delighted to be » baby amelia

where is she? / may 27, 2013

I knew the day would eventually come when Jack would ask me about Amelia. I just didn’t think it would come so soon.

We have Amelia’s bracelet hanging in a frame above the couch, and Jack loves to look at it and see that it matches mine. I tell him it’s his sister Amelia’s, but I really thought that went in one ear and out the other. But the other day he looked at the bracelet, threw his arms up and said clearly to me, Where is she?

My heart instantly just broke. My cheeks felt flushed and my eyes got wet. You get to a point when you think you’ve healed, and then you realize all over again that the little girl you loved is gone, gone, gone and there’s a hole in your family tree. It gets really bad when your kids start to notice.

I just looked at Jack, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. My lip quivered and I managed to choke out the words, She died, sweetheart. Your sister died.

He thought about that for a moment, and perhaps because of the tears running down my face, puckered his lips and gave me a kiss. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and hugged me tightly. He doesn’t know what death means, or that when we visit the cemetery, it’s his sister’s body that’s buried beneath that stone. But he knows enough to recognize that his mama is sad she can’t be with baby Amelia anymore.

Several children have asked me where Jack’s sister is and about her death. I don’t mind their curiosity, and it’s fine and natural for them to ask. I just didn’t realize how much harder it would be when my own son asked me about her.

I know he’ll ask again. And again and again and again. My other children will ask, perhaps again and again and again. But someday, will it get easier? Will there finally come a day when I can boldly declare to my children that yes, your sister died but we will see her again? Will they someday come to understand that the tears welled up in my eyes are (mostly) from joy instead of pain?

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waiting / may 22, 2013

For the last eight months, I’ve been waiting for my heart to change. I’ve been waiting on the sidelines as my life plays out before me. I’ve been waiting for an answer to a prayer that might never be fully answered.

I have really just been waiting for a miracle.

I always wanted two babies, close in age. I wanted TWO little bums to wipe and TWO car seats in the back and TWO giggling kids at the breakfast table each morning. It’s been over a year since our little family’s plans were rocked upside down. Alie, I know you want it, but it’s me who decides. And you don’t get to raise two children just yet, is what that nice godly voice inside of my head told me. Wait, wait, wait, it said.

And so I’ve waited. But I didn’t ever expect that while I was patiently waiting, my desire for TWO would disappear.

It’s not that I only want one child. I really do want to fill the back seat of our car with rambunctious, giggling little people. But it so turns out that after you’ve buried one of your babies in the earth, it gets infinitely harder to make that happen.

It’s a giant leap of faith, you see. It’s stepping out again into the unknown, where babies aren’t always healthy and don’t always get to join your family here on earth. The unknown is full of what-ifs and tears in the shower that try to squeeze into the empty holes in your heart.

So I started praying for a miracle, praying for this heart of mine to change. Heavenly Father and I became good friends. We started by talking about my fear of holding a baby. We talked about baby names and genders and not being able to sleep on my stomach for five months. We talked about health and sickness and sacrifice. We talked about fear of the unknown, and what if this happened to me again.

I came a long way in a short period of time. I started actually acknowledging again that babies are cool little things to have around. I started reading up on swaddling and breastfeeding, and have planned a cute little nursery out in my head. The absence of the anger I once felt towards the entire population of infants is quite refreshing.

But the other night I was on my knees in conversation with God again, and it was impressed upon my conscience that all you needed to do was ask for it. If the timing is right, it will be given to you. Don’t sit around waiting for things to change, make them happen!

And so I did. My fear isn’t entirely gone, and I’m still struggling with a slight fear of babies.

But my desire for two is slowly coming back, and to me, it’s nothing short of a miracle.

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a selfish fear / may 15, 2013

If I am to be completely honest with myself, part of the reason I’m not ready to have another baby is fear.

It’s a fear of the unknown in the most selfish way. It’s a fear from a dark place inside of me that doesn’t want to change, because this little family that I’ve got right in front of me seems to be working just fine.

The world – and to be honest, my friends, family, and acquaintances – tell me that having two kids is hard. I know that. They go on to say things like, “George was the best baby, so easy and sweet. But then little Elliot came along, and don’t even get me started about her…” (There is usually eye-rolling and a long sigh involved.)

It’s not a wonder to me anymore why so many women fear having children when they’re surrounded by attitudes like these.

As much as I’d love three more Jack personalities (sensitive, mindful, obedient) in our family, I know that probably won’t happen. Because based off of what people tell me, the next one is bound to be a hell-raising kid who won’t listen to a word I say and will get into everything. Apparently I won’t be able to shower and I’m going to have to sleep with one eye open for fear he’ll burn the house down when my back is turned.

To me, this little family of mine right here & right now is perfect, so why change that?

I know this all seems awfully silly and selfish – it is. But they’re real thoughts that go through my head every single day. They’re real thoughts that make me cry in the shower and plead mightily with the Lord in prayer each night. I really do know that my heart will soften and change and soon be ready to accept another baby when the time is right. I will be delighted to be a mama again when that time comes. And it will be beautiful and good and right.

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sacrifice / may 10, 2013

My mind has been focusing a lot on the word sacrifice lately. With Mother’s Day coming up this weekend, it’s been pushed to the forefront of my attention.

What does it mean to sacrifice for your children? Does that mean I need to have eleven kids, or is three or four okay? Does that mean I have to feel guilty sitting down and reading a juicy novel for myself sometimes because I should be reading to my kids (again) instead? Does that mean I have to always forgo wearing high heels so I, instead of my husband, can chase after my toddler down the church hallways?

Our primary responsibility is to rear and nurture children, but at what cost? Our individual limits are obviously vastly different and unique. While my sister loves having six children, three or four would make me happy. Does this mean I’m not sacrificing enough or am less of a mother?

I’ll save you the many days and nights, pleading in prayer for an answer: NO, it does not make you any less of a mother. My poor little soul has been weakened and distraught about this. I’m only raising one child. Am I doing enough?

This mother’s day is about sacrifice, but ones I have accepted rather than chosen. I didn’t choose to sacrifice my daughter to death, to “get” to raise her in the eternities after this life is over. I didn’t choose to space our children out this far. But these sacrifices – forced upon me by a loving Heavenly Father – have stretched and enlightened my spirit in ways I never knew possible.

While those mothers of three, four, six, eight – however many you’ve got – have primarily sacrificed their time, this year I feel like I’ve sacrificed my soul. It’s been beat up and tormented by the temptations of the devil. It’s been tossed to and fro, beckoned here and there. It’s been cold and hard and closed off. But I can also see how it’s been molded and shaped and reeducated about its divine nature. It’s been trained and uplifted and improved upon. This spirit of mine has matured and grown to be more like Heavenly Father, and isn’t that the end goal?

Let the fear dissipate, and our faith in Heavenly Father grow. Maybe it’s sometimes meeting Him in the middle with a willing heart, open to the circumstances that He places us in. (He knows exactly what He’s doing when He puts you there.) That even if we have a willing heart, maybe our Heavenly Father still has to force sacrifices on us sometimes so that we can grow.

And that’s okay, right?

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