle school, starting to swim.  I just finished my first full year as a LCSW.  We are hoping for a few other major changes in our family in the next few months.  Hoping for good news.  

My kids are not little anymore.  Even Damir, the baby, is big and brilliant and beautiful.  

They're all changing and growing and adventuring.  But it sort of feels like I am not.  

Donald Miller wrote about this.  About how this is when we give up on our stories.  When all the "big" milestones are in the rearview mirror and the coast on either side is out of sight.  You're just rowing.  And rowing.  This is when we give up.  

But I don't want to give up.  I have my family and my husband and my career and my degrees and my home.  I don't need to, or want to, change any of those things.  The distinct sense I have though is that in the last 12 years, despite making monumental personal progress in my career and growing my family, I have lost myself.  

I think there are folks who say we can't lose ourselves.  I'd imagine they're optimistically positioned, claiming we are not a "thing" to be misplaced.  So perhaps lost is not the word.  

Yesterday I watched a teaser trailer with Judah for Moana 2.  The trailer begins with a crab in a shell that is seemingly too small.  And little crab turns and finds a bigger shell just to her left, but then comes Maui.  Who replaces the bigger shell with an even bigger, more beautiful shell.  

Maybe I haven't lost myself.  Or done anything wrong.  Except outgrown my own shell a bit.  

I'm not sure I love this metaphor either because there are so many parts of my life I have absolutely not outgrown.  I have not outgrown being a wife or a mother or a therapist.  But those three pieces of my identity have been all there is for years.  And years.  

Could this imagery, this metaphor, of a new shell mean I am these things ... And also other things?  Am I allowed to be interesting and complex?  Am I allowed to be new? 

My imagery for transformation used to be the butterfly.  But this doesn't ring true for me anymore because there's only one major transformative period for a butterfly.  The caterpillar does not transform more than once.  

And I just keep changing.  Not necessarily in obvious ways. Or ways I'm proud of.  Not always on purpose.

But part of the issue, when you lose your sense of self or your identity, is knowing what to do next.  

How do you pick a new shell?  Or re-build yourself?  

How do you even know how to find new things to love?  What do I even enjoy anymore?

This dilemma has penetrated every single aspect of my life.  From my career to my appearance to my health to my hobbies.  This is why sometimes it feels more like "lost" than anything else because I feel pretty empty handed.  I'm over here contemplating bangs.  

It's not rubble.  I'm not staring at anything destroyed.  The life I have built is beautiful.  But is it enough? 

So is it renovation?  Is it restoration?  

What's the fucking metaphor here!  

I've been desperately struggling with my weight since I started working at an elementary school.

I have no excuse.  I know how to eat healthy.  I have a gym in my garage.

This year I made new friends at work who share my values of physical movement and health and I am so grateful.

Something clicked yesterday though.  And to be honest I feel like an idiot.  I know better.

I have not been progressing.

Because I hadn't been trying to progress.

So last night I went down to the garage.  And I turned up the music.  And I found my 1 rep max on each of my big lifts.  I ended up working out for an hour and breaking an ungodly sweat because, guess what I hadn't been doing for probably over a year?  Working that hard.  

I had been expecting progress where I wasn't putting in the work.  

But I don't want to just be a mother, wife, therapist and.... Exerciser?  Even though I am slowly coming to terms with how much work it is going to take to make sure I am not sitting solely on my ass at 50.  Maintenance is a bitch.  But what else?  

Do I write again?  Do I pick my camera back up?  Do I cook?  I don't even know what my options are.  Half of the time, my brain is so scrambled I cannot even read.  I've tried.  But it's a true ebb and flow pattern over here.  

Do I cover myself in tattoos and buy new clothes?  Do I learn how to plant flowers?  

Is my brain capable of learning how to play the piano like my sister?  

Do I need to crochet?  Paint by number?  Become a yoga instructor?

Like what the actual fuck do I do now.  

Is "doing" even the answer?  

I've done a lot of healing and learning over the years.  I know I am not who I was.  But is growth always the only goal?  What about enjoyment?  Is it true there's is nothing lost or broken or bad about me and that, maybe, life can just be lived right now?  In addition to all of this, I struggle with imposter syndrome, so especially in areas like my career... I might even stunt myself because despite how much experience I have and how much I do know, I doubt my ability and don't share it.  This shows up in my "try hard" because what if I am terrible at anything I try.  I have not ever allowed myself that freedom.

I told a few friends not too long ago that I am just thinking about being in a body of water and just floating.  On a paddleboard.  On a float in the pool.  I don't even know beyond that what would bring me more joy.  Feasibly anyway.  Because please teleport me to New England to eat lobster or the Pacific Northwest to see the whales.  

It would be unfair not to mention that I have tried very few of the aforementioned hobbies (see: imposter syndrome).  And so, it may also be true in this area of my life that I am expecting progress or answers, where I am not putting in effort.  

If you see me with bangs or practicing headstands in the park, just let me live, ok?  

habit

 I’ve been thinking about habit.   

Admittedly, I have not read the viral Atomic Habits book yet.  I'd imagine my thoughts aren’t so revolutionary.   

But when I stop to think about all the changes I need to make in my daily life, I can get incredibly overwhelmed.  Unless.  Unless I remember everything I do is a choice. 

Well.  Most of everything I do is a choice.  

I choose when I lay down and get up.  I might not "choose" when I am awake and asleep, but the actions of laying down and getting up can help ensure sleep comes sooner or later.

I choose my meals daily.  Maybe I chose earlier based on what I bought (or didn't buy) at the grocery store.   

There are parts of my life I don't choose.  Like what comes up in the day or how other people act.  In both those scenarios, the choice is my response.  

The basic habits I am trying to transform are actually just... choices.  

It is not always easy to make the healthier choice.  Depending on the day or the circumstance or the budget.  But it is often an available choice. 

It sounds so simple.  To pick up a book instead of Instagram.  To pick up water instead of coffee.  To spend an hour on Sundays prepping meals so you have the choice to eat healthy food during the week instead of spending $15 on take out.  To wake up at 4:45 instead of 5am.  To add some protein to those carbs.  To meditate instead of ... again... scrolling.  To move your body rather than ... scrolling.  To take a deep breath, count to ten, to give yourself space to see someone else's perspective.  

There are other habits that are not as related to physical health.  Like friendship.  Community.  connection.  These get trickier because, well, everything gets trickier when you involve other people.  But do I make the choice to reach out to my friends?  Do I make the choice to intentionally carve out space?  To offer my home even when it isn't spotless or "ready"?  

These choices, which turn into habits, are about showing up as the woman I want to be, before I just intuitively am her.  Or, perhaps, it is about knowing who I am and honoring her.  

Either way.  One step at a time.

a parenting thought

8/23/22

 My parenting journey has been anything but "normal".  

Sometimes I am envious of mothers who have a linear parenting story.  Who, if they want to, have a private parenting story.  

My story, our family's story, is anything but linear.  And in some sense, is anything but private.

I am suspicious, though, what we are experiencing as a family of eight is not unlike what you are experiencing.  We just have a few dynamics making the experience extra interesting. 

A trend I am seeing on social media is one of holding boundaries with our parents or holding our parents accountable for how they hurt us, or how they failed us.  I am about a decade older than most who are exploring this wild territory and I have some thoughts.  

Each generation, hopefully, does better than the one before it.  Because my parents evolved, I was not raised the way they were.  Because I have evolved, I am not raising children the way I was raised.  

However.  The pendulum seems to be swinging too far right now.  

As a bonus parent to two teen (ish) girls, I am seeing this trend promote blurry lines between entitlement and respect.  

As a bonus parent and a bio parent and a mental health professional, I am seeing this desire to have make sure our children are "heard" and "validated" turn into a lack of guidance and correction.  

Gentle parenting turning into little more than permissive parenting. 

I keep thinking about what my goals are for parenting and for my children.  I want them to know how to communicate.  But I also want them to be empathetic.

And just because someone is a child or just because someone is a parent doesn't mean they automatically are wrong.  This is the balance we are trying to find.

I have to do better about learning what really is a threat and what isn't.

And my children have to learn ... well.  How to be kinder.  

on being a parent

 Parenting thought of the day.

 If I were to replay the tape to figure out where most of our conflict originated, I think (I know. I’ve thought about this extensively) at the core I’d find a lack of mindfulness.

Six kids are screaming/arguing/roughhousing. Tv is blaring. Dog is barking. Someone’s hungry. Something just broke. No one can find the remote. No one has clean socks. Someone spilled water… or someone peed. Someone looked at the other wrong. There’s a sharpie lid.  Somewhere, a tiktok video is playing.

 In that chaotic moment, a statement is made or missed, a snide remark, or a need is expressed in a round about way. Mine. His. Theirs. And in the whirlwind of Big Family Life the ability to “pause” seems to be lost.

 Remember when our moms said, “it’s so loud I can’t think”?

When an accusation was made and in the heat of the moment, I took it personally. But if I’d taken a pause, I probably could have seen it as a fight, which didn’t need to be picked.

When a rule is broken. When, in complex dynamics, a parent is pitted against the other.  When eyes are rolled or siblings argue.  

In my trauma trainings I‘ve learned about “perceived threat” and the dominance game. And the remedies to handling those “knee jerk” reactions, which happen because our brains have been conditioned by past events, which settled into past painful memories.

I keep thinking , what is wrong with me that I have THIS much work to do? 

Can you possibly be a good mother and have to work this hard at it?  Some days I want to review tape.

The core belief, slowly being exposed, is that I have too much work to do.  You can't be a good mother and be this bad.  

There are days I can't quite tease apart what is hard because raising kids is hard, and what is hard because our family is blended.  For example, the days they don't listen or roll their eyes or a decision gets undermined or maybe I made a mistake, but it seems no one has any grace for me.  

Do we not have grace for moms?  Or is it just step moms and bonus moms who are held to such high standards?  

Would I take it so personally if our blended family dynamic was more peaceful and mature and trustworthy?  Is the struggle here because there are actual grown ups in our lives who don't want us to do well?  

I've been desperately trying to learn.  

The answer really is mindfulness.  The answer is showing up as the mother I want to be, rather than the mother I've been.  For us, specifically, the answer is all the work we can possibly do on our trauma.  

There is an answer in rituals as well.  This is what feels like so much work.  Back to the core belief that if this was right and we were good at this, we wouldn't need to do so much damn work.  But we do.  We need night time rituals to get ready for morning rituals and we need meal schedules and routines.  We need more water and more sunlight and more vegetables and less screens. There are too many moving parts to not have theses strategies in play. 

But even when I get that part right, I am burdened by the memory of everything I got wrong.

Just today I was flooded with guilt over an area I have grossly neglected.  Weighed down by the realization of how hard it is to like myself, let alone expect my family to like me.

I originally started this post in August of last year.  Cue my age old guilt trip of how long it takes me to learn. Today, when half the kids are home sick and I'm using naptime to write instead of clean, I really hope the effort of learning counts for something.  

On Being

 It's been so long, I wonder if I've forgotten how to write.

I am almost certain things might work themselves out if I process my thoughts in this way, but I've felt resistant because, oh god what if I forgot how.

What if I used to be "able" and I'm not "able" any more.  

I want to tell you about being a mom.

I want to tell you about being a wife.

I want to tell you about being a bonus mom.

A therapist in training.

I want to talk to you about religion and spirituality and what it's like to go looking for one without the other and finding precious little of what we need.

I want to talk to you about what Friday night dinners at my house might look like.

And I tell myself, I am not qualified to talk to you about anything.

I will say, I am learning nothing is solved by doing nothing. I suppose there are situations and circumstances in our life where riding out the wave is exactly what is needed.  But even then, relaxing is something.  Resting is something.

Particularly what I mean, more than anything, is we don't get better at the things we don't do.

We don't get stronger unless we pick up heavier things.

We don't become less angry, unless we learn to manage our anger.

We don't eat healthier, unless we choose healthier food.

We don't learn unless we listen, read, or do.

This space was just always sacred.  In the very middle of things.  I shared and you met me here and that's about all I have to offer. 

But this sharing muscle, this story muscle, this writing muscle is atrophied to a nearly unrecognizable extent.  

So what if that's what we do now.

Just a few words here and there.

On being.

Birth Story

 

Damir was due mid January and his due date came and went, just like Silas' had.  

We had bought and moved into a new home, the holidays had passed, I had experienced some excruciating pregnancy symptoms including pubic symphysis dysfunction and numbness in my hands.  Due to COVID I stopped working in person at the end of the year and logged in remotely every day.

I was extremely concerned about going too far past my due date and having to be induced, partially due to my history with Judah and epidurals and mostly because of COVID.

The Friday before Damir finally was born, Silas and I both came down with a terrible cold and had to be COVID tested.  We were both negative, thankfully, but the symptoms were extremely uncomfortable and to this day I really believe Damir was holding out for me to feel better.  

The Tuesday after his due date I went back to the midwife for another non-stress test.  They had attempted to sweep my membranes twice already with no luck.  But that morning I was having some intermittent contractions.  After a very active NST, the midwife was able to try one more time to sweep and I was finally at 4cm.  

We decided to go ahead and COVID test one more time and go home and wait on contractions to pick up.  She said, I bet he will be here today or tomorrow!  But I knew it would be that day.

Tony was working and my mom had Judah and Silas.  When I got back from my appointment, Tony decided to wrap up working because contractions were already 3-4 minutes apart.  

Contractions were frequent and consistent, but they were not very intense.  So we ate and packed up the boys and sent them home with my mom.  And Tony and I decided to go for a walk.

COVID vaccine rolls outs had started that week at Kroger field and the way to the hospital from our new house was right down Alumni Drive. So we decided to go park on campus and walk there, just in case vaccine and rush hour traffic got too backed up near home.

It was a gorgeous day.  The sun was shining even though it was chilly outside.  We knew the boys were safe, our bags were in the car, we had no where else to be.  So we started walking.

I don't know that I've ever enjoyed an afternoon with Tony the way I enjoyed that afternoon.  We logged four or five miles, walking around the hospital to campus, up stairs, down stairs.  We stopped to get ice cream and ate it while walking.  My contractions were getting much stronger and around 5pm we decided to check into labor and delivery.  We made that decision based mostly on Damir, wanting to make sure that he wasn't in distress.

My mom and sisters were texting in our group chat all afternoon.  And I walked, waddled, into triage for labor and delivery and immediately texted them. This did not feel good.  "Why does it feel safer out there than it does in here?"

And my contractions stopped.

When I say stopped, I don't mean got farther apart. I don't mean, alleviated some.  They just stopped.

They got me into a room and hooked me up to the monitor and Joanne the midwife came in to check me and I was only dilated to 5.  The contractions that had made me stop in my tracks during our walk, that I hadn't been able to talk through, were barely blinking on the monitor.

And so Joanne gave me options.

She said, "you'll have this baby before my call is over tomorrow morning".  And I explained what I was telling my family about not feeling safe.  She nodded.

My body was having a stress response.

She encouraged me to stay, said she felt ok with whatever decision I made, but that her midwife heart wanted to keep me where she could help.

But I knew.  I felt embarrassed, disappointed in my body, frustrated.  How could I get through labor and then delivery, if I couldn't even listen to my own body?  If all the trust was gone?

Tony sat in front of me and we talked and quickly decided.

I told Joanne, "we need to go home.  I need to go home and get back in touch with my body. Because right now, I don't trust myself. And if I don't trust myself, we won't get through this."

Recognition, affirmation, lit up her whole face and she nodded. No arguing, no debating.  Just nodded and said, "let's go.  We will see you soon."

Tony and I left the hospital, walked to the parking garage and started driving down Nicholasville Rd.  We decided to eat, and pulled into Planet Thai's parking lot.

And the contractions kicked back in.

We waited twenty minutes for noodles and curry and I experienced contractions the entire time.  Contractions that were increasing in severity , that were consistent.  Soon I was turned around backwards in the parked car, gripping the back of the carseat for support. 

I remember telling Tony I felt so frustrated.  What was my body doing, I had just been at the hospital.  We had just been where we needed to be, and my body hadn't done what it was supposed to do. 

We got home and I immediately got in the tub, leaving the dinner we bought uneaten.  Contractions picked up and by 7:30 we were headed back to the hospital.

We'd realize later that I started transition while walking from the parking garage to L&D.  Down the huge hallway through Chandler's Pavilion A. 

When we got back to the labor unit, the nurse who had triaged us previously saw me at the elevator and said, "oh.  Now you're ready.  Good luck!"  She could see on my face what had changed.

We ended back up in the same room as before.  When Joanne returned to the room I was 8+ centimeters and it was after 8pm.

Damir's heart rate dropped once during contractions, so our original plan of laboring in the tub wasn't an option anymore.  Joanne and Simone, the nurse midwife student, provided support over the next hour and a half.  Tony, just like with Silas, didn't leave my side. More than once, someone commented on our team work. 

I distinctly remember while laboring with the squat bar, looking up and seeing Joanne sitting across the room.  Legs crossed, arms folded in her lap, just waiting.  Even in the middle of back to back contractions, I noticed.  I still don't know quite what to call what I saw, except I was watching her hold space for me.  I was watching her bear witness. Between contractions I remember thinking, that's what being a midwife is all about.

Eventually she said, "girls, those sound like pushing contractions", and she was immediately on her feet. 

Damir was born after just a few contractions.  I was able to reach down and pull him to me.  My last baby.  A head full of dark hair and dark eyes.

It was Mother's Day last year when I found out we were pregnant with him.  Right now he's sleeping downstairs in his bed, already almost four months old.

I won't ever be able to do our birth story or the miracle of his existence justice.

Damir

Damir, My boys always wait on me. Looking back, there's always been work on my heart that needs to be done before each of you have been born. And even though you are probably the last, I don't think you will be any different. Your due date has come and gone, my anticipation and apprehension are growing. This pregnancy has flown by in some ways and I can't believe that I'll be able to hold you soon. But holding you hasn't been on my mind much yet. We've been trying to prepare a place for you. Settling in a new house , with more space. Working hard at my job, getting your brothers and sisters through school. The world around us is a mess right now. Sometimes I feel so guilty for bringing you into this world that is so scary. It's been the hardest year of so many of our lives and I can't believe that such a hard year is going to bring us, you. We are so thankful for that. I haven't stopped for long to think about you being here because so many other things needed to be done. You are coming right after the holidays, which you'll quickly learn your mama doesn't love at all. But most of all I think I haven't stopped for very long because I am afraid. I've been a mama long enough I don't worry too much about admitting my fear. And I certainly am not afraid of you. But I'm afraid I won't do a good job of being your mom. That I don't have enough to give, or what it takes. But our family needed you. Silas needed you. I can't wait to learn how to love you. I hope you want to snuggle my neck and until you get here I will be wondering about the color of your eyes. We will do our very best for you, I promise. It is safe for you to come. We are ready for you. We have your place ready. We will do our best to keep you safe. You are loved and wanted. And even when I feel afraid, it's only because I want to do my best for you. It's because I don't want you to feel like you got what was leftover. Or that you weren't chosen. My prayer is you bring completion and peace to this family. And that we will work so hard to allow the peace you bring to overflow into every part of our lives. We are ready for you now, Mama

To my 21 year old self, who wondered if she would ever get married, wondered if she would ever graduate college, wondered if she would ever have her own children.  To my 21 year old self who was newly sick, newly in debt, the new kid on the block, new to service.  I was new to adult relationships, new to prayer, new to the working world.   I was new to exercise. 




To 21 year old Anna, I would say:




It won't take quite the whole decade, but almost. 




It will get tremendously worse, before it gets better.




It will take more than a few years ahead of you, to get it right.  Or at least to get a few things right.


You will be poor.  You will be hurt.  You will work harder than anyone.  You will fight harder than anyone.  You will be lonely.  You will be scared.  You will be angry.  You will be really angry.  You will be betrayed, you will be left.  You will excel.  You will learn.  So much.   You will make bad decisions.  You will learn not to judge others.  You will be in danger.  You will be the protector.  You will be held and kept and loved.




You will come to the end of every year for the first eighty percent of this decade and breathe deep, wondering how this year didn't manage to kill you.  How did you survive?  Somehow you will. 


You'll come up, worse for wear or swinging.  Until that 8th year.




You'll forget to even tell anyone about that eighth year, but that's how long it will take. 




How long it will take to find some peace.  To find some healing.  To find the ease you've been looking for.




Right now, at 21, you are always telling others you don't mind to wait.  It's the fear that there's nothing to actually wait for, that's the hardest.  And I wish I could tell you, it was just right there.  Nothing would be in vain.




The family and the life and the love and the dreams. 


In ten years, you will travel the world.  Not nearly as much as you'd hoped, but it will happen.  You will recover from medical debt, return to school.  You will learn heartbreaking truths and experience painful rejection and repeated abuse.  You will take a positive pregnancy test and no one will keep that secret for you.  You will navigate the waters of motherhood alone, working, learning, building.  Judah will come.  Even though you never thought you'd get to be a mommy, there he is.  Your brown eyed boy.  If I could talk to my 21 year old self now, I would say: just wait.  He's coming. 


You will figure out how to take care of both of you, and you will find new jobs and buy a new home.  You will allow people in, give them time and space, who do not deserve it.  And if I could tell you now, to let go so much sooner, I would.  If I could tell you to ignore a phone call, ignore a text, to believe someone when they told you who they were, I would shout that from the rooftops. 


Because the people you will encounter over the next decade are not safe people.  Very few are good. 


There's no way to tell the future, though.  Halfway through the decade you will meet someone who will change your life and maybe you'd believe me, if I told you.  But probably not.  Knowing would probably change everything and trust me when I say, you don't want it to change.


Right now, here at the end of 2019, Judah is laying on the floor with him and your second son.  Judah's baby brother.  His son, too.  They are napping and there are candles burning and a movie playing. You will love this life.


If there was another way to get you here, I don't know it. 


But you will get here.  That seventh year, your phone will break and you will lose all your numbers and all your pictures.  And that eighth year, he will wish you happy birthday. 


And what was started halfway through the decade, will start to weave itself together again.


And that last year, that last year of the decade you will bring this baby boy into the world.  And he will give you a ring.  There will not just be one little boy, but three.  And two little girls too.  There will be a wedding.


21 year old Anna won't believe me.  How could she?  How could you look at someone and say, all of your dreams will come true at the end of this decade, and expect her to believe you?  At 21, maybe she might feel lucky.  But my god.  It has nothing to do with luck.


You will learn how to use your breath, how to move better; you will learn how to help others.  You will learn how to cook, how to build muscles, how to keep a household, how to manage finances, how to build credit. 


The only thing I would tell 21 year old Anna without a moment's hesitation is, don't take out those student loans.


I don't know how that would change the trajectory of our story, really.  But I'd be willing to risk it.

Franklin

I have a mental snapshot of this moment. 

In the cinematic montage of our life together, this is the image I remember as the beginning.

The opening of a door.  You standing there, all darkness behind you.

If I could go back and tell us both in that moment, “this is it”, I wonder what we would have done differently.  There he is, there she is.

In the years following, I wonder how we would have chosen differently or how much harder we would have fought.  If we had known.

It took years for the knowing, though.  And the knowing didn’t heal.  You describe it as a funnel, two stars in orbit, with each rotation drawing closer until unity.  The knowing happened before the collision and beforehand we spent time close and reaching and healing.

Sunday night I stood in front of you, your hands in mine, and we vowed to love and protect each other forever.

We committed to the work of a lifetime of love.

And in brief, fleeting moments the image of you standing in the doorway transferred over yourself in front of me like a kaleidoscope. 

The obstacles we faced leading up to our wedding day were not unlike the challenges we’ve faced over the years.  Everything that it took to get to this day, every battle we fought, every plan changed, every moment of celebration was an effort to get us here.  To the merging of our lives.

Our children watched and celebrated and wept.  And so did our parents and our siblings and our friends.

All we had to navigate to get to this moment swirled around my head like the market lights and I have a deep knowing it took every hardship to build the resilience we now have.  I know it took the coming and the leaving and the staying and the birthing to build us up to be the two of us standing there.

We couldn’t have bypassed it all, and still ended up here.

But for the decades to come, where once I saw you standing in a doorway, I will now see you standing in the light.  Eyes on mine.  Hands over mine.

Silas

I laid in bed next to Judah, as I have for six and a half years, and wondered if tonight was when his baby brother would come. 

We are less than a week away from Silas' due date and ten days away from being done with work for a few weeks and twelve days away from needing to schedule an induction. 

I had walked three miles and climbed eleven flights of steps yesterday, my app said.  And as I laid there with Judah while he fell asleep I felt the cramping ebb and rise and somewhere in the back of my mind I thought, “no, not tonight”.

And that’s when I knew.  I had been looking around for the work left to do before Silas comes.  I had washed all the laundry and I had swept and mopped the floors and contemplated scrubbing the baseboards.  I had sorted through papers, bought diapers, arranged medical leave, called all my clients.  I did my eight year old daughter’s hair, teasing her that Silas wouldn’t come until it was done.

Everyone has advice.  Be open.  Imagine openness.  Have sex.  Drink raspberry tea.  Walk, exercise, do yoga.  Eat dates, eat spicy food.  “Don’t worry”, as if that’s even remotely possible.  Almost six weeks ago my little sister had her second baby and first daughter and we talked at length about trusting our bodies, about trusting our babies. 

I have learned to trust Silas – and I learned that last week when a doctor tried to tell me my littlest boy had flipped back to breech.  I knew better.  Because after ten months of this, I know him.  I knew he was snugly head down because I could feel him.  But the doctor wasn’t sure.  When I was right, I internalized the truest lesson about trusting my good baby. 

I am not sure yet if I trust my body or not.  But last night when I laid down next to Judah I knew last night I didn’t want it to be “the night”, not because I’m not ready to meet Silas, but because I knew this was the work I had to do. 

I could use the physio ball, get my hair cut, get a pedicure, go on walks, download the meditation app, shave my legs, pack my hospital bag and be completely ready.  But if I didn’t work to get my mind and heart ready, he wasn’t going to come on his own. 


In May of 2018 I turned 30, graduated top of my class in my graduate program, passed my licensure exam, was offered jobs in different states, and came home to my true love.  Over the summer we consolidated houses, I sold my first home, I enrolled Judah in kindergarten, and I started a new job.

We had had a negative pregnancy test a few weeks before the new job started.  And on day two of the job I cut my thumb open on a disposable razor and I spent the morning in UK’s Emergency Department getting my first set of stitches and being told I was, in fact, pregnant.  I went to the doctor that afternoon and confirmed we would be having a baby in April.

In the last year, Judah and I went from a family of two to a family of six with a seventh on the way. 

Since then we have combined and merged our household in a seamless way that’s made Tony and I a better team and better parents.  We’ve worked through a diagnosis with our youngest boy, learned to coparent in a blended family, and three weeks ago now we got engaged.

Now Silas is coming.

We have a bassinet and hooded towels and diapers and tiny onesies and gripe water and swaddles.  I have a goal and a plan to have an unmedicated birth for at least half a dozen reasons.  And so I feel a certain amount of anxiety as my due date approaches.  Yesterday I finally came to peace with an induction scheduled for 41 weeks and preparing mentally and physically for enduring Pitocin without medication.  For my sake and for Silas’.  I felt a certain amount of peace in knowing that if he doesn’t come on his own he can come on a pre-planned day so all our kids are safe and settled and I can knock out my teeth cleaning and Judah’s ENT appt and one last date night.  I still hope he chooses to come on his own. 

But after last night I know he’s waiting on me.

Not on the baseboards.  Not on the dental appointment.  He’s waiting on me, his mama.  To let him know it’s safe and good. 

Yesterday on the phone one of my favorite clients told me that Silas knew how the world was and he was choosing to stay where it was safe.  She’s a victim of horrendous abuse and trauma.  She is solution seeking and we are good and gentle with each other.  And she was right.

The world we are bringing this fifth baby into is a scary one. 

But the family we are bringing him into is a beautiful one.

So while I think about how to ready my heart and open myself up to be ready for this experience, this is what I want Silas to know:

 

Silas,

 

Four years ago your daddy knocked on my door and we sat on opposite ends of the couch and all the life that has happened since then has bridged space in a way that is healing and redemptive and sure.  I believe in soul mates because of knowing him – I believe in reincarnation because I know this is not the first time we have met.  And so as I wait to meet you, I cannot wait to get to know who you are and which parts of my soul recognize you.  Daddy described our journey as a funnel – two pennies journeying around and around towards the opening, coming closer to each other with each rotation.  Every time we tried, we got it more “right”.  Every time we tried to love each other, we came closer to you. 

You are not responsible for holding this family together.  That is mine and Daddy’s job.  But we are so grateful for what you mean to us.  The love you represent.  The unification you represent.  The gift you are to your brothers and sisters.  Especially to Judah, who has never shared DNA with a sibling before.  You are not going to be responsible for keeping this family together, Silas, but you are the product of a love that was so fervently fought for.  You are here because we believed in our love enough.  You are here because you were missing from our family.

So while you are waiting to come, I am thinking about who I want you to be. 

I used to tell Judah what I wanted him to be when he grew up.  Not his profession, not the job I wanted him to have or the degree I wanted him to pursue.  But I would tell him who I wanted him to be.  In a way, I believe I’ve been speaking this over him for seven years now.  Silas, I told your big brother I wanted him to be brave, curious, kind, strong, smart and gentle. 

I want these things for you too.  But you will not be the same as Judah.  In the same way you will be different from big brother Elijah and your big sisters.  You may share their blonde curls or their sweet lips or their brown eyes.  But you are your own.  Coming as the fifth, coming as the baby, I know there may be days in the years to come when the comparison is hard.   When your family leaves big shoes to fill or has left big mistakes to clean up.  But you are not the same. 

I hope you are curious just like Judah. And brave just like Elijah.  And kind just like Brielle.  And smart just like Lailee.  I hope that you are sensitive and gentle and strong.  But as I feel you kicking and pushing, as I wait to meet you, my prayer for you is that you are hopeful.  That you are full of peace.  That you are full of joy. 

Your name means “forest” or “woods” and while that may not seem significant, the symbolism is often of enlightenment as if someone is exploring something that has yet to be explored.  With your arrival we are building a family, which has never been built before.  And my hope for you is that you carry on a legacy of true love as we learn how to do this together.

I wish more than anything that I could be with you every single day as you grow up.  I wished that with Judah too.  That no one else would have to help raise you, that I could do it without any help. 

That’s not our story.

But I want you to know that the time I get to have with you, just you, here in the beginning is something I already treasure with my whole heart.  As I wait for you, these are the days I look forward to the most.  Learning who you are.  Looking at you and seeing your daddy.  Looking at you and seeing someone brand new and letting my love grow for you.

I trust you to come when you are ready.  I am honored and blessed that you will trust me with your life and with your arrival.  We are ready when you are.